Work Text:
Thinking of Yeosang hurts.
His Yeosang, stranded alone somewhere further than the sunset-splashed horizon and storm-ridden islands abandoned by humanity. Dread remains, settled in the furthest concave walls of his ribcage as he envisions his beloved’s wings, tired and strained from trying his damndest to escape, knowing deep down that his efforts would lay in waste.
Wooyoung thinks about how Yeosang wouldn’t try so hard to escape for himself, instead escaping to put an end to the eternal purgatory of his friends’ memories—one he shoulders with not a single complaint. He thinks of Yeosang’s withered feathers, about how every flicker of fire behind his beautiful lover’s eyes emits such egregious power in his wing’s movements. Even as he laid so close to flames, as he flew and pushed beyond his limits and the stratosphere, there was not a split second where Wooyoung caught him faltering.
And it was so, so unfair that Yeosang’s innate motive was ultimately the reason he had fallen.
Wooyoung wishes he could cradle his lover’s face, tutting and coddling as if he’s a worried goddess sent from above in Yeosang’s salvation, to remind him that he wasn’t fighting alone despite how cold and silent the universe is whenever he calls out in anger. To remind the beautiful man that he was meant to be. . . so giving, so kind, so understanding. Even though everything he does leaves him so worn out, every little energy he lets loose into the world never being reciprocated, only for them to flow inside someone else’s lives as if they’re homebound—he was meant to do all that. He was doing everything right, despite slowly destroying himself from the inside out.
Wooyoung wanted nothing more than to kiss each and every single one of Yeosang’s feathers, untangling each burnt corner from where it had been united into a single colony as he ran his fingers through his wings. Somehow it would remind him of the two of them, a union which only happens whenever the world tumbles endlessly into its end.
He misses, deeply, and it seems like missing Yeosang is the only thing Wooyoung excels in doing. Over, and over, and over again. Tirelessly, as long as the world spins in its demure cycle, as long as the city’s lights dim whenever morning comes and flicker awake as the sun decides to hover over the ocean line. He misses telling Yeosang how much every crease of darkness will diminish, misses just how much his Yeosang’s eyes would crinkle in joy as he believes.
Oh, how he believed.
Yeosang believed enough for the both of them, putting his faith so high above the clouds that even the tallest mountains wouldn’t be able to reach for them if they tried. And Wooyoung follows suit, climbing through each and every valley or cliffs to defeat the mountains who tried. Wooyoung doesn’t have to try very hard. He never has, for his Yeosang sees him.
Yeosang sees everything the way they are meant to be seen, and Wooyoung sees him to believe him.
Wooyoung can’t see him now.
What was he supposed to believe in, when his portal to everlasting contentment is groaning in pain somewhere he couldn’t reach? What was Wooyoung supposed to do when he was asked, begged, screamed at by the world to care as they grace the rivers made by their people’s tears? Was he supposed to care? Was he supposed to reach for them, as Yeosang once did for him, and help?
Yeosang would’ve.
But he’s not here now.
Wooyoung’s power comes in waves, falling asleep when his heartbeat stills and unleashing in a monstrous hurricane as he groggily shakes himself awake. The wave carries him over, here and there like an old, ripened coconut shell having fallen from its tree of life. He looks, near and far, for any signs of his Yeosang.
The seas told him, ‘no, we have yet to see anyone as you have described, could it be you’ve made him up?’. They didn’t believe him, for they have yet to see someone so perfect. Wooyoung waddles away then, hoping that the skies would give him something, for they were the last ones to be close to his love. The skies took one glance at him, sighing in distaste. Wooyoung sensed some sort of pity from them, but he held his head high, steadfast in trying to retrace his Yeosang.
‘If you lost such a perfect being,’ the skies twinkled, ‘maybe you were the reason he left.’
Wooyoung despises these answers. Yeosang existed, and Yeosang existed with him. There was no way his lover, who was blessed with the power of cherubims in his warm wings and his fond eyes—stayed with him because there was no other choice. Yeosang did not leave because he found someone better. He would never. Not his Yeosang.
‘Do not be peeved by our answers,’ the skies tried, once again, as they grew darker with the dazzling stars. ‘We never meant to offend you. There were just things better left unsaid. Maybe your lover is one of them.’ They sound wiser as the day shifts to nighttime and the tides stilled, deeper than the dark blue of their skins.
The moon left before Wooyoung even got to her, and he is left to gloomily travel across the nations once again, to find someone who’d give him soothing reassurance that his love is alive.
The rains were aggressive that night, cold and solid. They were a little busy as Wooyoung crawled out of his hiding place, parts of them bruising his cheeks as he looked up to gain their attention. ‘Your love is well fed. Well taken care of! He makes the world bloom with color, you should be proud of him. We share, and he provides.’
Wooyoung stood tall, wondering whether to ask for more from the rains or to thank them for saying something. Yeosang sounds like he’s doing incredible, wherever he is. He asked the rains with bright, joyous eyes. The weather cleared, and his questions were met with silence. It was good. Wooyoung got more than he could’ve imagined that day.
When he slept, he dreamt of Yeosang.
His love, standing tall and proud with his pristine wings spread on his back. He isn’t looking at Wooyoung, as he usually does—but Wooyoung can feel that he’s the same. His heart churns when the winged man turns around, the wind blowing his dark hair everywhere, rousing a white noise of muted nostalgia in the back of Wooyoung’s head.
“Ah,” Yeosang acknowledges his existence. “No. . .”
“No? What do you mean, no?” Wooyoung runs over, clinging on his lover’s shoulders for dear life. He is so warm, he emits the exact same light which mirrors away from his daunting, taintless wings. Wooyoung was going to ask whether or not he was glad to see him, but he finds himself purring as he nuzzles deeper into Yeosang’s embrace. Deep enough he could hear the winged man’s chuckle through his front torso’s vibration. He feels so alive. He feels. . . here.
His Yeosang is with him.
“Not yet, my love,” Yeosang whispers, light enough that his voice could be carried away by the rustling breeze. Wooyoung keens as his lover’s hand scratches the back of his neck, a guttural sigh wracking through his body as he is shaken awake by the feeling of his body being. . . carried.
Flooded. He is flooded.
“Wake up,” Yeosang’s voice sounds mighty, carrying his sentience as Wooyoung floats in a limbo of dreams and reality, eyes flickering open as he takes in the view of a crooked valley—ridden with proof of how time has laid its graceful touches on its landscape. Vines overgrown, flowers bowing underneath the sun as they shyly twirl along the ballroom melodies of the wind whistling an unfamiliar tune.
Something twinkles at the crook of Wooyoung's consciousness, and he turns around to follow the jingle. There's a little cat looking up at him, eyes wide and head tilted. It appears that the tiny creature has been trying his best to gain Wooyoung's attention for a while, growing tired of him looking off into the distance.
"San!"
A voice calls, and Wooyoung's new friend jolts in succession. Sparing him one last glance as he prances along the flowery field, the cat bounds toward the repetitive beckoning.
It shouldn't have hurt that much for Wooyoung to realize whose voice it belonged to. To know very innately that something about the noise of concern spells out the man he's always known and loved.
"He can't come get me himself," San tells him, making sure Wooyoung is still following. "So I always have to be very keen on hearing his calls. I have a feeling he'd want to see you, though. So I have been trying to find you. But you never came."
"I was searching far and wide for him," Wooyoung hisses, more angry at himself than the new feline he's trudging through the fields with. "I tried so hard. I only wanted to help him, but I couldn't do that before I found him."
"Yeosang never needed you to do too much," San muses. "I think he just wanted you to be there."
And Wooyoung tried—he tells San. He tried, really, really hard. Maybe it was just never enough for Yeosang, maybe he was never enough. Maybe he needed something more, the sun, the wind, the waves, the ocean, and the spring rain. But maybe Wooyoung’s entire being was not enough to keep Yeosang together. Maybe his existence doesn’t guarantee that his love will remain breathing, since he hasn’t seen that his love had dimmed for a while.
What then, does he have for Yeosang, if not love?
“You’re in love with him,” San tells him in return. “You’ve never fallen out of love with him. I can tell. I can’t tell what Yeosang is thinking, though. No one is ever good enough to read through him. I’m guessing you can’t either?”
If Wooyoung was less torn and shaken, blamed himself less about his lover leaving him—if he was the Wooyoung from days, weeks, months ago, where he started out believing himself and his mighty self; he would’ve scoffed. Offended, hurt by the jarring question implying that he might’ve not known his lover as much as he liked.
“No,” Wooyoung smiles in fond memory, “he’s untouchable.”
Yeosang is shocked when his kitten returns with company, but the shock quickly morphs into a big, welcoming smile. He doesn’t call out to the newcomer, but his eyes never leave his lover, following every movement of Wooyoung’s staggering steps.
The trees rustle behind them as time stops, branches cracking in the distance to signify San the cat retreating. He must’ve wanted to give the two reunited lovers time alone.
Yeosang is perched on a piece of boulder, sunbathing with a smile on his face. The chains surrounding him contrasted deeply with the lightness of his skin, especially those which tightened against him uncomfortably over his exposed shoulder.
“Hello, my love,” Wooyoung breathes, alongside the rolling clouds and chirping birds. Yeosang tilts his head, waving one of his free hands, tight-lipped. “What do you have in your hands, sweet dove?”
A bouquet of dried flowers. It’s brown, the heavy petals dragged through the thickened muds of time as they sag down against their own trunks. Yeosang is holding onto it tightly, the ring on his finger glinting against the sunlight. He giggles when Wooyoung comes closer to observe, nudging it forward as best as his restricted hands could.
Wooyoung coos at this, holding his lovers’ wrists so he doesn’t hurt himself.
“Ah,” he grins, “I gave these to you, didn’t I?” Wooyoung slowly runs his fingers through the wilted flowers, shocked when Yeosang made a noise of disapproval, wrenching it right back against his chest. “Oh, sweetheart. Why are you keeping those? They’re all dried up and sad. You’re surrounded by better flowers here, love. They dance and sing to your heart’s beckoning, yet you still hold mine as if it was worth all the stars in the sky.”
Yeosang stares at him, eyebrows upturned and sad. He reaches out to caress Wooyoung’s hair, sighing in frustration when his chains clank against each other, holding him back.
“Let those go, Yeosang,” Wooyoung leans forward so his lover could reach him, preening when Yeosang deflates significantly as his fingers ghost the outline of his lover’s forehead. “I promise I’ll get you better ones.”
Wooyoung stays for a bit, enjoying Yeosang’s company and scenting the sun-dried flowers as time continues to flow. Yeosang’s wings moved at one point, twitching against his chains as they tried to cover his lover from the overbearing heat of the sun. He can’t, however. Can’t do anything to prove to Wooyoung that he’s still here. Still holding him. Still keeping him warm, as best as he is allowed to.
“Yeosang?” Wooyoung mumbles at one point, tucked deep in a hug, arms across Yeosang’s lap. The aforementioned being tried to respond, squirming against the deepest parts of his existence as Wooyoung whines even louder. “Yeosang,” he sounds like he’s crying, “are you with me? Are you with me, Yeosang?”
I am, Yeosang would say, if he could. I’m with you. I’ll always be with you.
“I’ve looked everywhere to find you again,” Wooyoung confides in him, having had enough of tiring himself in silence. Alone, all alone. His Wooyoung has been so alone. “Please don’t make me leave you again. Please.”
Wooyoung can feel his time running out. Yeosang never admits to it, but Wooyoung is well-acquainted with the loss. It’s all fine, however. Yeosang can keep pretending like he isn’t slipping away. Wooyoung will continue to run after him, tirelessly, whether he notices it or not. Through this point in his life and the next, and even the previous ones before those. He’ll find Yeosang, burrowed deep under the snow, burning brightly in the midst of a seismic volcano, leading wars that would end thousands, caring for his children in a retirement home, an angel despised by the gods—and Wooyoung will love him through all of that. Repeatedly, despite having to find him, over, and over, and over again.
Gathering up a new bundle of flowers, Wooyoung hovers over Yeosang’s fingers, clenching on the dried bouquet nervously.
“Let go, my love,” Wooyoung convinces him, a smile adorning his tired face. He takes in every single piece of Yeosang’s forlorn face, reaching up to tuck the free strand of hair that his lover decided was better left alone. “I’ve gathered for you a prettier one.”
Yeosang pouts, nudging his lover’s lower torso.
“You can keep it,” Wooyoung relents, laughing at the winged man’s endless insistence. “Just take this fresh bundle with you. As a token of promise.”
Yeosang looks down on the flowers, yapping at him like little birds asking for their mother’s sustenance. And then he looks at Wooyoung, wary and distant. He shakes his head, petulant and dead set on keeping the previous ones. Before Wooyoung could ask why, he hears a voice in the back of his foggy mind.
“You won’t come back. I don’t want you to have a reason not to return. I can’t have that. Not yet.”
Wooyoung looks up at him, battling a losing fight. He looks at Yeosang, all alone, fighting something he would never be released from. He thinks of his love, the love he has for his love, and how he could ever be so willing to distance himself—enough to hurt the one he admires the most, the one he swore up and down to never leave behind. Maybe he did. Maybe Wooyoung feels kind of guilty.
“You want me. . .” to stay? To be here for you? To remain the one who loves you the most? To keep reminding you how much you mean to me, that you are like the tides to my beachside port, the one I am always assured to find after a long and winding uphill road? “. . .still?”
The grin Yeosang has on is fond, and if he could speak his mind he probably would’ve called Wooyoung stupid for asking him all of this. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t shake his head. He breathes, and he exists, sweet and loving and accepting and not judging—swaying left and right with the wind, singing sweet nothings around the two lovers.
You know what I would say, sounds like what Yeosang is trying to deliver. Wooyoung isn’t sure, but he feels. . . warm. He feels so close to Yeosang, in a way he hasn’t been in years.
“Oh,” Wooyoung grins, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes. “Well, I guess I can stay here with you forever.”
Yeosang’s round eyes depict confusion, but Wooyoung’s heart is settled.
The day turns to night, and Yeosang’s innate wariness washes away with the ticking time. Wooyoung chases butterflies around him, growling and gnashing his teeth against the cold air he isn’t used to as he snuggles closer to his lover, complaining that the chains make everything harder. “It’s such a pity you can’t tug me under your arms anymore,” he would say, and then he’d kiss Yeosang’s sadness away as an apology. “I’m kidding,” Wooyoung cackles, “you accepting me is enough, love.”
Nights turn to day, and the longer his existence drags on, Yeosang gets more and more worried. Wooyoung shouldn’t be here too long. It hurts when he leaves, or when there’s no perfect reassurance on when he’d return—because his Wooyoung loves his fleeing games. But staying here too long is. . .
Is. . .
“Don’t you just love winter, sweet dove?” Wooyoung muses one day, their fingers tangled. Anytime he gets this close, somehow making space on Yeosang’s chain-ridden boulder despite the miniscule space—Yeosang feels like his lover is just an extension of himself instead of his own being. But he can’t get enough of it. Being with Wooyoung feels like free-falling, and when he nuzzles up on Yeosang like his neck was made for his lover’s heart-wrenching cuddles is about the most addictive thing that could happen to an angel.
“I love winter because it reminds me of you,” Wooyoung muses, fond, and Yeosang feels. . . lighter. “You and your warmth, your tight embrace around me when I shake far too much for my mortal body to take. You and your softness, mirroring the light of Mistress Sun when she feels graceful, giving her all only for you and the snow to take her spotlight away from her. Winter is blizzard, as you are when your strength becomes too much for yourself to take, yet winter is also the warmth of huddling up together in the burrow as we try to not freeze our fingers blue.”
Yeosang loves his Wooyoung so much.
“You love. . . way too much. Way too hard, and all-too-encompassing. I feel like they’re too much sometimes, only until you’ve taught me that I view myself as way too less of who I really am.”
Yeosang has never felt this airy before. He feels so, so free.
The shock registers as an icy feeling of coldness strikes Yeosang down from head to toe, creeping inside his muted heart in strong waves as he opens his eyes the same time Wooyoung stopped traveling his fingers across the surface of his Yeosang’s face. No.
Wooyoung looks up at him, the chains on Yeosang’s body starting to extend themselves to where his lover is kneeling, both arms settled with intent around him.
“Time for me to give back.”
Yeosang panics, trying to release his own arms so he could at least push Wooyoung out of the way, before it’s too late. The old bouquet he held so tightly fell over, smushing on the building layers of snow below the boulder they are perched on, as Yeosang fights against his own drawbacks to save his love.
It’s no use, however. Before the chain swallows Wooyoung all the way—there is nothing Yeosang can do to reach him.
Wooyoung feels it heavy as the cold metal sinks into his skin, gritting his teeth as he tries to breathe, trying to brave how it might’ve felt for his lover before him. It must’ve been so scary for him, so scary and so alone. Wooyoung will make sure his sweet dove never feels alone again. Never.
When he opens his eyes, all of his agony and anguish entirely washed away as the chain clicks, securing him against Yeosang and into the core of the earth—Wooyoung breaks down.
Not because he regrets his decisions. Not because he wished he could be free once more.
Because Yeosang is looking at him too much. Just too much. He looks like he’s actually looking at Wooyoung now, not coupled with reservations on wanting to be with him forever, not clouded in worry and terror. It’s just love. A whole lot of love. And. . . and. . . relief? And. . . sadness.
“Wooyoung,” he calls out, a hand covering his mouth when he realizes Wooyoung could hear. Actually hear his voice, not in his head. Actually react to his existence, instead of guessing how he is feeling. Yeosang trembles. He is so in love. He is so—
“My sweet dove,” Wooyoung wails, reaching out as their chains clank against each other’s. “Oh, my beloved. I’m here.”
“You’re. . .” Yeosang lost his voice for a split second. “You’re here. You’re here for me. You’re here with me. Oh, gods, why—why are you—”
“It’s okay, Yeosang, it’s okay,” Wooyoung assured him, hands reaching out to finally cup his lover’s face in his arms again. Yeosang keens as if he’s a little seedling welcoming the rain, sprouting happily as he gulps every single drop of spring rain. “I choose to be here,” Wooyoung then responds, being the exact thing the little seedling needs, and a lot more. The rain, accompanied by the warmth of the sun, battling the rough storm when it needs to assure each force of nature that they could co-exist.
“I choose to be with you,” Wooyoung basks in his lover’s gentle grip of disbelief, head-to-head with the being he’d gotten to know since forever ago.
“As you always do,” Yeosang caves, like the ground breaking apart from the sheer magnitude of an earthquake—shivering in the delight that he could be selfish, for once. “As you always will.”
San the cat visits right after winter ends, wishing that warmth will envelop the lovers quickly. He misses their company throughout the winter, even as he sleeps and dozes off in dreamland. It takes a while for things to defrost, and he’s aware of it, but he still drops by every now and then.
He’s glad they are tucked safely in each other’s arms, at least—the cat muses to himself as he reaches down to fix the bouquets lining up. Sometimes he’d talk to them, knowing they’d listen, somewhere far away in their own world.
People talk. They ask him about them.
San doesn’t particularly have a response. He’d just tell them. . . ‘They’re happier now. Together. It makes more sense this way.’
There are people who are in distrust, thinking Wooyoung has done too much—and that they’re only together again now since he was ridden in way too strong of a guilt to stay apart. There are also people who assume the worst, that Yeosang wanted this to happen—that he’d put a curse on the love of his life to suffer the same fate he does.
‘They’re not suffering,’ San would tell those people, ‘they were just in love. People do things when they’re in love that we sometimes can’t fathom.’
And he believes that. Completely.
‘At least they have each other,’ San convinces people, ‘and that’s all there is to them.’