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It’s shortly after sunset when Yuchan wakes. He lingers inside his closet, runs his hands across the top row of jewel-toned dress shirts and frowns. He's a fraud, some nights. Like he's still the vulgar teenager Junhee caught trying to pickpocket him decades ago. Stuffing his frame into silks and leathers feels like tying a bow on a mongrel and pretending it isn't rabid.
It was ultimately why Yuchan asked Junhee for the blood; blood and teeth are far more natural than pressed slacks and five-course meals. There's something honest about the monster that makes its home in Yuchan's blood. Something unpolluted by precision. It is hungry, and that's all it ever is. Refreshing.
He has half a mind to starve himself, to prod the monster into bloodlust and find out where the mindless need will take him. How relieving it would be to lose control.
Does he want to murder? Not particularly. But the body wouldn't be his first, and he's too old to mourn strangers.
Junhee, though—Yuchan isn't sure Junhee wouldn't remove his head from his neck for it. He's very particular about their gentleman pretense.
The tees don’t feel much better, though he has cultivated the collection of vintage tees for this exact frame of mind. Sighing, he turns around, dodging the full-length mirror behind him.
He stands in front of the shoe rack, staring blankly at a pair of shiny wingtip oxfords, at the ribbon of light reflected on the angled toe.
Discouraged, he exits the closet in only his underwear, leaving the door open for the amber light to spill across his dark room and over his bed. That, too, is jewel-toned satin; a rich sapphire that calls him an impostor.
He finds Donghun in his own room, tapping away at his phone. Yuchan stands awkward in the doorway, intimidated by the four-post bed and its sheer pink canopies.
Donghun is content to raise an eyebrow at his presence and then turn his attention back to his phone. The faint bitchiness of that expression reminds Yuchan that despite the elegant trappings, this is the same man that he once bailed out of The Tombs for reciting Marxist poetry in Midtown. So the memory guides his feet across the room, where he falls onto the mattress sideways and over Donghun’s legs.
"Nightmares?" Donghun guesses.
Yuchan shakes his head, groans at the scalloped ceiling through the canopy. After a while, Donghun's hand finds his hair, thick fingers rubbing lightly at his scalp. The touch reminds him of simpler times. Donghun might be holding a handheld computer, and they might be in a bed the size of downtown, but Yuchan is at his feet, and Donghun is humming as he pets him, and with his eyes closed it's easy to forget the rest.
"What is it, little one?"
The old pet name soothes him as easily as the hand on his head. As if Donghun knows exactly what he needs, as if he can perceive Yuchan’s strain just by petting his hair. Maybe he can; Donghun has always been uniquely empathetic, a competence Yuchan can’t outsmart even with his newfound biological superiority.
"I'm uncomfortable."
"You're the one lying on my legs."
"No. I'm—restless." Yuchan raises his hand to his chest to scrape at his sternum. "In here."
"Do you need to drink?"
"No. Well, yes, probably.” Yuchan scrunches his nose. “It’s not hunger, though.”
Donghun gives a thoughtful hum, and resumes pressing circles into Yuchan’s scalp. “Can you explain it?”
Can he explain it? Perhaps, in flimsy words that diminish the things bouncing around in his brain. Words usually fail him when it comes to explaining his heart. He’s been found wanting. But that isn’t the half of it.
“I’m uncomfortable,” he repeats, more sullen this time.
A barely-there sound, Donghun chuckles. Then arms are underneath his own, and he’s lifted fully onto the bed and cradled into Donghun’s arms.
Yuchan looks him in the eyes now, less averse to the idea of Donghun thieving his thoughts from his gaze. His dual braids are messy, half-loose from sleep, and he hasn’t had the chance to prepare for the night—to dress or wash his face. It’s cozy, this sleepy, tousled picture of him, halfway resembling the way he looks after their rougher fucks.
He’s in one of his vintage nightdresses, one that plunges deliciously down his chest to bare the width of his shoulders, but it covers him from head to toe otherwise. Yuchan prefers the ones that are little more than lace. He paws at the sweetheart neckline until his fingers glide under the fabric and closes his fist against Donghun’s beating heart. A pleasant thing about the blood; Donghun is always feverish now, exquisite from the inside.
Dreamy, disconnected images of pushing Donghun backwards and finding his heat pop like a bubble when Donghun stands, toppling Yuchan off the bed.
“Come on,” he orders.
He drags Yuchan to his feet by a wrist, and Yuchan’s bare, twisted legs stumble and hop in order to follow, out of the room and into the hallway. The crushed fibers of the hallway runner pad his bare feet, and he refuses to look down, to see his scarred ankles juxtaposed to the exorbitant persian design.
“Hey,” Yuchan whines, allowing himself to be led anyway, a vacuous air buzzing around his thoughts. “I don’t wanna—”
He’s elbowed into the bathroom, an entirely-too-big, mostly-empty room, just barely lit by moonlight that slants in from the triple arched windows to reflect off the marble dais. Donghun leaves him by the door to ponder his intentions while he gathers matches from the sink drawers. He crosses the room, pretty cotton gown grazing the floor, and he lights the candles arranged around the tub, fat pillars on chunky baroque holders.
Golden light on Donghun’s cheekbones is a cascade of memories too cutting to accept right now.
“Aw, are we gonna fuck in the bath?” Yuchan jokes. He can’t keep still, shifting his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet, a movement that has his height bobbing.
Donghun looks back at him, a spent expression that Yuchan has seen on many faces, one that he baits on purpose at times. But now isn’t one of those times. So he gnaws on his lip, clasps his hands in front of his body and looks up at the tiered cove ceiling.
“What if I don’t want to bathe?”
Donghun turns the smooth golden handle, and speaks over the soft sound of rushing water. “What if I don’t give you a choice, dirty boy?”
“Realistically,” Yuchan says, peeling off his boxer briefs one leg at a time, “that is impossible.”
“Yes, I know you don’t sweat.” Donghun is telling him to come, a repeated wave of his hand that Yuchan knows is an order humble enough for him to disobey if he chooses. If his objection is true, if his arguments are more than banter. “But dirt still finds you, and I still like you smelling like rosewood.”
He slides into the long tub, scooting to the side to make room for Donghun. But Donghun waves away the notion, shaking his head and returning to the cabinets below the sink to hunt for another ingredient. So Yuchan stretches out, cherishing the heat of the water climbing over his body. Over the lip he rests his neck, head tipped back against marble, next to a silver tray that offers bathing products that he’s never dared to touch, and a glass vase crammed with marigolds. His nose tells him they’re real, and he wonders who makes sure the bathroom is always stocked with fresh flowers.
The smell is drowned out by rosewood as Donghun pours the soap into the tub, carefully next to the rushing water in order to create more suds. It’s soap, not a bubble bath, but the water bubbles to life anyway, medium-sized peaks that gather around the edges.
The rushing water is a welcome white noise, and when Donghun turns the handle to end it, Yuchan wishes for it back. The silence isn’t welcome. It hasn’t been for days, and when combined with the discomfort of Donghun’s contemplative silence, Yuchan wants to let the tub overflow instead of himself.
Donghun sits on the crushed velvet stool, removes the bands from his braids and unwinds them one at a time, slow with the distraction of thought. He’s looking out the windows, whether at the waving pine branches or nothing at all, Yuchan can’t tell. He simply watches, appreciates, a comfortable stirring of love in his stomach as he bathes.
“You feel at odds again,” Donghun says, as if he’s reached the epiphany he was looking for and jolted back into consciousness. “From me, from Junhee.”
“I don’t know.” Yuchan grips his toes against the porcelain lip. “I guess.”
Another silence.
“Or is it that you feel othered from your new boys?” Donghun asks.
The precision of those words hits him fully, and he gasps a little sound, betrayed by the marble around him that amplifies it. It’s a lingering ache, the press of a bruise he hadn’t known was there. Underneath the water his nails harden, and his canines sharpen against his lip. A helpless reaction, wholly subconscious. Junhee can control it, but he’s never told Yuchan how long it took to master.
“I’m sorry,” Donghun says, gliding soapy fingers to his ankles, to rub them in a way that might be apologetic. “I won’t force you to talk about it.”
Yuchan flexes his toes wide, watches the soapy webbing drip between them. “I don’t—” He gnaws the inside of his cheek, a space underneath his lips that would be raw and sore with the fang-attention if his body didn’t heal too soon. “I don’t not want to talk about it.”
Donghun’s smile is kind as he pulls down on Yuchan’s lip, tucks his thumb between a partially hardened fang and Yuchan’s mouth. “Your worth is inherent, not earned.”
It’s a sweet notion, however unsuitable.
“I don’t feel unworthy.” Yuchan says, speaking around Donghun’s thumb. “They remind me of us.”
“Oh?” Donghun’s blinks are clearly startled. “How?”
“They’re so much as we were. Not individually, not personally. But together.” Yuchan digs around his mind for adjectives and metaphors that evade him. He swallows the thickness in his throat. “I used to be like them. I used to be a stupid, fleeting little boy. Now I’m not.” His face pinches. “But I still am. It isn’t fair.”
Donghun stands, making a noise that could be interpreted as empathy or pity, or maybe both. He pulls a towel from the angry-looking griffin stand that holds them, spreads it wide against his body in a welcoming terry cloth hug.
“Get out,” Donghun says. “You’re going to turn wrinkly.”
Yuchan obeys, like always. Donghun is extra gentle with the towel, careful to dry every curve, including the folds of his ears, which makes Yuchan wince and giggle. The towel is left on the floor, and once again Yuchan wonders about the menial duties of their oversized home—the towel won’t be on the floor next time he visits, it will be perfectly wrapped and back in its home.
He frowns as they enter back into his room, past the disheveled bookshelf and unmade bed, and into the light of the closet. He squints at the brightness, unwelcome and discordant with his mood.
“Stop making faces, you look constipated.”
Donghun positions him in the middle of the closet, thankfully turned away from the mirror, and looks at Yuchan like people in a museum look at art. Yuchan doesn’t understand art, not the way Donghun does, but he doesn’t think he should be looked at that way all the same.
“I think you should wear black,” he says, turning to rifle through the shirts.
“You’re predictable,” Yuchan mumbles, but Donghun ignores him.
He fits Yuchan into a pair of jeans that look marginally nicer that the others only for the reason that they’re black and not strategically ripped—does Donghun know how he feels about slacks, can he tell—and guides his arms through a chiffon shirt that features a flock of golden cranes in flight.
Donghun circles back around, slopes his hands across Yuchan’s shoulders many more times than is necessary to flatten any wrinkles. Then he buttons the shirt precisely, top to bottom, bringing the wings of the birds together.
“Your boys will like both sides of you,” he says, tight-lipped in a way that confuses Yuchan. “Your youthfulness, and your newfound potential. The way they’re at odds within you, and make you something unique, and desirable.” Finished with the buttons, Donghun lays his palm against Yuchan’s chest and slides the shirt down, flattens it, then straightens the sides, fusses with the sleeves. “I do.”
Yuchan smiles, baring his teeth in an artless way, at odds with the predator beginning to stir along the edge of his veins. He schools it into a feigned o of shock.“You love me?”
“Ugh.” Donghun turns to the neat rows of shoes, lip curled. “For some fucking reason.”
Donghun bends down to look over the loafers. Yuchan wonders at his assessment of Byeongkwan and Sehyoon, despite the way he’d deflected it. Would they still welcome Yuchan after his fangs are revealed, and the friction between himself and the beast becomes known?
Donghun drops his choice at Yuchan’s feet. Patent leather loafers with a pop of red on the top that matches the crown of the cranes on his shirt.
“You should visit them. Tonight.” Donghun adjusts his collar, but it’s fidgeting now, Yuchan can tell. “Reveal yourself. Don’t allow any more time for the doubt to fester.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
Donghun looks unhappy. It isn’t a rare occurrence, but something about it is off, locked away from Yuchan’s perception. He doesn’t like it. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Donghun asks.
Yuchan catches Donghun’s neck, palms pressed into the sides. Against his pulse. A moment slips by, and something much like fear passes over Donghun’s features. Not a fear of Yuchan, never that, but an unease that concerns him all the same. He’s afraid , Junhee had said. Absurd. As if Yuchan would choose to exist without him.
He kisses Donghun, trying to lick the fears from his mind through his mouth. His tongue is fast, harsh; his insufferable fangs, fully erupted, obstruct his attempts. It’s more aggressive than he usually handles Donghun, for fear of the recent power in his limbs alone. His fingers dig cruelly into the tendons of Donghun’s neck, tight with the bitterness that Donghun could imagine any version of Yuchan that would stand for it. He’s furious, he realizes, a moment before he loosens his grip.
"I like it," Donghun confesses, pulling away only enough to speak, playing with the tips of Yuchan’s ears, "when you need me."
I'm always going to need you. Yuchan can't bring himself to say it, but he hopes maybe, if he thinks it hard enough while nuzzling into Donghun's shoulder, he’ll understand anyway.