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Wooyoung finds him out on the fire escape, shaking. That and the cold cutting easily into his jacket, seeping in to join the chill already pooled his hands, are uncomfortable reminders of what San is despite the magic thrumming in his veins.
San doesn’t watch him approach. He hears him well enough, and then he feels him, settling into the space next to him. San wills himself to stop shivering, especially when he feels Wooyoung rest his head against his shoulder.
The sun is setting. They don’t have a good view of it here. Their shop isn’t as tall as the other buildings in Seoul, so they only get half of a sunset hidden behind the building in front of theirs. It’s a tall, crumbling thing, brick walls scored by thorn and ivy, and San wonders if it even houses anyone anymore when every other window looks uninhabitable, either scratched or shattered or shuttered by old canvas.
“Hongjoong-hyung told me to tell you thank you before he left,” Wooyoung says quietly. “And to remind you that you don’t have to keep doing this.”
“I know.” San glances at him, doing his best to smile. “It’s fine. I told him, I want to help.” He thinks of the child Hongjoong had brought in this time, no taller than his hip. San had felt her anxieties as soon as she walked into the parlor, then firsthand when she was brave enough to take his hand, and she hadn't needed to say a word because then San was there with her, crying out with her in the thrash of a nightmare and huddling in the dark with her as they waited for the sun.
This won't stop them completely, he knows. He wishes his magic was more useful that way, not only able to stop it but to stop the things that would bring nightmares at all, but this will help until Hongjoong can find a longer-term solution. Until then, if she ever finds herself in another dream she can't wake up from, she'll at least remember his presence, and she won't feel like she's alone. It's what San used to wish for when he was her age; he hopes it will be enough for the time.
Untangling himself completely is never so neat. His parents used to say that he brings it on himself by trying to hold onto as many of their clients’ thorns as he can, like some glutton for pain. But why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t someone who could reach into the most awful parts of a person try to clean out as much of that awfulness as they can?
It's always the worst for newly-awakened witches, he knows, when the magic feels less like a blessing and more of a punishment. All of that awfulness, for someone so young—if he isn’t capable of doing something more useful, why wouldn’t he try to do at least this much for them?
“She wanted to say thank you to you, too,” Wooyoung continues, bumping their knees together. “She said she was feeling better already. That she might even sleep without her parents tonight.”
San watches the shadows crawl across the ivy. “That’s good. I’ll remind Hongjoong-hyung to tell me if the nightmares get bad again.”
“I already reminded him, don’t worry.”
Heat pricks the back of his neck. “Thank you for taking care of them for me today.”
“I took care of the paperwork. Everything else was you,” Wooyoung says, tilting his head. “If she gets better, it'll be because of you.”
When he couldn't even finish the session without stumbling out here, struggling to breathe? “Still. Thank you, Wooyoung-ah.”
Wooyoung purses his lips. “'Course. That’s what I’m here for.” He sounds determined.
The heat worsens. It shouldn’t be, San wants to say. Wooyoung should be able to hold his hand without having to carry all of this awfulness with him. But he knows what Wooyoung will say to that too, so he doesn’t.
He glances over, and Wooyoung is looking at him. No matter how long they’ve been bonded now, he still looks at San with the same inquisitive gaze he’d given him when they first met, as though he’s capable of magicking San’s emotions out to the light too.
“Are you okay, though, Sannie?” Wooyoung says.
Of course he is. But Wooyoung is still looking at him.
“Almost,” he replies, turning back to the sun. It’s all right. This one will be bearable; he can tell by the way his magic is already beginning to smooth out again already. Hongjoong’s request caught him off-guard today, that’s all. San hesitates, disliking that doubt that lingers from Wooyoung’s side of the bond, and adds, “I just need a few more minutes.”
He feels Wooyoung’s hand seeking him out. He flinches when Wooyoung gets too close to his hand, curling his fingers instinctively into fists so Wooyoung doesn’t brush against the nettle of his magic, but he would’ve pulled away even if there’d been no appointment. His magic always leaves an unpleasant chill in his hands.
He feels Wooyoung pause. Wooyoung is seeking through the bond too: San feels him there, waiting at the other side of the gap.
“Can I help?” Wooyoung says.
It used to be abyssal, once. That gap. San remembers a time when he was worse at this and Wooyoung couldn't use his voice at all, and all he could do was speak over the impossible distance between them and hope that Wooyoung could hear him from the other side. It’s been better with the bond; these days, Wooyoung can step over any time he wants. At night, when the moon is free of clouds and San thinks he’s so full of magic that he might burn away from the inside out, Wooyoung wordlessly slips in to invite it into himself, grounding him from his magic.
After appointments, though, he always waits like San asks him to. He’s good like that. He doesn’t ask why. He entertains San’s baseless fretting, like that fear that if he extends a hand to help Wooyoung into himself before San has combed apart a path for him through the thicket of his magic, Wooyoung might get lost in there—or worse, pricked and scratched by his thorns. Sometimes it feels like a whole jungle of them. Wooyoung is already the best familiar he could ask for, and after everything that they have been through, San would like to spare him from any more awfulness where he can.
But Wooyoung says, “Please let me help.”
San swallows.
It doesn’t mean weakness.
He repeats it to himself.
This doesn’t mean weakness.
Past the bitter stone in his throat, he says, “Only for a few seconds.”
“A few seconds,” Wooyoung agrees, and he lays his bare hand out on his knee, palm to the sky.
By the time San has mustered the courage to take his hand, the last of the sun has disappeared below the horizon, and the ivy is indistinguishable from the shadows from the bricks from the wall. Wooyoung curls his fingers into the spaces between his own, hooking them firmly into the divots between his knuckles, and San shudders through an exhale when Wooyoung begins to pull him free of the vines.
“Stop,” San says weakly.
He feels Wooyoung’s lips press into his brow. “Come back to me, San-ah.”
San squeezes his other hand over Wooyoung’s, trying to shield his vulnerable skin from the brambles as Wooyoung leads him along, but Wooyoung just lays his other hand over his too, and then all San can do is close his eyes and follow Wooyoung out of that jungle.
He doesn’t know how long he spends like this, shuddering against Wooyoung and unwilling to let go of his hands, but he knows they are out and he knows what price Wooyoung has paid when he opens his eyes and sees a new exhaustion swimming in Wooyoung’s. His hands, still clasped in San’s, are clammy now too.
It always feels so wrong. That exhaustion should be his own to bear.
“Here,” he rasps, tugging his hands free so he can reach for his jacket. “You’re freezing.”
“So are you.” Wooyoung catches his hands again before he can undo the zipper all the way, bringing them to his own cheeks. He smiles at San, and even though it’s a little tired too, his face is warm beneath San’s palms, like a show of defiance against the frigid tendrils of San’s magic. Some withstanding evidence that San, by some miracle, hasn't smothered his warmth yet. “Let’s just go inside,” Wooyoung says, turning a kiss into his palm. “All right? Then we’ll both be warm.”
“But it’s dark,” San whispers.
Wooyoung kisses him. “It’s okay. I’ll put on a light.” He kisses him again. Again.
Partway into the last kiss, San crumples against him, burying his face into his neck just before the heat spills out the corners of his eyes. He takes a breath in, then lets it go, and does it again until he doesn't have to think through every second of the motion. Until he's just breathing, and he can say, voice thick, “I love you too.”
Wooyoung kisses him one more time, and San doesn’t notice how much colder everything feels now until Wooyoung draws back and a stronger shiver wracks through him. Suddenly, he’s terrified that he won’t be able to stop shivering even if he tried to.
A hand finds his. Wooyoung murmurs his name, and San looks up blearily in time to see Wooyoung climbing to his feet. Then he squeezes San’s hand and helps him up too, patient despite San’s clumsy footing.
When San is back on his feet once more, Wooyoung leans up to touch their foreheads together briefly. “Just hold onto me, okay? I’ve got you.”
Still shaking, San nods.
He fumbles for Wooyoung’s other hand. He follows him out of the dark.