Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s that saying Donghyuck’s mom always used to say: measure once, cut twice. 

No, wait—that’s not it. 

Measure twice, cut once. 

Yeah, that one. Measure twice, cut once, especially when it comes to magic. 

The same magic that hums under Donghyuck’s skin now as he sorts through dusty sheets of spells, faded Latin lettering and sketches from ancient India. He knocks over a whole row of healing crystals—proved useless after a week—as he scrambles for the spell he’d found, doing one last check before he bikes to the hospital. 

Downstairs, the phone rings, and Donghyuck hears Doyoung’s steps on the creaky floorboards as he goes to answer it. 

At last, he finds the right paper. He looks between the hastily-stoppered elixirs and the spell, double-checking, measuring twice because he really can only afford to cut once. Jisung can only afford to be cut once, metaphorically speaking.

The doctors had given him six months. The cancer was just too aggressive—the surgery hadn’t worked, and neither had the radiotherapy. Jisung’s mother had cried, but Donghyuck had gone straight to Doyoung’s study and its stuffed bookshelves. He’d started looking in December. 

It’s March, now, and Jisung wasn’t expected to last through the summer. The spell clutched in his white-knuckled grip was a complicated one, and he’d only had two weeks to study it (not enough time, the anxious part of him murmurs. Not even close). 

“We can’t wait any longer,” he reminds himself. That much was clear—the spell only worked on equinoxes, where day and night were exactly equal. The next equinox wasn’t until the start of fall, in September. “We have to do this today. And correctly.” 

Which is why he’s checking over ingredients. He does it a third time before he rolls the vials up in an old t-shirt and crams it in his backpack, his heart fluttering in his chest. 

He hopes Doyoung has gone back outside to work in the garden, but Donghyuck can still hear him on the phone, chatting away with whatever sorcerer or pixie has called with gossip. Probably Jungwoo, who generally knows everything about everyone. 

Hopefully he doesn’t know about the vials of possibly-illegal elixir and a definitely-illegal blood-healing ritual in Donghyuck’s backpack, though. Or the fact that he’s convinced Jisung to let him cast the spell in the first place. Really, the whole thing is a bad idea, and if Doyoung knew about it, Donghyuck would be grounded for the rest of summer.

But he doesn’t have another choice. Jisung doesn’t have another choice. 

Donghyuck puts his backpack on and zips up his coat. It’s mid-March, but the air isn’t quite warm yet, the nearby lake still cold from mountain runoff. 

Doyoung has his back turned as Donghyuck sneaks down the stairs, trying not to make the floorboards creak. 

“—no, Donghyuck’s doing fine,” Doyoung is saying, and Donghyuck freezes with his foot on the last step, his curiosity inevitably piqued at the sound of his name. “The anniversary just passed, of course, and we all had a rough time, but he’s doing better.” 

He’s talking about the anniversary of the accident, the one that had killed Donghyuck’s parents, and him and Doyoung’s oldest cousin. A regular, non-magic driver had plowed headlong into their car on their way back from the annual Caster’s Gathering, a fundraising party where all the magic-users in the northwest gathered and showed off their new spells and enchanted clothing. 

Donghyuck had been eleven. Doyoung had been fifteen, stuck babysitting him. 

He can still remember the news, brought to him by Doyoung’s parents, his uncles still dressed in their fancy clothes, their faces vacant and grim. 

It’s been eight years since then, but he still doesn’t like to think about it. The ache that never faded, the hollow, bitter-bile feeling in the back of his throat, the way that his Uncle Ryu had sat down with him and told him everything was going to be different and that it was going to hurt for a very long time. 

Jisung had really been the only one that had stayed. Had weathered the storm of Donghyuck’s grief, had sat stubbornly beside him as he’d shut everyone else out, as he’d raged at the world for what he’d been robbed of, as he’d cried in Jisung’s bedroom on his twelfth birthday. 

Jisung had stayed, and that is exactly why Donghyuck can’t let him go. 

Doyoung is nodding, looping the phone cord around his fingers, listening intently. Donghyuck swallows back the bitter feeling in his throat and creeps towards the door without a sound. 

Doyoung doesn’t turn at the sound of the front door opening, and Donghyuck is sprinting down to the street, grabbing his bike out of the hedges. The chain clatters as he drops off the curb, and he nearly knocks over Mrs. Watson walking her dog. She lifts a hand reflexively, and a gust of wind nudges him out of the way at the last minute, the scent of her magic flowery and sweet. Her dog barks at him as he regains his balance.

“Donghyuck, dear boy, where are you off to in such a rush?” she asks. “It’s barely even ten!” 

“I’m off to see Jisung,” Donghyuck says, because Mrs. Watson is a wordweaver, and wordweavers can always tell the true meaning of words. Donghyuck learned not to lie to her as soon as he and Doyoung moved out here. 

“Ah, how is he doing?” 

“Not great,” Donghyuck replies, edging away from the curb before she can ask another question and get the full truth from him. “That’s why I’m going to see him, to cheer him up.” 

“Oh, then don’t let me keep you,” Mrs. Watson says, stepping back and smiling. “Tell him I hope he feels better soon.” 

Donghyuck gives her a thumbs-up, and then he’s off, swerving around the mailman crossing the street. As he pedals up the block, the smell of magic fills the air, metallic, sweet and earthy. He can feel the shield stretch around him as he crosses Chrysanthemum Street—the north end of their neighborhood, which is home to magic-using families only—and the buildings get a little bit higher, the sidewalks a little busier, and the streets a little noisier as he rides into the town proper. 

A cable car dings up ahead, taking the same left Donghyuck does. He follows it for a few blocks before stopping in front of the hospital. It’s a squat, white building with a big revolving door, one that Donghyuck pushes through a little too quickly, earning a sharp look from an older man with a walker. 

The sound of ringing phones greets him, the secretaries at the desks flipping hastily through appointment books. He slips a paper charm into his hand and murmurs a couple words, feeling the paper turn to a mist that settles over him. He passes several nurses, but they don’t even look up from their clipboards. Eyes slide right over him; he’s become unperceivable to the non-magic eye. 

Doyoung hates that he can just do magic like that—a piece of paper and a couple words, easy as breathing. Most people have to trade something for that immediacy. Energy, usually. Sometimes a memory, or a tiny bit of color in their hair. And for witches like Doyoung, who works almost entirely in potion- and elixir-making, their magic is less physically taxing but takes hours—days, even—to complete.  

The light is on in Jisung’s room, and he’s lying in his bed, flipping slowly through a comic book, though his eyes aren’t moving. He’s just as nervous as Donghyuck is, his face drawn and anxious, eyes ringed from illness and lack of sleep. 

Donghyuck slides the door open and drops the charm so Jisung can see him. 

“Hey,” Donghyuck says, and Jisung startles, eyes going wide. 

“Oh, it’s just you,” Jisung breathes out. “Thank god.” 

“Sorry,” Donghyuck says. “I was charmed.” 

“Speaking of magic, can you seal the door?” Jisung asks anxiously, leaning forward to look through the window. “I don’t want any of the nurses, um, accidentally walking in.” 

Donghyuck nods, and pulls out another charm. “You shall not pass,” he whispers, and the charm dissolves, the door locking. 

“Did you bring all the stuff?” 

“Double and triple checked,” Donghyuck says, slinging the backpack off and setting it down on the chair. “And I have the spell written down, and the paper’s been charmed. It’s the right day. Everything…everything’s ready. If you still are.” 

“I am,” Jisung says firmly, and Donghyuck admires his bravery, his courage, his energy to keep trying. He’s received nothing but bad news for the last year and a half, and Donghyuck has watched it pull the life from him. 

Donghyuck starts taking materials out of his backpack. Elixirs he’d taken from Doyoung last week—that, he feels a little bad about—a small silver knife, the sort used in blood rituals like the one he’s about to do. Good blood for bad blood, the ritual states. Yours for mine. Those words, repeated three times after the incantation, should do the trick. Donghyuck will feel side effects for a couple weeks, maybe longer, as Jisung heals. 

And then it’ll be done, and they’ll both be fine. And Donghyuck will go to Jisung’s graduation and finally be able to stomach the thought of the future, because Jisung will be in it. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” Jisung asks quietly as Donghyuck turns down the lights. 

“It will,” Donghyuck says firmly, his voice not betraying the quiver of anxiety in his chest. He pushes it aside. His magic never works when he doubts himself—his words are everything. He has to mean them. 

“Okay,” Donghyuck says, releasing a breath. “Ready?” 

Jisung swallows, and nods. “I’m ready. Are you?” 

“Yes,” Donghyuck replies. “Of course.” 

He pulls out the paper, the charm buzzing underneath his fingertips. “With hands I hold, with words I heal. Thrice whispered leaves no pain to feel.” He lifts the knife and digs the point into his thumb, doing the same with Jisung. Blood wells, and Donghyuck presses his thumb to Jisung’s. 

“Yours for mine, yours for mine, yours for mine,” Donghyuck says.

He’s measured twice.

And now, he cuts. 

There’s a little tug in his gut, and light starts to bloom from their connected hands, purple and oddly cold. 

“Did you do it?” Jisung asks, but before Donghyuck can answer, the light flashes and the next pull in his stomach is painful, like a spike driving into his flesh. Donghyuck doubles over, feeling bile rise in his throat. 

No, he thinks desperately, gripping Jisung’s hand, did I do it wrong? Did I fuck it up? 

The purple light turns darker, bruise-colored, plunging the room into inky darkness. 

There’s an icy finger on the back of his neck—cruel, cold magic. 

No, he thinks again, his vision spotting. Distantly, he can hear Jisung yelling his name, his hand still tight around Donghyuck’s. Not Jisung. I can’t lose him too, not after Mom and Dad, not after all of this—take me, take me instead, leave him be. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.

The frosty touch vanishes abruptly. The darkness fades, the purplish haze dissipating. The pain lets up, and Donghyuck slumps backwards into his chair, breathing hard. He blinks white spots out of his vision as Jisung catches his breath. 

“What,” Jisung says, “the hell was that about?” 

“I have no idea,” Donghyuck thinks, though that’s a lie. Something—something had gone wrong, and he’d negotiated a blood-trade with the wrong sort of magic. He knows the purple light had been wrong, because the paper explicitly stated that it was supposed to be white or yellow. Good magic. Healing magic. Warm and gentle, not frosty and midnight-purple. 

But Jisung is not a witch, and there’s a fragile sort of light in his eyes that Donghyuck can’t bear to put out. So he lies. 

“But that was what the paper said,” Donghyuck says. “Purple light, dramatics, the whole nine yards.” 

Jisung squints at him. “I don’t believe you.” 

Donghyuck looks down at his lap, where the charmed spellpaper has turned to ash. “Well, you sort of have to, because the spell is gone. It worked, Jisung, I know it. I felt the magic accept the deal.” 

Jisung stares at him for a long, long moment before he sighs. “Okay. I believe you, I guess. But if you start feeling bad—” 

“I won’t,” Donghyuck says, standing. His knees are a little weak, but the pain had vanished as quickly as the purple magic had. “And if I do, I’ll give you a ring.” 

“Promise me,” Jisung says seriously. “Because you’re making that face like you’re not actually going to.” 

“I am not making a face,” Donghyuck protests, but links his pinkie with Jisung’s. 

Behind them, the door rattles. A very confused nurse is trying to get in, the med cart visible through the narrow window on the other side. 

“Time’s up,” Donghyuck says, picking his backpack up. 

“You’ll come by later, though, right?” Jisung asks hopefully. “My parents said you could.” 

“Count on it,” Donghyuck replies, and that’s the truth, a promise he can keep. Jisung smiles, and it could be a trick of the light (or wishful thinking) but Donghyuck swears there’s the slightest bit of color back in his cheeks. 

There’s the sound of a key in a lock, and Donghyuck releases the locking spell—Open sesame, he whispers—and casts another aversion charm, watching Jisung’s eyes unfocus as the magic falls over him. 

He doesn’t release it until he gets back outside. The sun is bright and warm on his face, and Donghyuck is starting to feel cautiously optimistic about the whole thing. Maybe the cold touch was a fluke. Maybe he’d read the spell wrong, and purple was the correct color. Maybe he was just making it all up, and everything had gone just fine. 

This is the next lie he tells—only this time, it’s to himself. 

And the thing is, he damn near believes it. All the way through the evening, through dinner with Doyoung—spaghetti and salad, made with a strange combination of vegetables and magical herbs from Doyoung’s garden—and even through the night. It’s not until he wakes up in the morning earlier than usual when everything falls apart. 

The house is still dark. They’d lost an hour with the time change recently, and now the sun is a little bit slower to rise, though that will change as the weather continues to warm and the last of the snow on the mountains melts. Donghyuck shuffles past Doyoung’s room to the small bathroom they share and flicks on the light. 

He gets halfway through washing his face when he sees them—two purple dots, one on each palm. At first, he thinks they’re bruises, but they’re too circular, too identical. And the color—they’re the same inky-dark color that the light had been yesterday when the spell had gone bad. 

Donghyuck presses a thumb to the circle on his left hand, wracking his brain. What had he offered? How had he even sealed a deal like that? 

Take me instead, he’d offered. Leave him be. 

And then—I don’t care. 

Thrice whispered, just like the spell had dictated. 

He groans, setting his face in his hands, elbows propped on the sink. “Fuck,” he whispers. Out of all the things to do right, he’d sealed the deal successfully. It had just been…the wrong deal. 

“Fuck,” he says again, a little more vehemently. He straightens, looks down at his hands to double-check, and feels a bit like crying. 

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Donghyuck?” Doyoung asks sleepily. “Are you alright?” 

Donghyuck curls his fingers into fists and pulls himself together. “Fine.” He opens the door, and Doyoung squints at him, hair rumpled on one side. 

“You’re up early,” Doyoung says, pushing past him into the bathroom and turning the sink on. “Can you go see if the crawlers have gotten out of their troughs again? They’ve been strangling the lavender bushes.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Donghyuck says. He hesitates for a moment, his nails digging into his palms, the words hovering on the tip of his tongue. Surely, Doyoung would be able to help. He’d be angry at first, but then he’d fix it, give Donghyuck a tonic or something and chide him gently, and all of this would go away—

“Do you know how to break curses?” Donghyuck blurts before he can help himself, and Doyoung’s gaze, instantly suspicious, meets Donghyuck’s in the mirror. 

“Did you curse yourself?” Doyoung asks flatly. 

“No,” Donghyuck replies immediately, the lie hot against his teeth. “No, I didn’t. I just thought—Jisung—” 

It’s a low blow, a cruel trick, but it works—Doyoung’s suspicious look falls away and his face softens. “Cancer’s not magic, Hyuck,” Doyoung says, much gentler. “And besides, I do physical magic. You’d need a cursebreaker for that, and they’re the worst sort.” 

“Taeyong’s not that bad,” Donghyuck says, and this time, Doyoung’s glare doesn’t phase him. “Anyways, I might go and see Jisung again today, if that’s okay.” 

“Yes, it’s fine,” Doyoung says, waving a hand and reaching for his toothbrush, “but only if you—” 

“Yeah, I’ll go check on the crawlers,” Donghyuck says, turning. 

“I was gonna say, only if you call the admissions people back,” Doyoung says, raising an eyebrow. “My dad is doing you a big favor.” 

“I don’t want to go to college,” Donghyuck says, scowling. “I already told you and Uncle Ryu.” 

“I didn’t say you had to go to college,” Doyoung shoots back. “I just said call them.” 

Donghyuck huffs. “Well, I don’t want to.” 

“Fine, do what you want,” Doyoung snaps. “You have to get over your fear of failure, Hyuck, or you’re gonna be in trouble.” 

Donghyuck peeks down at the dots on his palms and chokes back a bitter laugh. Funny you say that, he thinks. 

“I’ll get right on that,” he says instead, and closes the bathroom door a little harder than necessary. 

The crawlers, sure enough, have tried to escape their troughs. Spiny, prickly, and unpleasantly-colored, the crawlers (as Doyoung calls them) are the most sentient of Doyoung’s plants, and also the worst-behaved. Most of them are shrub-like, kind of like giant, squirmy rosebushes, but there’s one that has flowers on it—giant, waxy white lilies that can cure any ailment when ingested but will kill you if you touch it. Doyoung has to wear thick, enchanted gloves when he’s working with it. 

Donghyuck shovels some fresh dirt over their roots and starts nudging them away from the lavender. He reaches out to wrestle one particularly stubborn one back, but it shrieks as soon as his hands touch it, whipping away from the lavender and back into its own space, cowering. 

Donghyuck’s hands hang emptily in the air, his mind reeling to process what had happened.

Slowly, he bends down and presses a palm to a patch of weedy dandelions growing between the paving stones. They brown and wither as soon as his hand makes contact with them, and Donghyuck rocks back onto his heels, feeling like he’s been kicked in the ribs. A realization worms its way into his mind, taunting and nauseating: 

The spell had backfired so badly it had cursed him. 

He scrambles to his feet, careful not to touch any of Doyoung’s precious plants. He tears through the kitchen, cramming his feet into his shoes and grabbing his backpack. 

Doyoung, who’s making coffee, looks up. “Where are you rushing off to?” 

“I don’t know,” Donghyuck says, because he really doesn’t. “The, uh—the library, maybe, I don’t know—” 

“What—” 

“Bye,” Donghyuck says, and escapes the house before Doyoung can say anything else. The sky is cloudy, and the wind works cold fingers into the gaps of his jacket and the rip in the knee of his jeans as he swings a leg over his bike and takes off. The boundary shield snaps around him, and he can feel his magic leach away from the surface of his skin, making it a little harder to reach. 

 It happens to all magic-users when they pass through the boundary. Downtown, surrounded by so many people, it’s dangerous to have magic that easily accessible. The smallest word or the slightest snap could set off a magical explosion, hastily-patched over in the news as a firecracker, a gas leak, a couple of punk-ass kids messing around. It’s safer if it takes a little more effort to get to it. 

The public library is at the top of the hill, near the courthouse. It technically hosts the witch’s library, too—but only if you know the right words and the right person to ask. 

He parks and locks his bike at the base of the hill and jumps on to the next cable car that comes rumbling up to the stop. A quick sleight of hand means he doesn’t have to dig through his pockets for coins—something he doesn’t feel too bad about, because it’s only two stops and he’s already anxious and jumpy. He keeps his hands balled in fists, trying not to touch anything, fearful it’ll wilt under his hands like the plants did earlier. 

Inanimate objects, luckily, don’t seem to be affected. Yet, he thinks worriedly, hopping off the cable car. The curse is spreading, and there’s no saying how bad it could get. He needs to stop it—undo it—before it gets any worse. Before Doyoung notices. Before Jisung notices. 

Not for the first time, Donghyuck wonders if Jisung is doing any better. The spell had failed, but something had succeeded in its place. 

He’s sweating a little when he gets to the library, a big brick building with a well-tended lawn and a set of glass doors, the lettering faded and peeling. Still, the inside is warm and well-lit, the tables scuffed but clean. There are a couple of librarians on duty—the witch among them isn’t hard to spot, mostly because he’s sorting books by waving his hand at them, sending them flying to their shelves without touching them. 

Donghyuck walks up to him. He’s younger than the rest, maybe Doyoung’s age, but Donghyuck doesn’t recognize him. Some of the younger witches live downtown, in apartments or condos so they can be closer to work. 

“Hi,” the man says warmly. He makes no effort to stop the flying books—Donghyuck can sense an illusion charm wrapped tightly around them, meaning he’s probably an enchanter or an illusionist. Maybe a charmer, though those sorts tend to work with animate magic, and Donghyuck is pretty sure the spell isn’t cast on him, just around them. 

“Hi,” Donghyuck says. “Nice spell. Really clever, the dual-use kinesis-illusion. Saves magic, right?” 

The man raises an eyebrow. “It does.” 

“What do you usually trade?” 

“Sleep,” the man says, and Donghyuck notes the circles under his eyes. “This one in particular, used enough, can knock hours off. It’s wearing me down.” He waves a hand. “Anyways. What can I help you with?” 

“I’d like to get into the witch’s section, if you don’t mind,” Donghyuck says, tucking his hands into his pockets as the man stands. His lanyard reads Taeil. 

“Of course,” Taeil says, and mutters a couple of words under his breath. The books float back to the cart, and he turns to Donghyuck. “I’ll unlock it for you. Mark should be back there if you need anything—he’s our intern, and he’s really friendly.” 

Taeil guides him towards the atlases. The quiet hum of the main section has faded, and they’re safe from prying eyes. Taeil picks out an unassuming key from the few on his lanyard and removes a book near the edge of one of the shelves, revealing a keyhole. He unlocks the door, and the whole shelf swings back, revealing a set of familiar, worn-carpet stairs. 

“There you go,” Taeil says. “Ring if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Donghyuck says, and the shelf clicks back into place behind him as he starts to climb. He’s been here a couple of times, mostly to help Doyoung search for something—he doesn’t do much reading—just comics, for the most part. The last time he read a novel was probably for school. 

Still, the witch’s section is a comforting sight—rows of dark bookshelves packed with books about potion-making to curse-breaking, experimental charms all the way to ancient magic history. There are copies of Enchantress and the Modern Magic-User’s Guide magazines on a low table between a couple of big, squashy chairs. A girl has her nose in a book at one of the round tables towards the back of the room, where several large windows show downtown and the mountain range beyond, their peaks purple against the cloudy sky. 

There’s a boy at the desk—Mark, Donghyuck assumes, but his head is down, a pencil in his hand. There’s a radio on the desk, and Donghyuck can hear an announcer jabbering excitedly about something—baseball, maybe. 

He wanders idly down a row, not sure what he’s looking for. He glances behind him at the boy, who is really focused on whatever he’s working on. He looks like he could be Donghyuck’s age, which is also slightly nerve-wracking, since it means there’s a good chance they’d know each other—possibly because they might’ve gone to the same high school, but also because magic kids generally know all the other magic kids. Even the girl at the table looks familiar.

He wanders about for a couple more minutes and ends up in the African medicine section. His wrists have started to itch as well, which is irritating him just enough to overwhelm his reluctance to ask for help. 

“Um, hi,” Donghyuck says timidly. The boy looks up, and goddammit, of course it’s that Mark. Mark Lee, good-looking, baseball-playing Mark Lee who Donghyuck had sort of, kind of liked for almost an entire year before he’d graduated. Too nice for his own good, and uniquely capable of throwing Donghyuck off-balance in a not-terrible way, a way that Donghyuck had liked a little bit too much. And damn handy with counter-curses, the sort that got cast on toilets or teachers as a joke—Donghyuck can remember Mark’s easy smile and his hands, picking apart the seams of a curse. 

Maybe he doesn’t remember me, Donghyuck thinks hopelessly, even though he knows that’s not true, because all magic-users know each other, and besides, they had P.E. together and Jisung had played baseball with him—

“Hey, I know you!” Mark says, smiling, and Donghyuck locks his knees and tries not to make a break for it. “Donghyuck, right? Jisung’s older brother?” 

“Oh, um, we’re not technically related,” Donghyuck says, very smoothly, his voice definitely not cracking. “But yeah, that’s me.” 

“Hey, it’s good to see you,” Mark says, and probably means it. Irritating, Donghyuck thinks, and itches at his wrists. “How’s Jisung?” 

“He has cancer,” Donghyuck says, because why not make this worse, more awkward. Mark probably wants to kick him out of the library, and Donghyuck can’t even blame him. He wants to kick himself out of the library. 

Mark’s face falls an appropriate amount, but there’s no trace of sticky pity in his eyes, just empathy and the right amount of sadness. “That’s awful,” he says, and it’s genuine—of course it is. Mark Lee has always been genuine. 

“Yeah,” Donghyuck says. “Which is, um, why I’m here. Because I think it’s a curse that’s, um, making him worse.” A lie, and a bad one at that. Donghyuck scratches nervously at his wrists again. 

“A curse,” Mark says, looking thoughtful. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m actually interning under Taeyong, doing my cursebreaker apprenticeship.” 

“Ah,” Donghyuck says weakly. “Um. That’s cool.” Doyoung hates Taeyong, so Donghyuck will at least be safe on that front. The fewer people that know about this, the better. “So you’re not going to school?”

“No, I am,” Mark says enthusiastically. “For journalism. I’m a sophomore at Central College, and I do cursebreaking on the side.” 

Of course you do! Donghyuck wants to shout, infuriated by the conversation, infuriated by Mark’s perfect face and his put-together life, the genuine way he looks at Donghyuck over the counter. The radio announcer is getting excited about something again, and Mark actually asks if Donghyuck minds if he turns the volume up. 

Apparently the good guys have done something exciting, because Mark’s face splits into a smile and Donghyuck feels like he might pass out. There’s a dimple in his left cheek, and Donghyuck thinks about himself, solitary and wrapped in whispered spells, and Mark Lee, beaming as brilliantly as he is now, drawing people towards him and gently unwinding whatever half-curses they’d unwittingly placed on themselves. 

And Donghyuck, stained by shadow and midnight, knows he has to leave. Right now. 

“I’ll just take whatever book you have on cursebreaking,” he says, and Mark frowns. 

“If it’s a curse that’s causing cancer, Hyuck, then you might need help,” Mark says. “It might be too big for you to do on your own.” 

“I can manage it,” Donghyuck insists, his wrists burning. He resists the urge to scratch at them, hating Mark’s expression. He looks so kind, so open—like if Donghyuck wanted to, he could cross the distance that had existed between them during high school and say yes, I need your help. 

He hadn’t needed help then—not from anyone, and not from Mark Lee. And he certainly doesn’t need it now. 

“Just give me the book,” he says. “Please.” 

Mark sighs and gets down from his chair, coming around the side of the desk. His jeans are faded and worn and fit him just right, and it takes every ounce of Donghyuck’s willpower not to look. 

He can feel Mark smiling at him, too, which is even worse. Luckily, they’re about the same height, so Donghyuck only has to fume about a couple of things as Mark goes to get the book for him. By the time he’s back at the desk, Donghyuck has mostly collected himself, though his face still feels hot. 

“Here you go,” Mark says, setting the book on the counter. Counter-Curses for Beginners, the cover reads. “Just what you asked for.” 

There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eye as he says that last part, and Donghyuck’s stomach does a funny thing. 

“Thanks,” he says, over the thunderous pounding of his sneaky, traitorous heart. He can feel Mark’s eyes on him as he writes his name on the checkout card, spinning it around so Mark can stamp it. 

“Cool,” Mark says, pulling the card out of the sleeve. “I’m also gonna give you this,” he adds, tearing a notecard in half and uncapping a pen. There’s a minute where he scribbles something on it. He folds it, sticks it in the book, and hands the whole thing back to Donghyuck. 

Donghyuck opens the book and unfolds the paper. On it is a phone number, and Donghyuck feels his whole face go hot. 

“Just in case,” Mark says, almost apologetic. “Call me if you want help.” 

“I think I’ve got it handled,” Donghyuck says, and he really hates the smile Mark gives him, knowing and a little amused. “Good to see you, Mark.” 

“Good to see you too,” Mark replies, and Donghyuck escapes the library as fast as he can. 

Taeil spots him on the way out and gives him a little wave. 

“Find everything you need?” Taeil asks. 

That and maybe a little more, Donghyuck thinks. Mark’s stupid little smile haunts him still. 

“I guess,” he tells Taeil.

“Good,” Taeil says. “You’re always welcome back if you have more questions.” 

Donghyuck laughs to himself. We’ll see, he thinks on his way out. We’ll see, won’t we? 

He has a nightmare, of course. He’s almost positive it’s because of the curse, because his parents are in it, and Donghyuck hasn’t dreamed about them in years. He’s spent so much time locking those memories up and away, out of his conscious thoughts and then out of his dreams. 

Magic, however, has no such reservations. Especially the sort that spreads under his skin, poisonous and inky-black. Magic does not care about how much it hurts to see his parents—to see his dad at the stove, his hands tanned, or his mom with her gray-streaked hair. They turn when they see him standing in the doorway, and for a moment, Donghyuck almost thinks it’s real. That they’re safe. That he woke up the next morning after their party to find them in the kitchen like this, standing side-by-side chopping green onions and scrambling eggs. 

“Good morning,” his dad says. “You slept for a while.” 

“We didn’t think you’d ever wake up,” his mom adds cheerfully. 

Donghyuck sits down at the table, content to just watch them. I missed you. 

“Why would you say that?” his dad asks. 

I feel like I haven’t seen you in a long time. 

His mother stiffens, her hands stilling. Donghyuck notices that she’s been scratching at them, the skin red and raw. “Why would you say that?” she echoes. 

They still haven’t turned around.

Because it’s true, Donghyuck replies. You left, didn’t you? 

His mom starts scratching again, her nails leaving brutal, raised red lines. 

Distantly, his brain starts to wake up, struggling against the nightmare. 

Mom, don’t scratch, Donghyuck says. You’re going to hurt yourself. 

His father makes a gasping noise, and Donghyuck whips around just in time to watch the midnight stain crawling past his collar. His mother itches faster and faster, until her skin tears and blood wells at her wrists, the skin peeling away to reveal the rot underneath, the blackened stain that is eating away—

“No,” Donghyuck gasps, and snaps awake. 

It takes him a minute to remember where he is, and he thrashes about in his bed for a minute before his body and brain catch up. 

He’s in the clothes he’d worn yesterday, notes and charm paper crinkled under him. Even his lights are still on, and his head and eyes ache from the strain of all the spells he’d tried, studying and experimenting for the entirety of the night. 

He flips his hands over, not entirely surprised to see the stain still on his palms, the circles still small enough to conceal easily. When he pushes his sleeves up, however, he can see that the darkness there has gotten worse, spreading in both directions from the creases in his elbows, reaching down his forearms and up his biceps. 

He pushes his sleeves back down, head reeling. None of the spells had worked, and it’s not like he’d expected them to, but he can’t help the way his heart sinks a little. 

He gets unsteadily to his feet, corralling all the paper and books into a reasonable pile. The book he’d hastily checked out from the library yesterday, Counter-Curses for Beginners, has a couple bent pages. He opens the cover to smooth them out, and there’s Mark Lee’s number, the innocuous slip of paper and its ten untidy numbers taunting him. 

Donghyuck closes the cover but doesn’t put the book away, even as he finishes cleaning his room. He gets dressed, the purple stain on his hands making his stomach turn as he pulls on a long-sleeve, grateful that the weather is still cool. Hopefully this is fixed by the time summer rolls around. 

(Though he gets the feeling that if the curse isn’t gone by summer, he might be). 

That sneaking thought, grim with the reminder of his mortality, of his ever-shrinking window of time, gets him to flip the book cover open again. He thinks of Mark Lee’s dumb, earnest face, his not-quite-dimpled smile, his jeans, his cursebreaker hands. So much had changed in those two years since high school, and yet. And yet. 

Call me if you want help, Mark had said. 

Donghyuck certainly doesn’t want it, that’s for damn sure. But he—he needs it, probably, if he doesn’t want to die. Which he doesn’t. Because there’s a part of him that’s been reawoken, the part that needs to prove that he’s no longer intimidated by Mark Lee, that he’s no longer infuriating because he’s out of Donghyuck’s league, but rather below it. 

Donghyuck snatches the paper out of the book and crams it into his pocket, feeling frustrated at the idea of having to walk back into the library and face Mark again. His pride protests at the thought; the curse on his skin reality-checks him swiftly and brutally, sort of like being kicked in the face. 

Doyoung is in the garden, and Donghyuck creeps towards the phone sitting on its little table under the window. Mark’s phone number is burning a hole in his pocket as he lifts the receiver, tucking it between his shoulder and his ear as he pulls the paper out and punches the digits in. 

The phone rings once, twice, three times in his ear. Then, Mark’s voice going, “Hello?” 

Behind him, the door opens, and Doyoung calls his name. 

“Goddamn it,” Donghyuck hisses, and slams the phone back down on the receiver just as Mark says, “Donghyuck? Is that you?” 

“Who was that?” Doyoung asks, coming into the kitchen as Donghyuck sticks both the paper and his hands into his pockets and tries not to look too guilty. 

“I don’t know. Someone dialed the wrong number, I think,” he says, edging towards the front door. “I’m gonna go into town if you need anything.” 

“Again?” Doyoung asks, brushing dirt from his hands. “What are you up to? They can’t be letting you in to see Jisung that often.” 

“No, I’m just,” Donghyuck says, scrambling for an excuse, “…doing stuff.” 

“Uh huh,” Doyoung says, eyebrows raising. “Stuff.” 

“Y’know,” Donghyuck continues, slowly sliding his shoes on and picking his backpack off the ground, “things. Important things. Nothing to worry about.” 

Doyoung sighs. “I’m not your mom, and you’re an adult. Just don’t…you’d tell me if something was going on, right?” 

No, because you’d get mad at me, Donghyuck thinks, feeling a little guilty. “Yeah, of course.” 

It’s becoming a bad habit, lying to his cousin. 

But the curse is starting to itch under his shirt, and he’s running out of willpower—and time. So he offers Doyoung an apologetic smile and leaves the house, unlocking his bicycle. Mrs. Watson is there, walking her dog, and she gives him a curious look. 

“My, you’re busy these days,” she says. “Off to visit your friend again? What was his name?” 

“Jisung,” Donghyuck says, swinging a leg over his bike. “And no, I’m not.” 

Mrs. Watson raises an eyebrow. “A girl? Someone you like?” She gasps, smiling a little. “Does Doyoung know?” 

Donghyuck can feel the truth struggling at his lips. A boy, maybe, and he definitely does not, which means you can’t say a thing. 

He bites down on his tongue and offers an apologetic smile to her as well. “See you around, Mrs. Watson.” 

“You’re too clever for your own good, my dear,” she says as he pushes away from the curb, standing up on the pedals in order to pick up speed. “Be careful!” 

Why is everyone so concerned with my personal safety lately? Donghyuck thinks guiltily, waving over his shoulder.

He waits until he’s past the boundary shield before he stops in front of a payphone, pulling a couple of coins out of his pocket and pushing them into the slot. He lifts the receiver and takes Mark’s number out of his pocket again, the paper unusually heavy in his palm. 

There’s a sour taste in his mouth—probably because he’s sacrificing his dignity to do this, calling Mark again after hanging up so abruptly. 

But he dials the numbers anyway, because the itch is getting worse and will keep getting worse unless he finds a way to break the curse. 

This time, the phone only rings once. “Hello?” Mark says, and his voice sends a little shock of warmth through Donghyuck’s chest.

 Donghyuck gathers his breath and his courage. “Hi, Mark. It’s Donghyuck.” 

“Donghyuck!” Mark says, and Donghyuck can hear the smile in his voice. “How’s it going?” 

“Not so great,” Donghyuck says, looking down at his arm, at the purple curse mark that’s reaching up from his wrist and down from his elbow. “I, uh—that curse I told you about yesterday—” 

“Yeah, did you find anything in the book?” 

“You know I didn’t,” Donghyuck says, a little exasperated. Mark’s responding laugh is a little tinny but stirs an old warmth in Donghyuck’s chest. “Anyways, I need some help.” 

“Just in general?” Mark asks, still laughing, and Donghyuck has to bite back a smile. 

“I need…your help,” Donghyuck admits. 

“So I was right.” 

“No,” Donghyuck protests, mostly to save his pride. “I just…” 

“Just admit I’m right,” Mark says. 

“No,” Donghyuck repeats. “You’re not. Are you at the library?” 

“I will be in thirty,” Mark says.

Donghyuck checks his watch. Visiting hours for the hospital have just started, so maybe he’ll swing by and see Jisung, who he’s been avoiding since the accident. “Okay, I’ll come by then.” 

“Alright,” Mark says, and there’s a beat of hesitation, like neither of them know how to hang up. “Then…I’ll see you there?” 

“I guess so,” Donghyuck says. “See you then.” 

He hangs up a little harder than necessary and glares murderously at the plastic panels, stickered and marked up. Then he sticks another quarter into the machine and punches in the number for the hospital. 

The receptionist picks up. “Mercy Court Hospital.” 

“Hi,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Are visiting hours for Jisung Park open?”  

Donghyuck likes the truth. He’s not a liar by nature; if there’s a problem, he’d much rather face it head-on and throw some magic at it, rather than try to work around it. 

But the truth, he’s learned, comes in many forms—some of them too painful to bear. The shadow-shaped truth his uncles had offered him on the night his parents had died, the heavy grey stone of his own grief, the sticky, guilty throb when he’d kissed all those boys in eleventh grade and hadn’t told Doyoung about it, not even when he’d started to spiral. 

And now, this: the midnight stain on his arms, spreading by the day, a truth too bitter to swallow and too barbed to spit out. 

So he offers the story to Jisung in bits and pieces. In this version, Doyoung is the one with the curse, something that’s affecting his plants and causing them to wilt. In this one, nobody is dying. 

Especially since Jisung is sitting up today, color in his cheeks, a new hat pulled down low over his ears. He looks good—healthy, even. 

“I remember Mark Lee,” Jisung says. “We played baseball together. He’s a good guy, Donghyuck, why’re you complaining?” 

“I’m not,” Donghyuck says—complains. “I’m just—I feel like a hypocrite, thinking he’s kind of cute and needing his help after the effort I took in high school to appear the exact opposite.” 

“Whoa, alright, you did not mention the good-looking part,” Jisung says immediately, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you said he was lame.” 

“He is.” 

“But you wanna jump his b—” 

“Hey, what the hell,” Donghyuck interrupts immediately, scowling as Jisung grins at him. “I only noticed that he was objectively cute, if we were talking about aesthetics—” 

“Which we weren’t,” Jisung points out, because he’s horrible and out to make Donghyuck’s life hard. 

“You must be feeling really good if you have all this extra energy to make fun of me,” Donghyuck grumbles, but he can’t even be mad, not when Jisung is smiling and laughing, telling him about how excited he is for the new Star Wars movie or whatever, how the nurses might let him have a radio in his room so he can listen to baseball games, how they have to go to the drive-in when Jisung gets out, because there are so many movies he’s missed while he’s been stuck in here. He talks longer and more animatedly than Donghyuck’s seen in months. 

And suddenly, Donghyuck doesn’t feel bad for lying. He doesn’t feel bad for messing up the spell. The self-pity slides from him like water over rock, and his eyes sting, suddenly, with tears. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jisung demands. “Are you laughing at my hat?” 

“No, not laughing,” Donghyuck says, sounding a little strangled. “I’m just—I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better.” 

Jisung stares at him for a long moment, a little suspicious. “You’re being weird.” 

“I am not,” Donghyuck defends, snapping upright. “I’m just glad that you’re not—that it’s not—” 

“That I’m not on the verge of dying today?” Jisung jokes, shrugging when Donghyuck glares at him. “What? I can make jokes like that. I’m the one with cancer, not you.” 

They pass the rest of the time like that, talking easily until a nurse comes by with meds, and Donghyuck supposes it’s time to meet Mark. 

“Have a lovely time,” Jisung simpers, and Donghyuck makes a threatening motion at him. The nurse clicks her tongue disapprovingly, and Jisung smirks at him over her shoulder. “Catch you later!” he adds as Donghyuck’s on his way out, and Donghyuck gives him one last dirty look before shutting the door behind him. 

The sun is warm, and the walk up the hill to the library leaves him sweating. Taeil lets him through the bookshelf door again with a curious expression, and Donghyuck peels his jacket off and pushes his sleeves up as he goes up the stairs. The magic library is flooded with light, and is empty, quiet, and a little dusty. He’d beaten Mark here, it seems. 

Donghyuck tosses his jacket onto the long rectangular table and plops down in one of the chairs, flipping idly through one of the books in front of him. Jisung’s laugh is playing on loop in his mind, and it’s the only reason he doesn’t make a break for it as soon as he sees Mark on the stairs, sunglasses in his hair, his thumbs hooked in his backpack straps. He looks surprised to see Donghyuck. 

“You’re early,” he says. He flips on a couple more lights, sets his backpack down, and takes his jacket off. Donghyuck watches him warily, not saying anything—not yet, because he’s not sure what to say. Mark starts going on about something they both supposedly did in high school, like he doesn’t know Donghyuck spent most of those four years sulking around and being angry. 

Not that that’s changed all too much. He’s a lot more directionless now—despite Doyoung being on his ass to apply to college—and also dying. 

Yeah, the dying part. Hopefully that’s not a permanent thing. He needs a cursebreaker. Specifically, he needs this cursebreaker and his damn smile and his dumb baseball stories. 

“I looked at the book,” Donghyuck interrupts, suddenly nervous. “It didn’t help.” 

Mark is far too polite for I-told-you-so’s, but Donghyuck can read it on his face. “Stop being smug. You were already smug on the phone.” 

“I’m not smug,” Mark replies smugly, crossing the room and sitting down in front of him. “Tell me about this curse, then.” 

Donghyuck picks at the wood grain on the table. His wrists itch terribly as he sorts around for something close to the truth. “Well, it’s on his skin. And it’s itchy—at least, um, he says it is. And it’s spreading.” 

“When did he get it?” Mark asks. “When the cancer started? What’s it look like?” 

“Um,” Donghyuck says. His fingers stray towards the inky stain, the itch like fire on his arms. “I…don’t know?” 

“It wouldn’t happen to be dark blue, maybe purple,” Mark muses, “on his arms? Elbows and palms, probably hurts like a sonuvabitch?” 

“Y—how do you know that?” Donghyuck demands. 

Mark raises an eyebrow and tilts his chin at Donghyuck’s hands, which have burrowed into the bare skin of his arms, the curse mark in full view. “Not terribly subtle,” Mark points out as Donghyuck sheepishly drops his hands. He’d forgotten he’d taken his jacket off. “So it’s not Jisung.” 

“It’s not Jisung,” Donghyuck agrees quietly. 

Mark scoots around the edge of the table, his lips pursed. “Can I—can I see?” 

Donghyuck jerks away before he can get any closer. “That’s a really bad idea,” he blurts. “It—it kills stuff it comes into contact with. Plants, mostly. I haven’t touched a person and I probably—I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Mark frowns and sits back. “It kills plants?” 

Donghyuck nods. 

“I think you should tell me the whole story,” Mark says, crossing his arms. “From the start.” 

“It’s embarrassing,” Donghyuck mumbles. “I’m a terrible witch.” 

“What’s your magic?” 

“Spoken,” Donghyuck says. “All I need is charm paper, and I’m set.” 

“Wow, that’s nice,” Mark answers. “There’s no drawback?” 

Donghyuck shakes his head. “Which is why this curse doesn’t make sense. It’s not something from my magic. That day—something spoke to me, sort of.” 

Mark, to Donghyuck’s surprise, doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even make a face. He just props his elbows on the table and asks, very honestly, what happened next. 

Donghyuck tells him. Mark’s easier to read than the open book in front of him—partially because Donghyuck has practice from staring at him across the hallway or classroom. And never once does he give any sign that he thinks Donghyuck is stupid, or a bad witch. 

By the end of the story, most of Donghyuck’s chagrin has faded, and so has his apprehension. 

“You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?” he asks, just in case. 

Mark shakes his head. “’Course not. Not right now, at least. If it gets worse, then yeah, but it’s your thing.” 

“I don’t want anyone to know,” Donghyuck blurts. “I don’t want to freak anyone out—or even worse, have everyone fussing over me—” 

“I get it,” Mark says, nodding. “My parents are, um, sort of overbearing. Part of the reason why I took the internship with Taeyong is so I could get out of their hair.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “That sounds bad. They want the best, and they love me, but it can be a lot, you know?” 

Donghyuck thinks about Doyoung, nagging him to apply to college or make new friends. He knows his cousin means well, but he feels like he’s missing the mark—like maybe he doesn’t understand Donghyuck in the right way. 

There’s no easy click, no flicker of understanding. Certainly not anything like the look in Mark’s eyes when Donghyuck tells him about all of this, about Doyoung and Jisung and not knowing about what comes next. How he’s been adrift for a long time, and now the curse has put a time limit on everything. 

Mark interrupts at that. “It’s not a time limit,” he says, “because we’re gonna solve this thing.” 

Donghyuck tries not to roll his eyes at the undisguised optimism in his voice. 

“We are,” Mark insists, like he can will it into existence. Donghyuck, already impossibly—and dangerously—endeared, bites back a smile. 

“Ha!” Mark exclaims, pointing. “You’re smiling! You believe me! We totally got this, Donghyuck. I know this library like the back of my hand. I can get us into the storage rooms, into the research section. We’ll have an answer in no time.” 

Donghyuck looks between the shelves and Mark’s eager face, wondering exactly what he’s about to get himself into. It feels big and a little bright, like the sun hovering in his peripheral vision, threatening to blind him. He itches at his wrists thoughtfully, and Mark reaches across the table like he’s going to stop him. 

Donghyuck draws away before Mark can touch his wrist. “You shouldn’t,” he says, a little sharper than expected. “I told you I’ve been killing plants.” 

“Oh,” Mark says, chastised. “Sorry. Habit. My, uh, magic is mostly touch-based. Cursebreaking, living things, and all that.” 

“And all that,” echoes Donghyuck, and wonders if he’ll be included in that list. 

Mark pauses a beat, and then his smile is back. “So, what do you say? Ready to research?” 

Donghyuck sighs heavily. This boy, he thinks, feeling like a high schooler all over again. Except this time he’s one of the poor saps on the receiving end of the classic Mark Lee charm, that blatant honesty and genuine charisma that drew everyone around him into a warm circle of light. 

Donghyuck finds he is just as weak as the rest of them. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s do it.” 

Despite all of Donghyuck’s efforts, it becomes a routine. He still exhausts himself with research and experimenting, but over the next two weeks, Mark slowly integrates himself into Donghyuck’s life. Summer is creeping in—the nights are no longer cold, and the days are lengthening rapidly. 

The mornings leave Donghyuck sweating in his long sleeve as he makes the hike up the hill to the library. Taeil had given him a key after a week, and nobody is surprised to see him there, walking up the stairs with Mark, their noses in a new stack of notes Donghyuck had written out (because Mark’s handwriting is terrible). There are new countercurses to try, hidden in the backrooms, new incantations and spells. 

And in the in-between moments, Donghyuck slowly comes to get to know Mark. The idle way he spins his pencil over his knuckles, the way he shakes his leg when he’s focusing. How he likes his coffee in the morning, the sandwich he orders every single time when they get lunch at the grocery mart across the street. How he wants to move out of town for a little, to get some real, big-time journalistic experience. Donghyuck gets a hundred bad jokes and a hundred good ones too, deep belly laughs that leave them both teary-eyed and aching at crosswalks and over coffee as the sun goes down. 

Doyoung notices, of course. At first he’s suspicious, but as soon as Donghyuck says Mark’s name, his expression gets all sly at the corners. 

“You didn’t tell me you started dating anyone,” he says, and Donghyuck chokes on his water, nearly putting his elbow in his dinner. He quickly drops his hands back below the edge of the table, safe from sight. 

The curse isn’t too prominent, but it’s definitely gotten worse, creeping up his arms towards his shoulders. Long, inky streaks wrap around his biceps and crawl towards his chest. It itches terribly, especially with the heat, but he’s been smuggling itch salve from Doyoung’s stores, which helps, if briefly. Mark manages to unknit some of the curse on his hands, keeping it to skin he can cover easily. It’s amazing to watch him work, so steady and self-assured, coaxing the tangled threads of the spell apart, unknotting things that seem impossible to undo. 

“I’m not dating him,” Donghyuck says, and it sucks a little to hear the truth aloud. Which is also a relatively new thing, and sort of terrifying to think about. But he’d caught himself staring in the quieter moments, reaching towards the light.

“Okay,” Doyoung says, and Donghyuck can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t believe him. “Whatever you say.” 

It is whatever I say, Donghyuck thinks grumpily, even as Mark trails behind him, uncursing whatever his hands accidentally brush against—a potted plant in the library windowsill, a sapling tree in someone’s yard, the wrapped tulips at the grocery store. Whenever Donghyuck threatens to split apart, Mark is there to hold the pieces together, his smile golden and his hands warm. 

It lights something deep within a dark space in Donghyuck’s chest, a place that hadn’t seen the sun since his parents died and put a crack in the foundation. There’s something about Mark’s face when he looks at Donghyuck, like a fragile sprout pushing through the soil. 

Donghyuck just has to remember to keep his hands off. Because he, like the curse, is likely to kill it with just a touch. 

But oh is it hard, like fighting a magnetic force or the pull of the tide. An itch in his lungs like he’s held his breath for too long, and Mark is the sweet spring air after a rainstorm. 

The tangling starts like this: 

“I can’t believe it,” Mark says one afternoon, two weeks and four days after Donghyuck’s second visit to the library. 

Donghyuck looks up from his notes, where Mark has drawn a nearly-illegible diagram of how de-cursing works on humans. “What does this say?” he asks, turning the notes so Mark can see. 

“Physical contact,” Mark reads, squinting as his handwriting. “Normally you have to be touching the person to break the countercurse.” 

“Well, that can’t happen,” Donghyuck says, holding up his hands. “Today I shattered a plate just by touching it.” 

“It’s spread to inanimate objects?” Mark asks, frowning. “That’s new.” 

Donghyuck shifts uncomfortably and tries to turn the conversation away from him. “What can’t you believe?” 

“What? Oh,” Mark says. He taps the book in front of him. “We’ve read every relevant book in this library. There’s nothing left to study.” 

Donghyuck sighs and slumps in his chair. “Goddammit.” 

“It’s not a lost cause, though,” Mark says. “The county’s library is in the city, if you—” He pauses, and Donghyuck looks up. Mark’s ears have gone a little pink, and there’s a strange, expectant feeling spreading through the air. Donghyuck’s heart does a little flip in his chest, but his voice is steady when he says, “If I want to what?” 

“If you want to go,” Mark says slowly. “With, um, me. Together. This weekend.” 

Donghyuck blinks, not sure he heard him correctly. “To the city?” 

Mark nods. “If you want.” 

Donghyuck nods so quickly he nearly pulls a muscle in his neck. “Yeah, no, that would be—for research—” 

Mark nods as well. “Yeah, for research. I have a car—I can come get you on Saturday morning, or something.” 

His ears are still pink, and Donghyuck fights back a smile. “Sounds good.” 

It is hard to keep his hands to himself for the rest of the week, to resist the urge to put a hand on Mark’s arm or his shoulder or the back of his neck, to stop himself from hanging off of him when he whines good-naturedly as they make their way across the street for lunch. It’s hard because Mark makes it so easy—he opens himself up to Donghyuck like the daffodils do the sun, smiling and squinting into the light like it’s easy, and not a race against a clock both of them are pretending doesn’t exist. 

Reality will meet them someday soon, and kick them both in the kneecaps and laugh. But for now, Donghyuck lets everything get tangled and tries not to think of the hovering warmth of Mark’s hand through his t-shirt. 

Mark meets Donghyuck out front of his house on Saturday morning, exactly when he said. Doyoung hands him three dollars on his way out. “Enjoy your date,” he says, smirking. 

Donghyuck glares at him and snatches the money. “It’s not a date.” 

“Then you don’t need three whole dollars,” Doyoung says. 

“I do need three whole dollars,” Donghyuck protests. “We’re going to the city. Everything is expensive there.” 

“You’re spending the day in the city,” Doyoung says, eyebrows raising, “just the two of you, going to a nice restaurant—” 

Donghyuck kicks on his shoes. “Okay, goodbye,” he says, shoving past his cousin and towards the front door. 

“Call when you’re on your way home,” Doyoung says, and Donghyuck slams the door a little harder than necessary. 

Mark, sitting in the driver’s seat of a beat-up Chrysler, leans over and cranks the window down. Music floods the street—Mark’s got some Queen song at full blast—and several people stop what they’re doing to stare. 

Donghyuck stares at him resolutely, ignoring the heat in his cheeks and the feeling of many eyes on him. 

“Hi,” Mark says. “You look good.” 

Donghyuck knows he doesn’t. He’s sleep-deprived, and the purple stain is visible at his collar and the ends of his sleeves. Still, Mark says it with such honesty that Donghyuck almost—almost—believes him. 

“Shut up,” Donghyuck says, swinging himself into Mark’s car. “People are staring. Can I roll the window up?” He reaches for the crank at the same time Mark says, “it’s stuck.” 

The window is actually stuck. “Can you turn the music down, then?” 

“Why, are you embarrassed?” Mark teases, though he obliges and turns down Freddie Mercury just enough. Donghyuck, still irritated by the staring, pinches a slip of charm paper out of his pocket. Whoa, look, flying turtles! he thinks, and the paper dissolves between his fingers. A second later, everyone’s heads turn away in sync. Mr. Morgan across the street goes back to watering his lawn, and the kids playing soccer in the street start kicking their ball. And Donghyuck has Mark all to himself again. 

“Why haven’t you uncursed the window?” Donghyuck asks as Mark puts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb. 

“Not cursed,” Mark says. “My dad tried to fix it the other day, but he couldn’t get it either.” 

“What’s his magic?” 

“Countercurse stuff, same as me,” Mark says. “His works better on inanimate objects, though, which is why we haven’t gone to him.” 

Donghyuck sits back in the seat. “Besides, if he knew, he’d probably tell my uncle, and then Doyoung would know, and then Jisung would know—” 

“Whoa, hey,” Mark says, reaching over and putting a hand on Donghyuck’s knee. “We’re not there, though, right?” 

Donghyuck sneaks a finger under his sleeve, suddenly itchy. “No, but—” 

“But nothin’,” Mark says convincingly. “Yeah?” 

Donghyuck scratches. There’s purple under his nails when he pulls away, careful not to touch Mark’s hand, which is still burning through his jeans. “Okay,” he answers softly. “You probably shouldn’t—you shouldn’t touch me, though.” 

Mark slowly withdraws his hand. His smile dips at one corner, and Donghyuck looks away before he can recognize something like sadness, or god forbid, empathy. 

“We’re gonna crack this thing,” Mark promises as the town falls away. The air is piney and warm, and Donghyuck still wants so badly to believe him. 

So he does—just for now, just for this moment. “Okay,” he says. And he tries to mean it. 

The weather in the city is warmer since they're farther away from the mountains, and Donghyuck is sweating through his long sleeve in no time. It's hard to relax at first—it feels like everyone is watching him, and it's not until Donghyuck drags them both into an alley and casts several cloaking charms over himself that he calms down. The curse marks smudge and fade. At a glance, they'll look like tattoos, or maybe bruises. The magic costs him, though—he's already out of charm paper, and he needs the money for lunch. It's expensive to cloak himself like this, every day, but he wants to enjoy his time with Mark. He doesn't want to be stressed, and he doesn't want Mark to have to take care of him.

(Mark gives him a look that says he wouldn't mind it. Donghyuck can't keep his eyes on Mark's face for too long when he does that, because it makes him feel like he's swallowed the sun.)

They stop at the library first, per the recommendation of Taeil. Mark offers his palm to the witch with the key around her neck, and she comments on the friendliness of his magic. Mark smiles at her and she smiles back and asks where they live, and while they chat Donghyuck itches at his wrists, feeling like a shadow, a sliver of himself.

But then Mark's hand is on his lower back, and he's talking about Donghyuck's curse.

"It's from a rebound, we think," Mark says.

"It's on my friend," Donghyuck adds nervously, even though there are half a million people in this city, meaning there's probably very little chance this young witch has a direct line to any of Donghyuck's family. "He got himself into some trouble."

"Rebounded?" the librarian asks. "How so?"

"He was trying to fix his brother's broken wrist," Donghyuck continues, because Mark is an awful liar. "He messed something up, and now it's like—he's being taken apart. Like the opposite of what the spell did."

The librarian's brow wrinkles. Her lanyard tag reads Heather. She is tall and blonde, and very helpful, it turns out. "It sounds like old magic," she says. "Y'know, before we figured out how to draw on ourselves, rather than outside forces like they did in the ancient era."

"What do you mean?" Donghyuck asks. He'd slept through most of the history lessons all the magic kids had taken in middle school. Mostly because he was too busy being angsty.

"It was before the big shift," Mark says. "There were more people like you, Donghyuck, that used outside objects or made deals with, like, the magic web or whatever. Then some woman—"

"Salomée Halpir," Heather offers. "She was a Polish medic. She discovered how to draw magic from inwards, and we stopped making deals with outside forces. For the most part." She gives Donghyuck a sideways look, and he pulls down his sleeves self-consciously. "It's still needed for some old spells. And some people have types of magic that still sort of do the same thing."

"That's cool and all," Donghyuck says to them both, "but that doesn't tell me how we're supposed to break the curse."

"It's hard to say," Heather says. "It's not something that can necessarily be broken, like the way a cursebreaker would do it. And there's no, like, counter-spell for something that's rebounded."

Donghyuck tries not to let his disappointment show on his face, but Mark has gotten awfully good at reading him. "That's not to say there's no hope, right?" he asks Heather before Donghyuck can do something impulsive, like snap at her or start shouting. Or cry. Or maybe all three, who's to say. The curse has well and truly fucked him up, inside and out.

And it's only getting worse, a mean voice reminds him.

His stomach churns unhappily at the thought, and Mark's hand comes to gently rest on his knee again. Dangerous, Donghyuck thinks, but some of the dread dissipates at his touch.

"I think you could still probably find a way," Heather agrees. "I don't think the books are gonna tell you explicitly, but—there's probably a way to undo it, if that makes sense." When they both nod, she continues. "I'm guessing something got tangled up when the spell was cast. Like something intercepted between point A and point B. If you can work out what, then you can probably help your friend."

She helps them pick out a couple of books to guide their research before she's called away by a senior librarian, leaving them in the relative quiet of the magic section, hidden behind a clever glamour rather than a secret door like the one at home.

They work for a bit until Donghyuck's stomach starts rumbling, and Mark closes the book in front of him with a snap. "Let's be done for today," he says. "Let's go look around."

"And get lunch?" Donghyuck asks, stretching his arms above his head. He can feel Mark's gaze on him—on the hollow of his throat, his brow, his shoulders—and preens a little bit. High school Donghyuck would lose his shit if he was here right now, knowing Mark Lee was watching him, helping him with a possibly unbreakable curse because he wants to.

"And get lunch," Mark replies. 

And so they leave the library behind. They don't face any of the heavy inevitabilities—no, they'll leave that for a hotter, darker night, when the sky isn't so clear.

The rest of the day, however, takes a turn for the better. The sun comes out as they eat fancy noodles in a restaurant with a view of the bay. Donghyuck makes jokes and scratches at his wrists and Mark props his elbows on the table and talks about college. They stop by a couple bookstores, and they turn up with a promising book on the history of countercurses. Undoing Magick, it’s called. Half of it is in Latin, and the rest is complicated and confusing. Mark buys it anyway, tucking it into his backpack and grinning. 

“Might be useful,” he says. “And if it’s not, I’ll hand it over to Taeil. Never hurts to add another book to the collection, y’know?” 

“Doyoung says cursebreaking is useless,” Donghyuck tells Mark as they cross the street. Donghyuck doesn’t know. “He says most things can be solved with a potion, and if it can’t, then the caster probably deserved it.” 

“Nah, he just doesn’t like Taeyong,” Mark says, laughing. “Which is funny, because he’s the nicest guy in the whole town. He’s over in Japan right now, actually. I tried to ask him about your curse, but I ran outta time. He’ll be back in a bit, though, so maybe he can help then.” 

“What’d he say?” Donghyuck asks, curious despite himself. 

Mark shrugs. “Same as the books, mostly. We’re not undoers, y’know? Nobody really is. Nothing is supposed to be undone. Magic’s supposed to be forward-moving. That’s why diviners can only read the present or future, not the past.” 

“I’ve never thought about it like that,” Donghyuck says. It explains the shocking lack of material, and how the majority of their results had been about breaking curses or countering spells. Nothing about undoing. 

Donghyuck can’t work up the energy to feel upset about it, not when the sun is on his face.

They buy coffee and drink it in a park near the ocean, and Donghyuck has to use another slip of charm paper to keep the seagulls away from their french fries. The wind is briny and cool, and Donghyuck tells Mark about his parents. About how his mom would pack turkey and rice and his father would bring his sketchbook and they'd play frisbee or soccer in the park, just like this.

"You used to live in the city?" Mark asks. "You never told me that."

Donghyuck picks his wrist. "It's...not something I like to talk about. It hurts more to remember them, you know? Especially after I spent so long trying to forget."

Mark is quiet for a long moment, but it's not awkward, just thoughtful. "But now?"

"Now it's easier," Donghyuck says, nodding. "High school was hard, but high school is hard in general. I stayed with Doyoung, though my uncles—his parents—invited me to come stay with them in Korea for high school."

"But you liked it here better?"

Donghyuck shrugs. "I guess. It's close to where I grew up, and I don’t know Korean very well. Plus, Jisung. I wouldn't want to leave him."

"Ah, Jisung," Mark says, nodding. "Right, yeah.”

A car drives past behind them. The wind lifts Mark's hair from his forehead and tugs at his t-shirt. Every part of him looks young and alive, from the rosy sting to his cheeks to the bright way he looks at Donghyuck.

Something tightens in Donghyuck's chest, and it's like he can hear the minutes slipping away. They'd found nothing at the library save for some history—similar curses, similar spells, but nothing certain. No solution. Mark hadn't called it a failure, but Donghyuck can read him now. He can see it in Mark's face.

"What are you thinking?" Mark asks quietly.

Donghyuck's mouth turns down. It seems he can be read just as easily. "We didn't find much at the library."

Mark sighs, kicking his heel against the pavement. "Not really."

"It's just a bummer, is all," Donghyuck says. "I was hoping we'd find something."

"There's a couple more places we can check," Mark says. He checks his watch, and stands. "Before we head out." He reaches down for Donghyuck's hand, reflexive, easy as breathing, and Donghyuck almost takes it. Their fingers graze, just barely, before Donghyuck yanks his hand away. Mark's eyes have gone wide, and Donghyuck clutches his hand to his chest, suddenly breathless.

"Sorry—" Mark starts.

"We shouldn't—" Donghyuck says at the same time. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears at Mark's proximity and at the close call.

Mark breathes out. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“Habit?” Donghyuck asks weakly, and Mark’s mouth purses. 

“Habit,” he agrees. It has to be the truth. Any other alternative is dangerous. Unfathomable.

He gets to his feet, and tucks his hands in his pockets, just in case. 

They get back to Mark’s car just as the sun begins to fall in the sky. The air cools down again as they make their way back towards the mountains. Donghyuck, tired and full, sinks into his seat, leaning his head against the window. 

Mark fiddles with the radio, flipping between stations before settling on baseball. Someone is winning. Someone is losing. Donghyuck’s arms itch, of course they do, but for once, it’s not at the forefront of his mind. The light makes everything look gold, and he’s swept up in a sudden wave of longing so powerful it knocks the breath from him. 

He wants more of this. He wants days and months like this. He wants summer and fall and winter. He wants Mark Lee, and he wants to stay. 

Mark would stay, he thinks. If Donghyuck asked—or even if he didn’t—Mark would stay. 

It’s a realization he tucks away quickly, because it’s a little too bright for his liking. Most things about Mark are that way, though. Like when Donghyuck breaks the handle off the glove compartment and Mark undoes the curse without thinking. Like he’s already used to it.

Like he’s here to stay. 

Donghyuck doesn’t linger at the curb when Mark pulls up in front of Donghyuck’s house. 

“Thank you,” he manages, even though he’s teetering dangerously close to a confession. Or vomiting. He’s not entirely sure. But if he looks at Mark for one second longer, something bad will happen and Donghyuck won’t even have to wait for the curse to take him out because he’ll do it himself. 

“It was fun, yeah?” Mark asks, propping his elbow on the open window. Donghyuck digs his nails into his palms. Don’t say it, don't say it, he chants. “Even though it wasn’t super successful.” 

“It was fun,” Donghyuck agrees, and, before he can think about it: “I always have fun with you.” 

Mark blinks, and Donghyuck almost bolts. But then Mark smiles, and Donghyuck feels warm to his toes. 

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice soft, barely audible over the rumble of the engine. 

“Yeah,” Donghyuck replies. They’re teetering back into dangerous territory, but he can’t stop himself from smiling back. 

“We’ll figure something out,” Mark promises. “We have time.” 

“Okay,” Donghyuck says. The itch is back, fracturing his attention, and he can hear Doyoung opening the door behind him, probably wondering what’s taking so long. “See you tomorrow morning?” 

“Yes,” Mark says. He sounds so sure, as always. 

Donghyuck watches him drive away. It feels like he’s won something but lost another, but he can’t quite figure out what. 

He stands at the curb and scratches his wrist and thinks about Mark and Jisung and about time running out. The only thing that stops him from breaking down into tears right there is Doyoung’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him back home. 

Doyoung takes forever on the phone that evening. It feels like he calls every single witch in the world, and Donghyuck waits impatiently in the living room, flipping through the morning paper and an old comic. A catalog for magic plants is sitting open on the breakfast table. Doyoung’s made a neat list on a notepad next to it. When Donghyuck touches it, his thumb leaves an inky purple stain behind. 

The chair he sits on rattles. He tucks his hands into his pockets and is met with a hundred loose threads, like his very clothing is unraveling against his skin. 

It probably is. He wants to call Jisung and ask how he’s doing, if he’s getting better as Donghyuck gets worse. Knowing that will make this all better. It’ll make it all worth it. 

Finally, Doyoung hangs up. Donghyuck leaps for the receiver before Doyoung has really put it back down, punching in the hospital visitor center number. He pinches his last piece of charm paper between his fingers and commands the call to connect, even though visitor calling hours are pretty much over. 

The line rings. Ring ring, pick up the phone, Donghyuck thinks irritably, pushing his magic a little further. Distance is hard, especially for him, but it’s possible. And it should work. The curse hasn’t affected his magic. Not that he can do anything about the curse, magic or not. It almost feels like a cruel joke. 

“Put me through to Jisung Park,” Donghyuck says as soon as the call connects. “It’s urgent.” 

“Okay,” the receptionist says distractedly—a side effect of the spell, but she’ll be fine. 

A minute later, Jisung’s groggy voice crackles through the receiver. “Hello? Donghyuck?” 

“Jisung, Jisung, it’s me,” Donghyuck says, breathing out. “Hi. How are you?” 

“It’s so late,” Jisung says, and Donghyuck can hear his yawn through the phone. “Just to call to see how I’m doing.” 

“Well, with the spell and all,” Donghyuck says. 

Jisung goes quiet for a moment. “Did something happen?” 

Donghyuck glances down. Under his shirt, the stain now covers his forearms and almost all of his upper arms. It’s started to bleed over onto his back and chest, creeping closer to his heart by the day. “No,” he says. “It’s nothing.” 

“It’s not nothing, tell me,” Jisung demands. “I know when you’re lying, smartass.” 

“It’s Mark,” Donghyuck tries. There’s another beat of silence, and then Jisung buys it. 

“I knew it,” he says. “What happened?” 

“We went on a half-date and it was sort of nice,” Donghyuck says, which is true enough. “Freaked me out, though. I haven’t—it feels wrong to just let him in my life, you know?” 

Jisung thinks about this for a minute. Donghyuck props the phone between his shoulder and his ear so he can scratch at his wrists. 

“Do you want a cream for that rash?” Doyoung asks from the kitchen. “You’ve been scratching an awful lot.” 

Donghyuck drops his hands immediately, brushing purple flakes of skin off his legs. “No, it’s fine.” 

“You’re itchy?” Jisung asks. 

“Poison ivy,” Donghyuck lies. “Or something. Anyways. How are you?” 

“You didn’t let me offer advice about Mark Lee,” Jisung whines. 

“Your advice is going to be terrible,” Donghyuck deadpans. 

“My advice is that you’ve already let him in, you’re just too dumb to realize,” Jisung says, sounding a little hurt. “See? You’re speechless. It’s great advice.” 

Donghyuck sighs, slumping in his chair. “Shut up. How are you?” 

“A lot better,” Jisung says. “I can do a flight of stairs without getting lightheaded. The nurses have even let me outside.” 

Relief breaks over Donghyuck. “That—that is really, really good to hear. You don’t even know.” 

“Did you get poison ivy because of me?” Jisung asks, and Donghyuck can hear the frown in his voice. “Because of the spell?” 

“For the last time,” Donghyuck says, “no. I’m fine, Jisung.” 

“Well, clearly you’re not, because you’re still talking to me and Mark Lee, who you could probably be kissing—” 

“Shut up, shut up,” Donghyuck repeats, shaking his head. 

“You should call him,” Jisung says slyly. “I bet he’d like it.” 

“No.” 

“I’ll bet you a dollar you won’t,” Jisung says. 

“You,” Donghyuck says, but can’t find a comeback. Jisung sounds so alive and well, teasing Donghyuck like it’s all going back to normal. “Fine.” 

“If you really do it, I’ll give you a dollar next time you visit,” Jisung promises. “Oh, shoot, here comes a nurse. Call him, Hyuck!” 

“Jisung,” Donghyuck says, but Jisung rattles off a quick love-you-idiot and then hangs up. 

The disconnect tone beeps in his ear for a couple seconds while he thinks. 

And then, like he’s not quite in control of his body, he dials Mark’s number. 

“I’m going to bed,” Doyoung says, noting the expression on Donghyuck’s face. “Don’t be up too late.” 

Donghyuck scowls at his smug little smile. “Fine. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” Doyoung says. “Say hi to Mark for me.” 

“You—” Donghyuck starts, but once again, he’s cut short. 

Mark picks up the phone. 

“Hello?” he says. 

“Mark,” Donghyuck replies. “Um, hi.” 

“Hyuck!” Mark says. “What’s going on?” 

Donghyuck casts about for an excuse. “I was wondering if I left my wallet in your car.” 

“Oh, shoot.” There’s some rustling about, and Donghyuck bites his lip. Stupid, he thinks. He’d double-checked Mark’s car for it before he’d gotten out—Mark had helped him look under the seats. 

“My car keys are upstairs,” Mark says apologetically, like he doesn’t know Donghyuck is lying through his teeth. “Can I check tomorrow morning?” 

“It’s okay,” Donghyuck blurts. “It’s—it’s probably around here. No worries.”

A beat of silence. “Okay. Is that…was that it?” 

For a strange, short moment, Donghyuck is terrified to hang up the phone. Mark’s voice is an insubstantial, intangible thing, and Donghyuck is consumed by the irrational fear of letting it go. 

“Are you busy,” he blurts before he can stop himself, and immediately feels like puking, his stomach a knot of nervousness. “Wait, don’t answer that. It’s past dinnertime.” 

“No,” Mark replies anyway. “I’m not.”

Another beat of silence stretches between them. 

“Why?” Mark continues cautiously. “Do you—” 

“Yes,” Donghyuck breathes out before he can finish the question. “Please. If you’re not busy.” 

“I’m not busy,” Mark repeats. “Hyuck, are you alright?” 

Something in his chest is too hot, and the knot in his stomach is pressing against his ribcage. He was stupid to think he could ever be over someone like Mark Lee, someone who is so capable of staying. Donghyuck thinks about Mark’s hand on his lower back, guiding them through the crowd, its weight heavy and permanent. He thinks about Mark’s smile, ever-present, and feels like he might combust. 

“Yeah,” he says weakly. “I’m alright. I just—I wanna see you. Is that stupid?” 

“Not stupid,” Mark disagrees. “Because I—I, um, sort of wanna see you too.” 

Donghyuck snorts. “Well, that’s stupid. Who came up with that idea?” 

“Definitely not me,” Mark replies, and Donghyuck has to bite back another laugh. “Mosey Park in fifteen?” 

“What is this, high school?” Donghyuck asks. Mosey Park is near the boundary line, and all the magic kids from the two inter-city high schools always went there to hang out after school. Well, except for Donghyuck, who’d been deep into his self-imposed solitude. Friends—especially the magic kind, because they understood—had hurt too much to have. 

But Mark is different. And maybe Donghyuck—maybe Donghyuck is different, too. Maybe the need has outweighed the risk, long at last. 

The air is cool, and Donghyuck is glad because it means the curse marks are easily covered with long sleeves. The wind doesn’t bite anymore, and the sun has passed behind the horizon, the sky darkening to deep blue as the minutes pass. 

Mark is over by the swings, two of which are wrapped around the upper bar, their chains tangled and the plastic seats cracked. Donghyuck parks his bike on the asphalt and swings a leg over the ledge into the wood chips. 

Mark looks up as he walks over and smiles. Donghyuck’s heart does a pathetic swooping thing, and he knows he’s grinning like an idiot by the time he joins Mark at the swings. 

“Hey,” Donghyuck says. “Whatcha looking at?” 

“Hi,” Mark replies. He points at the tangled swings. “Somebody put a curse on them.” 

Donghyuck squints up at the swings. “How can you tell?” 

“There’s this feeling,” Mark says, “like a cold hand on the back of my neck. Or a sick feeling in my stomach. A not-right feeling that tells me something needs to be fixed.” 

Mark puts a hand on one of the metal support poles and focuses. Donghyuck can’t see or feel the curse, but he, like any other magic-user, is connected to the web of power. He feels it grow taut, tugging a bit under his feet. 

The wrapped-up swing shivers, the chains rattling. It doesn’t want to be fixed, but Mark is persistent. Donghyuck watches Mark’s hands, his clever curse-breaker fingers, and thinks that maybe he and the swing are a little bit similar. 

“Come on,” Mark coaxes, and the swing reluctantly unwraps from the pole. “There we go.” 

Now there are two swings, one for each of them, and Donghyuck sits down, the plastic seat squeaking under his weight. 

Mark doesn’t sit, just braces a shoulder on the pole next to Donghyuck, framed by the colors of the sunset. 

“I haven’t been here since high school,” Donghyuck says, digging his heels into the wood chips. “But then again, I barely came here. That was more your thing.” 

“It coulda been your thing too,” Mark says. “You were always welcome.” 

Donghyuck shrugs and looks down. It was easier to pretend that he wasn’t—it made the sting of his sadness less sharp. “Yeah, but.” 

“But what?” 

“You guys were all friends, I guess. I would’ve just brought the mood down, since I was moping all the time.” He hesitates. “Everybody liked you, Mark.” 

Mark nudges his sneaker against Donghyuck’s ankle, leaving a smear of dirt there. “Not true.” 

“Name one person who didn’t,” Donghyuck challenges, looking up again. Mark is halfway to smiling, and he wrinkles his nose at Donghyuck when their eyes meet. 

“You,” Mark says lightly, teasing. “You pretty much ran away every time I tried to say hi, unless I was with Jisung.” 

“Because I liked you, idiot,” Donghyuck blurts before he can think about it. 

Mark freezes. Donghyuck feels like he might vomit. 

“I mean,” Donghyuck says quickly, except he doesn’t have an excuse, no way to disguise the truth. “I mean, I did, I guess, but who didn’t—” he breaks off to laugh nervously, hating the blatant surprise on Mark’s face. “It’s not that surprising, don’t make that face,” he demands, his palms growing slick with anxiety. 

Mark is still staring. Donghyuck scratches at his arms and bears the silence for all of five seconds. “Please say something,” he nearly begs, and that is enough to clear the shock on Mark’s face. 

“I mean—me?” Mark says, blinking a couple times. “I thought you didn’t like me.” 

“How could I not?” Donghyuck answers, a little miserable. He’s not sure what rejection feels like, but this seems awfully close. “You’re funny, and smart, and you always make me feel so—so important, like you actually care about what I have to say—” 

“I do,” Mark interrupts. “Because you are. Important, that is.” 

It’s Donghyuck’s turn to freeze. The surprise has completely cleared away, and now Mark looks at him with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“I—what?” 

“I do care what you have to say,” Mark repeats, and though his ears are turning pink, he doesn’t break eye contact. “And you are important.” 

Donghyuck rockets to his feet, his heart galloping in his chest. It feels like his face is about a billion degrees, but Mark is still looking at him with that expression. It means something—something big, maybe, but Donghyuck isn’t quite sure. 

“You’re not—you don’t think it’s stupid?” Donghyuck manages, a little hoarse. “That I like—liked, I mean—that I liked you?” 

“Did you just use present tense?” Mark asks, half-teasing. 

“Maybe I did,” Donghyuck says, his throat dry, “or maybe I didn’t. It depends.” 

“Depends on what?” 

Donghyuck can’t believe this is a conversation he’s having. He can’t believe that he’s standing here, looking at Mark who’s looking at him and wondering if they’re on the edge of something more. 

Mark’s eyes look nearly gold in this light, and for a moment, Donghyuck forgets about the persistent, ferocious itch on his arms, forgets about the midnight stain on his hands. Mark’s gaze catches on his mouth, and Donghyuck can feel his heartbeat in his throat. 

He wants to kiss me, Donghyuck thinks with a heady rush, feeling hot and prickly all over. 

I want to kiss him. 

The air gathers between them, anticipatory, and Mark reaches for Donghyuck as Donghyuck reaches for him. 

But when Donghyuck's fingers brush Mark’s neck, Mark recoils with a yelp. The moment shatters around them as Mark reels back, clapping a hand to the spot.

The curse. Reality rushes back in, leaving Donghyuck cold and sick to his stomach. He stares down at his hands, at the curse-stricken skin, horrified. Uncomfortable pressure builds behind his eyes. 

He’s going to be sick.

“Mark,” Donghyuck says—begs— “Mark, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I forgot—”

“No, Hyuck, it's okay,” Mark interrupts. “I'm fine. It barely hurt.” He winces again, and Donghyuck doesn't believe him. 

“Let me see,” he demands. 

“It's fine—” 

Donghyuck sticks his hand into his pocket, grasps at a charm paper. “Let me see.” 

Mark's hand falls away at the magic, forced down to his side, and the damage is revealed—a mottled bruise, the skin around it blistered and red like something hot had been pressed against it. 

Hot, or very, very cold. Lifeless. Frigid. Devoid of life.

Somewhere, something laughs at him.

I thought you said you didn’t care. 

Donghyuck feels the hysteria rise, panic threatening to choke him. “Oh god,” he gasps. He'd done that. He’d done that. With just the barest brush of his fingers, he'd caused nearly irreparable damage. 

Any longer could've—could've—

“Hyuck,” Mark says desperately, reaching out for him, still seeking to comfort, still seeking to mend. 

“Don't touch me!” Donghyuck shouts, scrambling back. 

“Donghyuck—” 

“I’m just going to hurt you again—” 

“You’re—” 

“Why did you come near?” Donghyuck asks, his voice breaking. “Why did I let you? I’m so stupid, oh my god, how could I forget?” 

“It’s not your fault,” Mark tries, but Donghyuck doesn’t hear him over the panicked buzzing in his ears, the self-hatred that rises, thick and hot, in his throat. 

“I gotta—I gotta go,” Donghyuck says. “I should go.” 

Mark’s hand is still hanging emptily in the air, and Donghyuck feels something squeeze painfully in his chest. But he turns on his heel and makes a break for it, back towards his bike, ignoring the vulnerable, shaky way Mark says his name. 

Tears burn at his eyes the entire way back, but he holds them in, brushing past Doyoung at the dinner table, sorting dried herbs. 

“What’s wrong?” Doyoung asks, but Donghyuck doesn’t stop. 

It’s only when he’s in the safety of his room does he break. His knees give out as the tears start, fear and panic and horror—at the wound on Mark’s neck, at himself, at the damage he’d managed to cause with just a touch. 

What happens when this gets worse? What happens when the curse spreads to his hands, to his heart? 

Measure twice, cut once, his mother had always said. Be careful with magic. One day it will demand a price you will not be willing to pay. 

Donghyuck presses the back of his hand against his mouth, muffling the sound of his crying. He misses his parents so badly it hurts. He wants his mom. He wants his dad. He wants Mark Lee and his cursebreaker hands, he wants Jisung with color on his face. He wants to be held. He wants, and he cares. 

The thing laughs again. A promise made thrice is not so easily broken. 

Eventually, the tears stop. His eyes are sore and his mouth is dry, and he can’t breathe out of his nose. He feels worn-out, brittle, weak. 

There is a boy he likes. There is a price he paid. He can’t understand how the two got hopelessly entangled, how they refuse to exist separately. 

All he knows is that if he doesn’t stay away from Mark—if he doesn’t untangle them—they’re both going to pay dearly. 

Like the rest, this nightmare starts like a dream. 

Mark is there, as he has been for a month now. His nose is sunkissed, his shoulders are bare, and his mouth shapes words that Donghyuck can’t hear. 

Then he turns to Donghyuck, eyes dark, and everything slides sideways. He’s on his back suddenly, and Mark is hovering over him. The edges of the dream are a little blurry, and the burn on the side of his neck is red and painful-looking. Donghyuck knows that if he were to touch Mark in the same place, the marks would line up with his fingertips, would fit neatly under his hand like some kind of terrible brand. 

“What would you give?” Mark asks, leaning close. Heat curls in Donghyuck’s stomach, and he shifts, fighting the urge to reach up and touch him. “To touch me?” 

“Nothing,” Donghyuck whispers. Mark’s eyes are dark, so dark, midnight-black, like pools of ink. His mouth brushes Donghyuck’s throat, and the ember in his stomach jumps, threatening to catch alight. “

“Nothing?” Mark echoes, his hands curling around Donghyuck’s waist. “Really?”

“Nothing,” he repeats. “I’m done making deals. At this rate, I’m going to die before I ever get to kiss you—” 

The rest of his sentence ends in a gasp and the dream dissolves into sensation, into wet, sticky heat, humid on his skin. Mark’s mouth is on his, and his hands are under Donghyuck’s shirt, and Donghyuck kisses back until his mouth fills with blood, choking him. He pulls away, but Mark’s fingers dig into his sides, keeping him pinned in place. 

“You’re going to die, and you’re going to take me with you,” Mark says, matter-of-fact. His mouth is a red stain and his eyes are endlessly black, and Donghyuck’s curse is on his hands, on his throat, spreading across his skin. He’s dissolving, rotting away, and Donghyuck can only lie there in horror, burning with want, choking on it, as everything peels apart—

And then he wakes up, sweaty and panting, partially turned-on and hovering dangerously close to tears again. He kicks at the covers, his mind still filled with the image of Mark on top of him, his skin mottled and peeling. 

Nausea rises suddenly, and Donghyuck pushes himself out of bed and lurches to the bathroom just in time to be violently sick. 

Doyoung appears in the doorway as he’s washing his face and rinsing out his mouth, feeling shaky and scooped-out. 

“What is going on with you?” Doyoung asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned—maybe even a little scared. 

Donghyuck is glad for his long-sleeve shirt, even as he sweats through it. That, combined with the darkness, hides the long ropes of darkness that creep ever-closer towards his heart. 

“I’m fine,” Donghyuck rasps. He wants to lie down, but knows that sleep won’t bring him any rest or peace. “Just a bit under the weather.” 

“Okay,” Doyoung says unsurely. “I can find you a tonic if you want.” 

“I’m alright,” Donghyuck replies tiredly. “I just need a little bit of sleep.” 

Doyoung hesitates in the doorway as Donghyuck straightens, pulling the sleeves of his shirt down. “If you want to talk—” 

“I’m alright,” Donghyuck insists. 

It’s a lie, of course—Doyoung probably knows it, too, but there’s nothing he can do. He knows how far Donghyuck can be pushed, has been snapped at and shouted at when he’s pushed a little too far. 

It’s unfair to him, Donghyuck knows. Doyoung has dealt with all of his shit—he even let Donghyuck stay with him when Doyoung’s parents moved into the city. 

Donghyuck’s heart is laden with hurts he cannot bear, and Doyoung’s concerned expression is another weight on his shoulders. Suddenly, he regrets not being more open with his cousin. 

But it’s too late now. 

“Goodnight,” Donghyuck says quietly. 

“Goodnight, Donghyuck,” Doyoung replies. He reaches for Donghyuck’s shoulder, but Donghyuck backs away before he can be touched. 

Doyoung’s brow wrinkles, and Donghyuck can tell his feelings are hurt. If Donghyuck had any more tears left, he would’ve started crying right then and there. 

But he’s hollowed-out, and, most of all, he’s tired. They’ve run into nothing but dead ends. Mark is a good sport, but when he thinks Donghyuck isn’t looking, he can see the tightness at the corners of Mark’s eyes, the downward tick of his mouth.

Hopelessness, it seems, is a curse as well. It eats away at them both, below the skin. A stain that neither of them can see, but a stain nonetheless. 

Three more days pass. Summer knocks at the door, bringing warm nights and the first of the fireflies, which blink lazily in the backyard. Donghyuck lies in bed and ignores Mark and feels bad for himself. The stitches on his sheets are slowly unraveling, and his clothes wear thin in the spots where fabric meets cursed skin. He itches at his wrists and his arms, and the midnight stain gets lodged under his fingernails. He can feel himself coming undone, bit by bit. His time is running out. 

He doesn’t have the energy to keep looking for solutions anymore, especially after his fight with Mark. That had been the real kicker—the real last straw, so to speak. The look on Mark’s face and the wound, in the shape of Donghyuck’s handprint, follows him from his waking hours into his dreams, which grow darker and stickier with each passing day. 

He wakes one morning gasping for air, and only has a half-second to lean over the side of his bed before he’s violently sick into the trash can he’s pulled over. There’s nothing really left in him, so it’s mostly him dry-heaving, his body contracting. 

Something cold and dry pulses through him, and he watches the curse creep up his fingers like runny ink on paper. His sheets are stained purple. There are dark cracks in his wall—ones that Mark could fix, if he was here, if Donghyuck let him stay—and the air smells too sweet, like rot. 

Donghyuck misses him. Of course he does. He misses him so badly it hurts, a heartache that nearly drowns out the rest of it. He’s laughed at in his sleep, in the in-between moments when he’s too feverish to sit up. You gave this up, he’s reminded. You swore all of this away. You said you didn’t care, remember? 

He remembers. It was before everything had gotten tangled up, when it had been easy to choose between his stagnant half-shadow life and Jisung’s, full of potential. 

Then Mark had shown up at the wrong time, and Donghyuck had conveniently remembered what it felt like to like doing things. Mark, with his charming smile and those goddamn cursebreaker hands. And Donghyuck had thought, give me more time. Let me love him. 

Now he’s fresh out of time. Besides, he’d fucked it all up the second he’d touched Mark’s neck and broken the rules he’d set at the outset—never ever touch him, and never let him know. He’d done both in one night. Impressive, except for the fact that he’d ruined the first relationship he’d formed in years and sentenced himself to die alone.

“You’re not gonna die,” he croaks out. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror over his dresser. His eyes are bloodshot, cheeks sallow. He sure looks like he’s going to die. All of the notes stuck to his walls and the old books open on his desk had given him no answers. There really is no way to undo. There’s only a way forward. And for Donghyuck, that’s into the dark. 

He wakes up one last time. Doyoung is knocking on his door, but Donghyuck had locked it long ago, with charm paper and through lock and key. 

“Donghyuck,” Doyoung says. “Are you awake?” 

Donghyuck struggles to open his eyes. Darkness swims in the corners of his vision, and he can’t lift his head. Distantly, he’s aware of the purple stain on his walls and the way his sheets are unraveling underneath him. 

“I’m here,” Donghyuck says weakly. 

“I just got a call,” Doyoung says, “from the hospital. Jisung—Jisung’s a lot better. They said he’ll be out at the end of the week, back in his own bed.” 

Donghyuck lets out a breath. It hurts, rattling his lungs and stinging his throat. “Good,” he rasps. “Then it was worth it.” 

“What did you say?” Doyoung asks. There’s a shuffling noise, and the doorknob rattles. “Donghyuck, I really don’t like how you’ve locked yourself in there. Mark called and said you had a fight, and I’ve been trying to respect your privacy, but if you’re really sick, we should go see someone.” 

It’s too late, Donghyuck thinks. “I’m fine,” he says aloud. “Just tired.” 

He can hear Doyoung hesitate. “I’m going to the grocery store,” Doyoung says. “I’ll buy stuff to make rice porridge, and I don’t care if I have to break down your door to get you to eat it. I’m really, really worried, Donghyuck.” 

“Okay,” he replies, his strength ebbing again. “I’ll—I’ll try.” 

“Good,” Doyoung says. “Okay. I’ll be back.” 

There’s a creak right in front of his door, and then Doyoung’s footsteps on the stairs. Donghyuck waits until the front door opens and closes, until the rumble of Doyoung’s car starts up and fades. 

And then he pushes himself up and swings his feet out of bed. There’s not much strength left in him, not at all—but there’s also no rationality in his poisoned brain, which screams for fresh air and sunlight and one last look at the sky before everything folds into darkness. 

It’s also screaming for Mark Lee, but Donghyuck can’t give it that. So this will have to do instead. 

He scrapes the remnants of his courage together. And then he opens the door. 

He doesn’t bother with shoes, and leaves inky footprints on the wooden floor and through Doyoung’s garden. The plants curl away from him, familiar with the blight that stains his skin. Past the garden fence—which swings off its hinges the moment he touches it, the wood warping and rotting—the trees tower over his head, casting dappled shadows on the ground. 

The world is particularly beautiful in this moment, in its early-summer splendor. The sun is high and warm on the back of his neck, slanting through the pine needles and washing the forest in burnished gold and hazy blue. The evening will be nice. Warm enough to sleep with the window open. Doyoung will start planting his summer herbs, and if Donghyuck were to listen—if he had enough time—then he’d stop and listen to the birdsong, the babble of the creek in the distance, and the beating of his heart, slow and steady in his chest. 

If he had time, still, then maybe he’d bring Mark here, and hold his hand without fear of the curse, and they could listen to the sounds together. 

But there is no time. The grass under his feet is withering with every step, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see the midnight stain, crawling up his cheeks and towards his hairline.

He wishes he could’ve seen Mark one more time. It would’ve been nice to kiss him, he thinks. He hasn’t ever kissed anyone quite like Mark Lee, and now he’ll never get to. 

And Jisung. Goddammit, Jisung’s going to be pissed. So will Doyoung, because Donghyuck hid this until the very end. They’re going to blame themselves, because they’re good people who love him very much. Because they’re the sort of people that stuck around and hoped Donghyuck would want to stay, too.

He didn’t even leave a note. 

This thought is enough to bring him to his knees, the grief and the sickness overpowering him. Something cold strokes the back of his neck, almost tender. Beckoning. 

He’d tried, at least. That’s something. It’s nice to know he can try, even after all this time.

Maybe next time he’ll go to college. Be nicer to Jisung, too, and go to more of his baseball games. Next time, he’ll leave the door unlocked. Next time, he’ll write a note. 

Next time, he’ll call Mark Lee and say sorry. And tell him—

“Donghyuck?” 

No, because that’s his own name. That would be silly. 

“Donghyuck!” 

The cold touch retreats, and Donghyuck wrenches his eyes open. The sunlight dazzles his eyes, and for a second, he swears Mark is there, weaving through the trees. 

“Oh, you came,” Donghyuck says weakly. He itches so badly. It’s like the whole of him is on fire, burning away. “Watch the grass. Pretty sure it’s cursed.” 

“Hyuck,” Mark says, dropping to his knees next to him. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is rumpled, like he’d just run a long distance. There are freckles on his nose and cheeks, and Donghyuck has to commend himself for his imagination. 

It’s real, something screams at him, half-rotten and falling away and doing its best to hold on. He’s here! Get him away! 

“Oh, fuck,” Donghyuck says, scrambling back weakly. “You’re—you’re real. You need to go. You’re not supposed to be here.” 

The welt on his neck is still pink and peeling, like a healing sunburn. Donghyuck knew it hurt—he’d seen it on Mark’s face. 

And yet, he’d come back. He’d run all the way here, and Donghyuck, who’d been so ready to close his eyes, doesn’t know what to do. 

“Mark,” Donghyuck says helplessly. Mark sets his shoulders, and Donghyuck recognizes the stubborn set of his mouth. “Why are you here?” After I hurt you? After I ignored you? After I gave up? 

“Because I care about you,” Mark tells him, breathless. His honesty is as steady as the sky, and it leaves no room for doubt. “We all care about you.” 

Donghyuck is overwhelmed by emotion. He tries to find the words, but his next breath turns into a cough, a death rattle that he feels in his bones. “It’s too late,” he whispers, his lips wet. 

“I figured it out, though,” Mark says, breathless. “I got it. I have the answer.” 

“You’ll die,” Donghyuck stresses. “You can’t—you’re not allowed to die.” 

“Neither are you!” Mark says, with a ferocity that surprises them both. He clears his throat, but his shoulders are set. “Neither are you.” 

“How did you even figure it out?” Donghyuck asks. He swallows back a wave of nausea. The cold is creeping back in. It’s hard to stay focused on Mark, even as he unfolds papers and takes out little purple crystals from his pockets. The grass goes back to green wherever he touches. “I thought—I thought this couldn’t be undone.” 

“Not undone,” Mark says. “We were going about it from the wrong direction. Not undone. Redone. The only way is forward, right?” 

“But the spell—” 

Mark lifts the paper. “I found a copy—I asked Taeyong—” 

“Taeyong?” 

“You’re dying, I had to,” Mark says. He looks pained. “Please, Donghyuck, let me help.” 

“I fucked it up,” Donghyuck whispers. “But Jisung—he’s okay. It was worth it.” 

“But you’re dying,” Mark replies. 

A long beat. Donghyuck’s consciousness flickers. “It won’t work.” 

A freezing finger slides down the back of his neck, coaxing him away. You said you didn’t care, it murmurs to him. Soothing. Come away. It’s time to go. 

Mark reaches for him just as he’s about to slip away. 

“No,” he protests weakly, but Mark’s hands are warm, and he catches Donghyuck before he can untangle and fall into the dark. 

The curse latches onto Mark greedily, racing up his fingers and his arms. Donghyuck pulls, but Mark holds fast. 

“I’m staying,” he tells Donghyuck, and then, “don’t let go.” 

And Donghyuck—

Donghyuck holds on. Mark squints down at the paper, even as the stain crawls up his neck and across his collarbones. Down towards his heart, seeking the strong, steady thrum of his magic. 

“With hands I hold,” Mark starts. The words are familiar, and something distant flickers in Donghyuck’s memory. 

With hands I hold. 

Jisung, in the hospital bed, his hands clenched on the top of his sheets. Mark, saying my magic is physical, it relies on touch—

Donghyuck, with his own hands in his lap. 

He hadn’t taken Jisung’s hand. 

“With words I heal,” Mark continues. The cold is gripping him like a vice, and Mark’s words come at a gasp. The whites of his eyes are inky purple. His nose has started bleeding. 

He’s dying. Donghyuck can feel it, sure as his own death, guttering like a candle between his fingers. 

“Thrice whispered leaves no pain to feel,” Mark finishes. He pulls Donghyuck close, and oh, is he warm. He smells like summertime and pine needles, the ones they’ve crushed to dust beneath them. 

“Donghyuck,” Mark says. Donghyuck’s cheek is against his chest. His heartbeat is a hollow, fragile thing—Donghyuck can barely hear it. 

“Donghyuck,” Mark repeats. “Donghyuck.” 

Donghyuck takes a breath. And then all he knows is darkness, and nothing more. 

And then: 

Sun on his face. A heartbeat in his ear. The sound of birdsong. Wind in through the trees. 

He takes a breath, and it doesn’t hurt. 

He opens his eyes. His cheek is pressed against Mark’s chest, which is rising and falling steadily. Alive, Donghyuck thinks, feeling like he might cry. 

The second thing he registers is that the itch is gone. The grass is still dead around them, but the stain on his arms is gone. All that’s left are two tiny golden circles in the creases of his elbows. They don’t hurt, and they’re warm to the touch. 

A scar. And a reminder—there will always be a hand to hold. 

Mark stirs, and Donghyuck scoots back to give him room. The strength is trickling slowly back into his body, and he triple-checks Mark’s arms and shoulders to make sure there’s no curse on him either. It feels like a fluke, almost, that it’s gone so quickly—had one minor misstep, one misread, really caused such an issue? 

It would’ve been funny, if Mark hadn’t almost died. If they both hadn’t almost died. 

Mark opens his eyes. “Hyuck,” he says immediately, his voice hoarse. “Did we do it?” 

“I…think so,” Donghyuck says slowly. “Though it’s more like you did it.” 

Mark’s face splits into a grin so wide Donghyuck can see his gums. “I’m going to kiss you,” he announces, and Donghyuck barely squeaks out an affirmative before Mark is launching forward and kissing him square on the mouth. 

Whatever lingering coldness instantly vanishes as one of Mark’s hands comes up to cup his jaw. Cursebreaker, Donghyuck thinks dizzily, knocked off-kilter in the best way. 

Mark kisses him like he’s been waiting weeks, and Donghyuck kisses him back with everything he’s got. 

They’ll get in trouble later, and talk about it after that. The outside world is looking for them—Doyoung, who will send Donghyuck to the doctor and then ask if he wants to talk. Taeyong, back from Japan and with Doyoung (bizarrely, and a fact that Donghyuck will tease Doyoung about for a long time). Jisung, who will live to see graduation and college and many, many days after that. 

Doyoung will hug him tightly. Donghyuck will let him. And Mark will beam at him from windows and street corners and a number of apartments across the country. 

But right now he’s got Mark’s teeth against his bottom lip and his hands on Mark’s waist and decides that he’ll stay—here, under the summer sun, warm and wonderful and alive.