Chapter Text
I don't care if you cut me with a knife
It feels thrilling here
I won’t hurt you
Now, if you don’t like it, you can reset it
Will you hide with me in this game?
_ _
Choi Soobin is nearly twenty years old and his parents have sent him to Seoul with two suitcases, a small allowance, and a name scrawled on a scrap of paper from his father’s study: Jung Hoseok. There’s no contact information beyond that, no other leads for him to follow. His parents put him on the night bus because that’s less crowded and therefore less dangerous. His mother pats his hands anxiously before he boards, always so afraid to touch him, and his father won’t look him in the eye as he mutters goodbye.
Soobin knows he’s not supposed to come back. Or speak to them again. He would cry, curled up in the back of the first of the three night buses he has to take from Ansan to Seoul, but he knew this was coming—has known for years. He’s the youngest, the magical, the cursed. His family has been afraid of him since he was five years old and the monsters came, creeping along his ceiling and the floor of his small, childhood bedroom—vile and contorted and made of shadow and the black, terrible magic running through his veins.
So he’s just … hollow. Numb. He watches city turn into countryside and back into city again outside the bus windows and lets music play through his old headphones. They’re wearing out and the song gets punched through by static if he turns his head too far to the left or jostles the cord too much, but they help him drown out the world a little. Troye Sivan sings about youth and faraway suburbs and the English lyrics wash over him like a soothing sea.
When he arrives at the Express Bus Terminal, it’s nearly three in the morning and the place is practically deserted. He rolls his suitcases through the giant, cavernous space, wincing at the echo of the wheels against the floor, and out onto the equally subdued streets of Banpo-dong. His magic shivers and seethes within his veins—afraid and furious at this new city, at the foreign feel of it. Soobin grits his teeth, pushing it back down with frayed determination and practice. It won’t hold forever, it never does, but for now it settles grudgingly, retreating back to the dark corners of his mind where it always lurks, like a creature from the depths or the forest monster of a fairytale.
(If only he was a knight in shining armor capable of defeating it.)
His parents didn’t give him any directions on a place to stay ( why would they after breaking glass and screams and blood blood blood—) and his phone battery is nearly dead. He thinks about trying to find a hotel and the mere idea exhausts him. He can see the river, only a few blocks away, so he lets his feet carry him in that direction until he reaches Banpo Hangang Park. His suitcases clack and rattle on the uneven ground as he stumbles through the lamp-lit park, finally stopping on some concrete steps, looking out at the river and several glass buildings on floating platforms in the middle of it, all lit up in an brilliant array of neon purples, blues, and yellows. Soobin has no idea what the buildings are called, but they’re beautiful, and he sinks down onto the steps, curling his long legs into his chest.
At least it’s the height of summer, so the breeze off the Han merely cuts through the humidity still lacing the air, instead of chilling him. He dabs at his sweaty bangs and decides, drained and wrung-out, that here is as good a place as any to spend the night. If anyone tries to mess with him … well his magic will see to that.
(“How could you be my son? What are you? What have you done, you—”)
He tips sideways, using one of the suitcases as a makeshift pillow, and lets his eyes drift closed. Tomorrow, he thinks. He’ll figure everything out tomorrow. It’ll be better, then.
_ _
In his dreams, there is fire. He runs through a burning forest, undergrowth crackling and searing his clothing and skin as he tries to keep his footing on an uneven ground.
The forest gives way to a burning house, like the kind he grew up in on the outskirts of Ansan, in the hills of Sangnok-gu. There’s a boy in front of it, with hair as red as the flames stretching into the darkened sky. Coughing from the smoke, Soobin stumbles towards him, reaching out a hand. In the forest still bordering the lawn, a dark and terrible roar rises and the shadows move like living things. Twisted, furious magic, coming for this stranger that glows like a beacon.
“You have to run,” Soobin gasps, but the boy doesn’t turn around, still watching the fire reduce the house to cinders. Soobin can’t see his face in the dark, only makes out the smooth curve of his cheek.
“Please,” he says. His skin is crawling and cold unease slithers down his spine as the horrible, hissing, roaring thing gets closer and closer. He tries to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder but some kind of barrier stops him centimeters from touching skin. “Please get out of here.”
The boy still doesn’t move. His head tilts down, bangs falling into his eyes. Delicate silver earrings sway and glint in the firelight. The ground beneath their feet shakes, rattling up through Soobin’s bones and right into his teeth. He can’t hold it back, he can never hold it back, no matter what he does….
“It’s okay,” a soft voice says and he realizes that it’s coming from the boy. “I’ll find you.”
The smoke grows thicker, so thick he can’t breathe, can barely see, and the monster is here, it’s—
_ _
Harsh sunlight wakes him up … and a tiny, concerned grandmother hovering over him. His entire body aches from lying on the concrete for so long, and he wheezes as he pushes himself up into a sitting position.
“Son,” the grandmother says in a low, smoker’s rasp. She’s wearing bright, floral print pants and an equally brilliant yellow shirt, with a visor to hold back the riotous perm of her gray hair. The glare of the sun casts her wrinkled face into shadow, but Soobin can sense her concern. His magic snarls at her presence, like some kind of rabid wolf, and Soobin shrinks back into his suitcases, wanting to flee.
He shouldn’t be around so many people. It’s dangerous, it’s—
“Son,” the grandmother repeats, “where’s your family?”
Gone, Soobin thinks and swallows. What was the lie he crafted on the bus? C’mon, think….
“Sorry,” he says through his dry mouth and clumsy tongue. “Sorry, halmeoni. I’m fine. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
The grandmother shuffles a little closer and now he can see more of her: kind eyes, regal features set with deep lines of age, a frown pulling the corners of her mouth down. His magic wants to consume her, like it wants to consume everything.
“Do you have somewhere to go?” she asks.
“Yes,” he lies and scrambles to his feet, ignoring the creaking protest of his body. “I’m meeting friends,” he says with a hurried bow. “I’m late, sorry.”
The grandmother doesn’t look convinced, but she lets him go with a dip of her head. “Take care, then, son.”
He bows one more time before he gathers his suitcases and rushes away, pulling them behind him through the morning crowd of commuters on their way to start the work week. Seoul feels so alive now, practically buzzing, and his magic doesn’t know what to make of it beyond destroy, destroy, destroy. Too much life, too much vibrancy.
His magic is decay and death and all manner of cursed, poisoned things.
He crosses Banpo Bridge, because he doesn’t know where else to go. He needs to stay in control and think. The old magic districts of the city are gone—lost to change and modernization and the fading of magic from public consciousness—so he can’t go to an archivist and ask for information on Jung Hoseok like he might have been able to a few decades ago. Unless … could there be some still operating? If so, they’d probably advertise through a beacon, not any kind of conventional means, but how….
Magic is instinctive, he remembers from the online research he did, stealing time on his hyung’s computer when the family was out.
So he should be able to sense the beacon, if there is one. Theoretically. As long as he stays in control….
He makes it across the bridge and stumbles into the park on the other side, which has a little more green space than the one he just left, dragging his suitcases down the stairs from the street above. It’s calming here, even though he can still hear the rush of traffic on the bridge and the busy highway, and he sinks to his knees in the sparse grass, uncaring of the dirt that collects on his jeans.
You can do this, Choi Soobin, he tells himself, wrapping trembling fingers around the handle of one of the suitcases. He blinks at the stickers plastered to the front of Ryan and other cute cartoon characters, gifts from his noona back when she still—
Stop. Not helping.
He sucks in a heavy breath of sticky summer air and presses his forehead to the hard shell of the case, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to center himself. What did those articles say?
- block everything out
- push magical energy out like seeking tendrils
- you’ll feel a flare when you hit a beacon, like a bright spot in your mind
His magic snarls when he reaches for it and he clutches the handle tighter, feeling cheap metal dig into his palm. Please, he begs this angry dragon inside of him, that has the force of a typhoon at its teeth. And maybe he sounds pathetic enough that it takes pity on him because it does settle just a little, just enough for him to grasp onto it and shape it into something that isn’t going to break his bones or his skin if he tries to wield it.
He tentatively stretches it out into the air around him, thinking help me find a beacon, help me find a beacon….
It drifts further and further, over skyscrapers and parks. In his mind’s eye, he feels like a bird soaring in the sky, the metropolis of Seoul sprawling hundreds of meters below him. And then he feels it: a flare of light that sears through his mind, accompanied by an image of an old, narrow street and a brick-walled store with a shiny glass front.
Ikseon-dong, a voice murmurs that doesn’t feel like it’s coming from his own mind.
He opens his eyes with a gasp, jerking upright. That was it, that had to have been it. He needs to get to Ikseon-dong.
He climbs back to his feet, swaying a little as dizziness washes over him from the strain of using his magic like that. It’s angry at him, he can tell, coiling and hissing through his mind. It doesn’t like being wielded by something as small and insignificant as him. It is ancient, it tells him, older than the stars themselves, than gods that have been forgotten, than the pathetic flicker that his life will be—what makes him think that he can exert any kind of control?
I’m sorry, Soobin mumbles, reaching for his suitcases again. He used to fight back, when he was younger. Say that it was his body, his blood, his mind and so yes, he should be the one in control. But what did fighting get him? He’s alone, he’s always been alone, and his magic hates him as much as it hates the world. He’s exhausted and heartsick and he doesn’t have the strength anymore, so he stays contrite and begs when he has to.
As long as he doesn’t hurt anyone else, he doesn’t mind.
Once he’s made it back up to the road, Soobin pulls out his phone and types Ikseon-dong into Naver maps, watching as a little area to the north is highlighted. According to the instructions, he needs to go to Ichon Station, take Line 4 to Seoul Station, then take Line 1 to Jongno 3-ga. It seems simple enough, even if he’s never ridden a big-city metro before and nerves are churning in his gut. As suffocating as his home felt, he misses it suddenly, along with his smaller town.
He pushes down the ache, telling himself not to dwell on it, and heads for Ichon Station, following the line on his map and struggling to pull his suitcases behind him. It’s late morning now, his phone also informs him, which means that at least the worst of rush hour should be over. He’s still terrified as he clacks up the street to the station itself, flinching every time another pedestrian brushes too close to him. He can feel eyes on him almost constantly, though he’s not sure if it’s his height or his disheveled, lost appearance, or if people are picking up on the black stain of his magic.
(Someone at school—before he wasn’t allowed to attend anymore—once told him that he felt like a dead and rotting thing, like the ghosts that are rumored to haunt old buildings steeped in magic or can be summoned by curses. He’s never been able to forget it.)
He hunches his shoulders, self-conscious, and shivers as he passes through an invisible barrier from the hot summer air into the cool air conditioning of the station. Once inside, it takes him several long moments to figure out how to work the kiosk to purchase a card, unused to the technology and also getting it to accept the cash he turns over.
Card finally secured, he pauses to count his remaining money with trembling fingers. His parents only left him with a little over two hundred thousand won—enough to stay a night or two somewhere cheap and get a couple meals. He’s not thinking about what happens when he inevitably runs out or what he’ll do if he can’t find this mysterious Jung Hoseok. That’s a problem for future Soobin. Current Soobin needs to decide if it’s worth paying for a locker or if he should haul his suitcases all the way out to Ikseon.
No, he settles on after anxiously turning it over in his mind. He needs to conserve money and he’s not sure if he’ll come back here.
So he resigns himself to carting the two bulky suitcases along, trying not to bump into anyone as he makes his way down to the platform and huddles against the wall, waiting for the train to come. A group of girls wearing school uniforms gathers near him, chatting loudly amongst themselves. He can feel a spark of magic from several of them and his own snarls in response, baring its fangs like a threatened snake. It makes one of the girls, with bright ribbons in her hair, startle and glance at him in alarm.
He shrinks in on himself further, ducking his head in apology. The girl ushers her friends down the platform, away from him, and suddenly he longs for the suffocating safety of his childhood bedroom. He wouldn’t even mind the soundproofing on the walls or the reinforced door if it meant not worrying about hurting other people. Why did his parents send him to Seoul? Why not to the mountains? Some remote island? Is this Jung Hoseok really that powerful?
The train arrives with a loud whoosh of air and clack of metal against the tracks. Soobin rushes through the doors as soon as they slide open and curls up in a seat at the end of the car, trying to fold his long limbs into as tiny a ball as possible. At least no one here is looking at him—too caught up in their phones or books or hushed conversations with each other.
For a moment, as the train leaves the station and re-enters a subway tunnel, he thinks he sees the boy from his dream, seated across from him. A flash of red, the curve of a smile—gone as soon as he turns his head.
_ _
In his dreams, he wasn’t always alone. Sometimes, the monsters would slip away and the darkness would sink into quiet, unthreatening shadow and four boys would take him away from his locked room into the world beyond. He never learned their names, never actually spoke to them, but they weren’t afraid to touch him like people in the real world were, and even just the fact that they would take his hand or sit next to him felt like a small, wondrous miracle.
With them, he’d wander through the forests outside his hometown and beyond. With them, those forests would turn fantastical—steeped in magic; coated with bright-colored purple and blue and even golden flowers; surrounded by glimmering blue ocean; safe from anything that might try to hurt them.
He felt loved, in those fleeting moments, and sometimes he would wake with tears on his cheeks, wishing so desperately, so much it ached, that they were real.
_ _
He gets lost twice in Seoul Station before he manages to locate Line 1 and board the final train. His back still aches from a night on concrete and his stomach chooses now to remind him that he hasn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours—since the dinner his parents provided that felt like a last meal, as solemn as if he was facing execution.
It feels like it takes hours to get to Jongno 3-ga instead of the reality of minutes. He’s almost glad for the sticky summer heat when he finally steps out of the station and into sunlight once again. Magic sparks on his tongue, permeated in the air like fine dust particles, and his own stirs in response, recognizing another ancient presence—the layers and layers of magic sunk into the streets and buildings over the course of centuries.
Please behave, he begs it and gets a familiar snarl in response, making him flinch. A small wound opens on his palm, welling with blood. A warning salvo, he knows from experience. In spite of its constant anger, his magic doesn't actually like hurting him, recognizing the importance of keeping the fragile meat suit housing it alive and well. It’s even saved him from situations that should have caused serious injury or even death. But sometimes, when it gets aggravated enough and Soobin tries to control it instead of letting it find a suitable target … then it tears at him, like it’s trying to push its way out of his skin.
Trembling, he curls his injured hand around his suitcase handle and starts walking again, following the steady, guiding pulse of the beacon in the back of his mind. Maybe if he just ignores it, his magic will realize it has to put up with their current situation and calm down.
The pulse gets stronger as he reaches the edge of the hanok village itself—taller office and apartment buildings giving way to low tiled roofs and narrow brick streets. The magic here is so thick he can feel it in his throat, weighing down in his lungs, tingling against his lips when he exhales. Fortunately, there don’t seem to be too many people around for him to inconvenience with his suitcases and his rotting magical presence, and those that he does stumble across are quick to hurry away from him.
One ahjussi even touches a talisman around his wrist, as if to attempt to banish a ghost.
Would a ghost really be carrying stickered suitcases? Soobin wonders but still gives a slight bow of apology as he brushes past, heading deeper and deeper into the village. He passes cafes boasting an array of teas and concoctions to soothe any ailment; fortune tellers beckoning him to learn his future; apothecaries full of alternative remedies for anything from a cold to something called a drowning curse that he doesn’t want to know more about; bookstores full of texts on rituals, spells, and theories; a tattoo artist ready to ink magic-laced designs onto your skin; an accessory shop with protective pendants and charms sparkling in the window; even several mudang offering personal services for cleansing and good fortune.
But no archivist.
He turns down a fifth maze-like street and tries to keep his frustration and desperation under control—too nervous to ask anyone for directions
Please, he asks the beacon still pulsing hard enough to give him an ache behind his left eye. A little more help?
Left, that strange voice whispers.
He glances in the direction, seeing another narrow street. Unlike many of the others, though, purple flowering vines nearly cover the fronts of most of the buildings. They look remarkably similar to the ones from Soobin’s dreams, and his breath hitches at the sight of them. He walks slowly down the street, glancing at the store fronts: a nursery brimming with magical plants, a noodle shop, an art gallery that also seems to sell intricate talismans, a shelter and what looks like a vet's office for magical creatures … and an archivist.
Soobin nearly sobs with relief at the sight of it. It looks almost like a bookstore, but one from at least several centuries ago. Through the glass-front window, Soobin can see shelves lined with scrolls and weathered books, but also gleaming tablets. A black cat blinks at him from its perch on the windowsill and a bell jangles overhead as he awkwardly maneuvers his suitcases through the front door and into the small space.
Inside, the air smells faintly of lavender and the atmosphere feels warm and hazy, almost enough to calm his magic. He wonders if the source of tranquility is the planets scattered along the tops of the shelves, some of them trailing vines down to brush the cracked spines of the books. Some of them have normal green leaves, but others are golden, blue, purple and even magenta. Soobin’s never seen anything like them and he resists the urge to reach out and touch, not wanting to accidentally poison them with his magic.
Behind the counter, a boy looks up and Soobin blinks in surprise at the sight of him. He was expecting an ahjumma or ahjussi, not someone who seems close to his own age. The boy’s silver hair falls across his forehead and brushes the tips of the large, dark glasses he wears perched on top of a prominent, slightly angular nose. The glasses completely obscure his eyes and take up nearly half his face, but his lips twitch in a polite smile of greeting as Soobin approaches.
(Something about him seems familiar … but Soobin doesn’t know what.)
“Hello,” the boy says in a soft, pleasant voice. If he can feel the awful stain of Soobin’s magic he doesn’t show it. Maybe the plants are negating it somehow. “How can I help—” He cuts himself off abruptly and leans forward, tilting his head up to peer at what Soobin assumes is his face. Soobin tenses, waiting to be thrown out of the shop. But the boy just seems to shake himself and murmurs, “you.”
“I’m looking for someone,” Soobin says, shifting his weight from one foot to another in a display of nervous energy. “I was told you might be able to help me find him?”
“If he’s part of the magical community, we should be able to,” the boys, turning to a very fancy looking computer. “What’s his name?”
“Jung Hoseok.”
The boy’s fingers stop a few centimeters above the glowing keys of his equally fancy keyboard. “The cursebreaker?”
“Yes.”
The boy drops his hands back into his lap, swiveling to face Soobin again. Soobin swallows around the large stone of dread suddenly sitting in the back of his throat.
“He’s not in Seoul anymore,” the boy says quietly. “He left several months ago.”
No, Soobin thinks in horrified denial. In his head, he swears his magic is laughing at him. “Where did he go?”
“No one knows,” the boy replies. “He didn’t leave any address with the registry, or a return date.”
He was my only hope, Soobin doesn’t say because that feels stupid and overdramatic and he’s pretty sure that if he opens his mouth right now, all that’s going to come out is a loud sob. He bows in wordless thanks, fumbling for the handles of his stupid suitcases and rushes to leave the shop, ignoring the boy’s call of “wait!” and the stare of the black cat.
He sucks in a gulping breath once he’s back on the street, blinking rapidly to fight off the persistent sting of tears. He was stupid, thinking that he’d just find Jung Hoseok and everything would be okay. Stupid and naive—it’s never that easy, right? He sniffs, rubbing an arm over his face, and tells himself he can’t have a breakdown in the middle of the street. He should find something to eat and then think about a place to sleep tonight and then …. he doesn’t know.
He’s alone and he has no idea what to do now.
His magic hisses in delight at his misery and he shuts it out, wiping more tears off his cheeks. One thing at a time, just think about this one step at a time. So food first. Maybe the noodle shop he just saw? But he also wants to get out of this neighborhood, which suddenly feels suffocating, and away from the boy who might try to follow him.
The bell above the door chimes behind him, but Soobin doesn’t turn around—just flees as quickly as he can.
_ _
In the shop Soobin just vacated, a phone call connects and the mysterious boy paces an anxious line across the length of the shop—five strides, turn, five strides, turn, repeat.
“Hyung,” he says when a voice answers on the other end. “Hyung, I found him.” He continues to pace as he listens to the response. “No, it’s him. I’m sure of it. He asked for Jung Hoseok. But then he ran before I could stop him. I don’t know where he’s going.”
Another pause. “Yeah. Yeah, call the others, hyung. We have to find him.”
The boy glances out at the empty street. “He needs us.”
_ _
Instead of getting food, Soobin finds himself in another park, slumped on a bench off one of the main paths. The sun has disappeared and ominous clouds gather overhead, heavy and dark with the threat of afternoon rain. Soobin knows, logically, that he should be problem solving: food, place to sleep, back up plan. But he’s so tired and he still feels so hollow, like someone scooped out all of his insides with a giant spoon and now there’s just an abyss where his heart and lungs used to be. It’s truly sinking in that he can never go home, that he’s not even allowed to call—watched as his father methodically deleted all of the family contact information from Soobin’s phone before giving it back to him.
(It didn’t matter that Soobin had the numbers memorized, the message was clear.)
He’s alone in an unfamiliar city and his magic is getting restless again, pushing at his sternum and skull until his chest and head begin to ache. When the first drops of water land on his skin, he barely flinches, just tucks his knees into his chest, curling his long frame into a ball on the bench. The rain falls fast and heavy, like it always does in the summer, and he’s drenched in a matter of breaths but it doesn’t matter. Nothing feels like it matters anymore. Or like it ever did. All those years locked up and hoping that one day, he’d figured out his magic enough to be normal, to belong.
How naive.
He presses his forehead to his bent knees as the burn of tears return. His clothes and hair stick uncomfortably to his skin, but at least his suitcases are waterproof. They were his sister’s once, from when she studied abroad in Singapore for a semester of college. She was the one who brought them into his room the night he was ordered to pack, still bandaged from—
No. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about anything. Just sit here and get soaked and maybe, after enough time, he’ll melt away. Just sink into the earth like the rainwater.
Problem solved for everyone.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, balled up and pathetic, but eventually he registers that he’s not getting wet anymore, even though he can still hear the thrum of the rain as it hits the leaves of the trees overhead, splatters against the pavement. His magic roars suddenly, startling him, and he has to scramble for a semblance of control, desperately blocking it off even though it feels like trying to keep a typhoon from hitting land.
“Whoa,” an unfamiliar voice from above him says, “steady there.”
“Sorry,” Soobin gasps out, digging his fingers into the rough fabric of his sopping jeans. “Sorry.” He wonders if this is a police officer coming to chase him out of the park. Maybe someone reported him? It would be just his luck to end up fined or arrested because he’s been perceived as a magical threat.
(He is a magical threat, but that’s not the point.)
No warning comes, though. The mysterious person just steps closer, and Soobin realizes that an umbrella is perched over his head, protecting him from the rain. He finally looks up … and nearly gasps at the sight of his own face blinking back at him.
Shifting magic? He thinks before he realizes it’s not exactly his face. The overall shape is a little rounder, a little smaller, a little older, though the eyes and mouth and nose are almost identical. The man has lighter streaks through his hair and a dark raincoat over his t-shirt—the hood pulled up to protect him as he’s still using his red umbrella to shield Soobin.
Soobin’s gaze is mostly drawn to the large raven perched on his shoulder, though. Usually animals are scared of him, but this one seems nonplussed, regarding him with luminous eyes.
“Whoa,” the man says, gaze roving Soobin’s face. The raven bobs its head, as if in agreement. “Okay this is … uncanny. But nice work, Gamcho.” The raven flaps its wings and settles further onto the man’s shoulder. Soobin wonders if he fell asleep on the bench and this is a dream.
At least, if it is a dream, there are no shadows yet.
“Are you … looking for me?” Soobin asks and the stranger-with-almost-his-face nods. “Why?”
“Something important.” The man leans closer, frowning at him. “But I think you could use a meal and a change of clothes first. You should come with me.”
It’s probably stupid, going with a total stranger in an equally strange city, but Soobin is tired and soaked and hungry, and if this man tries anything, Soobin’s magic will kill him in an instant. So he unfolds himself from the bench, wincing at the chafe of his wet clothes. Once he’s standing, he realizes he has a lot of height on the almost-identical-man.
“Wow,” the almost-identical-man says, peering up at him, and Soobin automatically hunches his shoulders.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, reaching for his suitcases.
To his surprise, the man presses the handle of the umbrella into his hand and takes his suitcases for him. “Ah, ahjussi—”
“Ahjussi?” An arched eyebrow. “Do I really look that old?”
Soobin flinches again, bowing in reflexive apology. “Sorry….”
“I’m Minhyuk,” the stranger supplies. “And you’re Choi Soobin.”
Soobin gapes at him. “H-how did you know?”
Minhyuk’s eyes crinkle as he smiles and he gestures to the suitcases. Both are tagged with Soobin’s name and phone number, though the return address has been blacked out, courtesy of his mother.
“Oh,” Soobin whispers, feeling small and stupid. Gamcho the raven caws softly and it feels a little like being laughed at.
Minhyuk doesn’t tease him, though, just starts forward with his suitcases. “Come on, Soobin-ah. Let’s get you out of this rain.”
_ _
Because this is one of the weirdest, most exhausting days of Soobin’s life, Minhyuk takes him to the noodle shop on the street he fled only a few hours ago. He giggles to himself in disbelief, ignoring a bemused glance from Minhyuk, and follows him across the threshold, pausing just inside as he drips water all over the tile.
It’s a small place, but the atmosphere has the same hazy warmth the archivist did. Plants hang from the ceiling and creep over the brick walls, coiling along the sides of picture frames that have impressive, moving landscapes in them. The wooden tables and chairs look hand-crafted and the large menu adorning the back wall is hand-written on black chalkboard and scattered with little doodles of animals and what might be cartoon characters from video games.
The smell is incredible and Soobin’s stomach rumbles loudly in response, making him clap a hand over it in embarrassment. Minhyuk just smiles at him again, resting his suitcases near one wall.
“Wait there, Soobin-ah,” he says and vanishes into the back of the shop—Gamcho still perched on his shoulder.
Alone, Soobin surreptitiously pinches himself on the arm, wincing at the sharp sting. The shop doesn’t disappear, so maybe this isn’t a dream? He shuffles his feet and tries not to feel self-conscious about the sizable pool of water he’s creating. After a few moments, Minhyuk returns with what looks like towels and a bundle of clothing in his arms, trailed by a new man who Soobin swears must have stepped out of a drama. He tries not to gape at the man’s broad shoulders and sculpted, poreless face, framed by dark hair that somehow looks artfully messy. Even the flour smeared on one cheek and all down the front of the man’s apron doesn’t diminish his image.
(Soobin’s back to thinking this is a dream.)
Gamcho has migrated to Drama Lead’s shoulders and is bobbing like he’s listening to some unheard music.
“Soobin-ah,” Minhyuk says. “This is Kim Seokjin, one of the owners.”
Soobin bows hurriedly and Seokjin mirrors him. Gamcho makes an upset noise and jumps down to a nearby table. Like the boy earlier, if any of them are affected by Soobin’s magic, they don’t show it.
“Welcome, Soobin-ah,” Seokjin says and even his voice is sophisticated. “I hope the clothes fit.”
“Oh,” Soobin stammers as Minhyuk hands the bundle over. “Y-you don’t have to, I can just….” he gestures to his suitcases with an awkward flap of his hand.
“It’s fine,” Seokjin assures him. He points to a door near the counter. “Bathroom’s through there. Food will be ready when you’re done.”
And that’s how Soobin finds himself seated at one of the tables in a sweater that’s too baggy for his frame and pants that are several centimeters too short, trying not to inhale the most delicious bowl of ramen he’s ever been given. Gamcho perches at his elbow, watching him, until Minhyuk shoos him away with an admonishment about begging for scraps and Seokjin brings out a bowl of nuts and egg for him.
“You spoil him,” Minhyuk sighs as Gamcho makes a happy sound and tears into the food.
“Because you spoil him, hyung,” Seokjin replies.
Soobin’s second bowl of ramen is delivered by Eunkwang, the other owner—a small man with fluffy dark hair, a friendly, expressive face and a bright laugh. He also says nothing about the oppressive stain of Soobin’s magic in the air, just tells him to eat as much as he likes with a pat to his shoulder that startles Soobin so badly, he nearly knocks over his bowl. Fortunately, Eunkwang doesn’t comment on that either.
(They’re all so nice. Soobin doesn’t understand.)
“Did you tell the kids?” Seokjin asks Minhyuk when Soobin’s halfway through the second bowl, still trying not to embarrass himself by eating too fast.
Minhyuk nods. “Yeonjun’s on his way.”
Soobin isn’t sure what they’re talking about and is still too nervous to ask. It’s probably none of his business so he just focuses on the food and how warm and full he feels. He has no idea what Minhyuk wants with him, what the “important” thing is or even how Minhyuk found him in the first place, but all that can come later.
He’s just glad to be out of the rain that’s still falling in steady sheets outside, turning the previously bright afternoon dark and unwelcoming.
The door creaks open, heralding a new customer, and Soobin hunches further over his bowl, wishing a spell existed that could turn him completely invisible. Instead of going to order, though, the customer comes right up to his table and takes a seat across from him.
Oh no, Soobin thinks, as his magic bares its teeth. But something strange happens: a wave of pleasant calm suddenly washes over him and his magic … settles back down. Almost like it’s been lulled to sleep.
Amazed, Soobin jerks his head up and freezes. Red hair, a little damp from the rain, the familiar curve of a smile….
“Hello, Soobin,” the boy from his dream says. “I’ve been looking for you.”