Archive of Our Own

A mother places a dwindling candle onto a windowsill, a child eagerly burrowing under the thin covers atop his bed. He is no more than seven, missing teeth and wearing a fresh scrape on his chin from a day of rough housing with the older neighbourhood boys. When he is comfortable, he stares up at her with big beady eyes and the chubbiest little cheeks. “Mama, tell me the story again please,” he begs, even though he can barely keep his eyes open. “Please.”

“No, sweetheart, you must go to bed now. You start school on the morrow.”

“I will go to sleep right after, Mama. I promise.”

The mother sighs, pulling a wooden chair from the corner of the room up to the child's bedside. “Fine. I will tell it quickly.”

“Yay!”

“Get comfortable.”

“Yes, Ma'am!” The child burrows deeper, watching his mother closely as she smooths out her linen nightgown and clears her throat.

“They say that at the end of the forest, past the witch's hut, there lies a yellow wood where every path and no path converge. It is a magical place where every person's hopes and dreams and memories are stored. There all the foliage is an odd eternal yellow and the keeper of the land is someone of great power who comes to you in the form of their choosing. You will know exactly who they are when you see them and may visit them in the yellow wood only once in your life when you have strayed so far from your path or mortality that you must be reminded of your goodness. I pray that you never have to go that far, darling.” The mother clears her throat once more, a force of habit, before leaning over to press a kiss to her child's forehead, holding back her long black hair to prevent spooking him. He is fast asleep, snoring gently, so she grabs the candle from the windowsill and leaves the room, door creaking closed behind her.

☆

Mud squelches under his boots, his arms extended out so he does not lose his footing and dirty more than his already filthy shoes and the ends of his trousers. On other nights, the path is simply a strip of loose dirt meandering through the most popular spots of this field of graves. However, it rained earlier, leaving the path slippery and tedious. The air is also muggy, causing a thick fog to settle and make the cemetery floor hard to see. He has lost count of the gravestones he narrowly avoided kicking or tripping over after only five minutes of walking.

It cannot be helped. He has to get to the back of the cemetery and the only way there is through. High iron fences enclose the graveyard and rows and rows of private properties lay outside the fences. Properties whose owners do not take trespassing lightly, security guards with polished guns and guard dogs with sharp claws and sharper teeth at the ready.

“The full moon just had to be tonight of all nights,” he grumbles after stumbling through an exceptionally muddy section of the path. He normally tries to avoid this graveyard when it rains, others serving him just fine for collecting the ingredients he needs. But this also cannot be helped tonight. If he could be in another cemetery– heavens if he could be at home for once he would be there in a heartbeat.

Oh well, he laments, nearing the back of the field, his hands hesitantly lowering as mud is slowly replaced by dewy green grass. The fog also lessens the closer he gets to a set of familiar graves, leaving a perfect circle void of any mist surrounding the two wood crosses and the grass in front of them. The rucksack on his back feels like a dead weight but he crouches down in front of the graves anyways, plucking stray wildflowers and ripping out random weeds.

It does not take long for the noise to begin. It starts with a breeze that picks up until it is a howling wind, whispers that become a cacophony of screams. “Come forth,” he calls, still picking flowers even though a black smog has made it hard to do so.

“Missed me?” A voice asks, all the chaos halting at the sound of their sarcastic tone.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Oh, come on, we have not seen each other since last full moon, Mr. Han.”

“And I hope this is the last one we have to meet on.”

“So harsh.” The voice jests, extending a hand for the other man to take. The fingertips of the hand are an inky black, fingernails pointed and claw-like.

Swatting away the invitation, the crouched man rises to his feet with a glare. “Let us get this over with, Witch.”

“J-Jisung!” The witch sputtered, watching said man walk past him towards the back fence. His strut is confident, expecting that the witch, as per usual, will raise his arm and the iron bars will widen enough for him to easily step through. They do. Jisung crosses over onto the mulch separating the graveyard and the forest behind it and the witch follows seconds later, the bars snapping back into place like those new elastic bands Jisung has heard about more than seen. “Would you like to walk to my house? The moon is beautiful.”

Admittedly, it is quite mesmerizing how the moon shines off the witch’s silver hair, his ornate earrings, his cheekbones… no! It is grotesque how the moon tinges his sickly pale, sunken in skin a light blue, his red eyes and burgundy cloak contrasting starkly against the bright night sky. Jisung must not fall for his tricks. He can see how the other man’s expectant eyes overshadow the thinly cloaked smirk on his face and it makes him scowl, “I have heard that before. Just do as you normally do, Witch.”

“Have you forgotten my name tonight?”

“It does not deserve uttering. Especially tonight.”

The silver-haired man guffaws, “I will not move until you do.”

“Heavens, can you be more sickening!”

“My name is all I ask of you, Jisung. Not your liver.”

Jisung grips the straps of his rucksack, gritting out, “Minho. Minho the Witch.”

“See! Not so torturous, was it?”

“Minho!”

The witch waves him off, sealing Jisung's mouth shut. “Okay, okay. Enough out of you.” He closes the short distance between them and takes Jisung’s wrist. “As you said, let us get this over with.”

Whispers, wind and then Jisung is outside a cottage. Well, it is a very gracious title to give a cottage-shaped shack located in the depths of the village's woodlands. A circle of dead grass surrounds the house even though it is the middle of spring. A strip of dirt and shrivelled up plants wrap around its stone walls and the door teeters precariously on its hinges as Minho opens it for Jisung.

Notwithstanding, the inside of the cottage is not half as bad. It looks and feels quite quaint. Stacks of books litter the floor, too many to fit on the living room's bookshelves. The living room houses only two chairs, one of them coated in a thick layer of dust, and a record player that Jisung is well acquainted with. The dining table is off to the right side of the room, big enough for four people but again there are only two seats.

“Have you brought all the remaining ingredients?” The witch waves his hand again, undoing the seal on Jisung's mouth.

“Yes.” Jisung unclenches his right fist, dropping a tiny bouquet of crumpled wildflowers onto the dining table that is void of its normal feast. “Where is the food?” he asks, sliding off his rucksack and placing it onto the empty table.

“You want food tonight?” Minho readies his thumb and middle finger.

Jisung shakes his head quickly. “No.”

“As I assumed.” Minho responds, his tone holding something Jisung cannot quite place.

☆

The night Jisung met the witch was nearly four years ago now. It had been a clear one, full moon shining above him and the air crisp. He had been weeping tirelessly over two fresh graves, hands hiding his shameful sorrow and clothes hanging off his slightly emaciated frame. It was nearing autumn, but he had no coat on, praying for a bad fever to take him.

The noise had started when the chill of the night (or so Jisung had thought) had begun to set in. He was a shivering, crying mess when the overlapping screams startled him. Lifting his head, he then noticed the dark smog and the unnatural wind that only affected the graveyard and none of the opulent properties around it. He pulled out his switchblade, his father’s initials engraved into the handle, and turned his back to the graves, fearing for his life as a loud cackle sounded. “Who is there! Show yourself!” He yelled and from the smog appeared a village myth.

Jisung had heard tales of the witch who lived deep in the town’s forest. He had been warned by his parents from a young age about who everyone had assumed was an elderly widow turned evil. They told him to never let his emotions consume him. For the witch would appear to him when he was at his absolute lowest on a full moon. She would fill his head with devilish propositions of eternal happiness or cure-all curses only to feed off his sorrow and misfortune until there was none of him left.

Though the myth was repeated throughout his childhood, its intricacies had naturally escaped his memory by then. Especially with his parents no longer there to rehash the story. All he knew in that moment was that standing before him was a witch, the witch, who was not a crazed, abandoned wife turned hag but an unwell-looking older man. Perhaps a crazed, widowed husband? Furthermore, it was a full moon and Jisung was most definitely at his lowest. “Who are you?” he asked foolishly, pointing his knife at the witch.

The other man smirked, glancing between Jisung's badly hidden terror and his switchblade. “That knife will not do anything to me, dearest. You would best put it away.”

“Do not call me ‘dearest’. I am no wife or child.”

“My apologies.” He did not look or sound very apologetic, but Jisung had more important things on his mind.

“You are the Witch, no?”

“Oh, you know of me?”

“Don't most?”

“Good point.” The witch shrugged, crossing his arms and leaning his weight onto one hip. “Minho is my real name, if you were wondering.”

“I was not.”

Minho sighed, “I suppose you know why I am here then?”

“Yes. Your propositions.”

“My proposi- I'm no woman of the night, Mr. Han.”

“How do you know–”

“I know much about everyone in this village.”

“How?”

“A magic user never reveals his secrets, Mr. Han.” Jisung shook his head, pocketing his knife. It made the witch smile, “Good boy.”

“Do not patronize me.”

“I will do as I please. Are you ready for your options?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” In the blink of an eye, the witch’s face was centimetres away from his. It startled Jisung at first, but his pride thankfully pushed down any facial reactions he would have made although his hand twitched for his knife. Minho seemed to not notice or ignored it, focused more on Jisung's face as he declared, “You have lost recently, Mr. Han. Two very important people whom you would do anything, make whatever sacrifice is needed, to see them once again, am I correct?”

“Yes.” Reminded, Jisung felt a few tears escape him as a wave of sadness crashed through. Minho grinned at this for reasons Jisung could not decipher in the moment. Then he cupped his face and the other man was too distraught to move away from the surprising warmth of the touch, instinctively closing his eyes, letting himself revel in a closeness he had not felt in a while.

“I will give you two options,” Minho started, Jisung hastily opening his eyes at the sound of his voice. He was met with an intrigued look that he did not like, so he swatted away the hand on his cheek, clearing his throat. The witch seemed unfazed by it, leaning away and using his now free hand to draw an infinity symbol in the space between them. Two pieces of crumbling parchment appeared, hovering at eye level. “You can either bring them back or seek revenge on those who took them from you.”

Jisung tried to read the parchments, but his Latin was quite rusty, “What are these?”

“Recipes.”

“And I will get them back if I complete one?”

“This one,” Minho said, plucking one of the papers from the air and handing it to Jisung. At the top it read Reanimatio Incantationis. Minho must have noticed Jisung struggling to read the rest because he asked, “Can you read?”

“English, yes. My Latin, however, has gone unpracticed for quite some time.”

Nodding, the witch snapped his fingers and a paper, pen and ink appeared. He scribbled down a list of three before passing it to Jisung. “It is a reanimation spell. Collect those ingredients and bring them to me on the night of the next full moon.”

“Can I not do it all by myself?”

“You cannot.”

“Why? It does not seem–”

“Spells are very temperamental, Mr. Han. One wrong ingredient or mispronunciation gives you a completely different spell.”

“I will be careful.”

The witch rolled his eyes. “I do not want you summoning something even I cannot handle. Besides, I do not suppose you have a cauldron, do you?”

“No.”

“Nor a knowledge of basic witchcraft and enchantments?”

“No…”

“Nor a–”

“Okay, I get it!”

“Good,” Minho stood up, “I will warn you now that the spell you have chosen comes with a sacrifice. More so for those being reanimated.”

“It is fine. I will help them adjust. They will understand.”

There was a look in the witch’s eyes; Minho took in Jisung's desperation not with an air of amusement this time, but in retrospect it could have been sympathy? Or maybe he was going mad from four years of inhaling cauldron fumes. “A blue moon will occur in the summer months of next year. You have until then to learn and prepare.”

“Where shall we meet next full moon?”

“Here, this cemetery, right before the witching hours begin.”

Jisung looked down at the palm-sized piece of paper. “And this will bring my friends back?”

“With a cost.”

“Good enough.” Jisung clambered to his feet, stuffing the note into his pocket. He stood awkwardly for a second, not knowing what to do next, “Shall we shake on it?”

Minho scoffed, “Do I look like a crossroads demon?”

“You act like one,” Jisung replied petulantly.

“We are completely different entities.”

“Both work with evil.”

“Would you like me to direct you to one, Mr. Han?”

Jisung had never come across a crossroads demon, heavens, he had not come across any demon for that matter. But he had heard about them. They granted a person's wildest dreams in exchange for their soul. He would do anything to get his friends back but giving up his soul, his freedom was where he drew the line. “No…”

“I thought so,” The witch said, pale lips curling into a grating grin as he walked backwards. “Here, next full moon, do not forget!” With that, Minho disappeared in a cloud of whispers and wind and smog.

☆

“Have you set up the cauldron?”

“No, I thought I would let you do it tonight,” the witch answers, fiddling with his record collection.

“Will you be doing anything of substance tonight, Witch?”

Minho freezes, head turning slowly in Jisung's direction with a wild expression. “You be careful with how you speak to me tonight, Mr. Han. Do not forget whose resources you are using, you have been using.”

“You have tormented me for three years, Witch. Give me some grace for tonight.”

“Do not call me that!” The witch shrieks, the house shaking.

Jisung only smirks at it. “Hit a sore spot?”

In seconds, the witch is in front of him, hand reaching quickly for his neck. Jisung just barely manages to make a circle with his index finger, the extended hand dropping, Minho's wrists and fingers bound to his sides by an invisible force. Destabilized, he falls forward into Jisung's chest, giggling at the predicament. “Release me you heathen,” he spits.

“Where are the other ingredients?”

Minho huffs, “In my bedroom.”

“In the converted wardrobe?”

“Where else?” Jisung maneuvers Minho into one of the seats at the dining table, the other man glaring up at him as Jisung walks to the left side of the house where Minho’s bedroom door lay. “You do know this is kept up by sight and concentration at your level, right?” Minho shouts.

“I am aware!”

☆

On the night Jisung’s friends came back to him, he and Minho had walked through the woodlands together. In those days, Jisung admired Minho. He had been too charming to resist, making easy small talk and sometimes sharing knowledge about aspects of the world Jisung had never before known existed while they worked together.

Minho had shared a lot with Jisung in those months. Each full moon, he would be treated to a feast of his liking with just the snap of Minho’s fingers. He would sit across from the witch in the living room and listen to magical recordings of classical music. After ingredient preparation became nights of practicing low-level cauldron spells and enchantments, Minho would sit with Jisung in the kitchen, nursing his hands back to health.

“The steam of the cauldron steals life from you more than any ale or person can,” Minho always said.

But that was neither here nor there.

That night, the moon was a beautiful blue, bathing Minho in its light. They walked with their arms interlocked, the witch having convinced him to though Jisung was very reluctant, fearful of watching eyes. He had forgotten those anxieties by then, laughing at a silly name Minho had given a nearby tree as he acted as though he was seriously pointing out and naming the different specimens of plants. In that moment, Jisung had felt more like himself than he had in the near year since his best friends had died.

“Are you ready?” Minho asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Jisung jokingly replied.

“You will be alright. You are quite the quick learner, Mr. Han. It took me more than a year to get to the level you are at now.”

Jisung batted at his shoulder, a giggle slipping out, “Do not flatter me.”

“But it is true. You are quite impressive and I am allowing myself to admit it tonight. You deserve the compliment.”

Jisung was and still is infinitely ashamed of how the praise brought warmth to his face. “Do you think it will go well?”

“I know it will,” Minho assured confidently. Yet a tense silence fell over them on his end. “Jisung, I–”

Said man glanced at Minho and saw how his eyebrows were furrowed and he worried with the many rings adorning his fingers. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Minho reassured, “Was just wondering what you wanted for dinner.”

Jisung lit up at this, quickly and foolishly forgetting Minho’s worry.

☆

After shuttling most of the ingredients he needs from the bedroom to the kitchen, Jisung makes one final trip to the wardrobe to lock it back up and take a moment to himself. This is the last night he will ever have to interact with the witch, the last time he will ever have to come to this shack and eat Minho’s food and practice witchcraft.

Most of him is overjoyed by the thought. Yet a small part of him will miss it. Jisung does not like to admit it, but this run-down cottage has been a sort of refuge for him since he started working at the local tavern and doing his summer tutelage under one of his friend’s old masters about two years ago.

Through craft, he could vent his anger and frustration. He does not know what he will do now. He fears that even after revenge the anger and frustration will stay, settle into his bones and take root until it corrodes everything.

In the living room, a record starts playing so Jisung allows himself to sit on Minho’s bed. It is perfectly made, the bed sheets pristine and a well-loved quilt folded at the foot of the bed. It smells faintly of a scent that is not Minho’s and, in the last four years, Jisung has yet to figure out if the man even sleeps in this bed or sleeps at all.

“You said nothing about cozying up in my bed, Mr. Han. I would have appreciated an invitation at the very least,” the witch quips, leaning against the doorframe.

“Do you ever feel embarrassment from the things that leave your mouth?”

“Never.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“You are hard to surprise nowadays, Mr. Han.”

“You get used to them when a person is as volatile as yourself, Witch.”

“Jisung.”

“Oh, forgot. My apologies,” Jisung says with not a drop of genuine remorse in his voice.

“I have set out the ingredients on the workstation in the backyard.”

“My levitation spell is not strong enough to carry the cauldron.”

“You will be fine. I will help.”

“Okay.” Jisung clears his throat, glancing at the down-turned photos on Minho's chest of drawers.

“Do you remember that night you slept here?”

The frustration and anger rear their ugly head, Jisung sneering, “How could I ever forget? It was the night you completely betrayed me.” He gets off the bed, stomping to the door, making sure to bump into Minho's shoulder on his way out.

☆

When Chan and Changbin were reborn they came back different. Minho had warned Jisung that bringing them back would have consequences, but he had not heeded the warning and even on that fateful night he still had not fully understood the wrongs he had committed.

Chan, a piano maker's apprentice, could no longer be within six feet of any instrument without collapsing from convulsions. Changbin, a painter's apprentice, would grow increasingly ill if he so much as drew doodles on scrap paper. Lord forbid he try and open his acrylics, put paintbrush to canvas. He would be bedridden for days. Both could no longer sleep, any moment of rest causing flashbacks of their death to consume them, transport them into the moment as though they were dying all over again at the hands of their masters’ security guards and vicious dogs. Neither of them could leave Jisung's inherited house in fear of the townspeople recognizing them from their obituaries in the papers from many, many months ago.

Jisung had tried to work around it. He and Chan would make music from cheese graters and empty containers and pans. He would hold a pencil and let Changbin rest his hand atop his to guide it. He would sneak them out at night for walks. But Chan soon became allergic to the mere sound of humming and Changbin still fell ill even if he directed Jisung by word and then both of them became a sickly yellow colour from the lack of sun.

Every other week they begged Jisung to leave the village. They thought the town had something to do with their sickness. Jisung did not have the heart to tell them it was his fault, that it would follow them wherever they went.

Even if they were allowed to leave, he also could not muster up the courage to. This village was where he was born, grew up and, before Chan and Changbin, it had been the place that he would one day die in with a wife and ten children at his bedside. This was the only place he knew.

It did not matter that the townspeople tolerated him at best, looked at him with a mix of pity and subconscious hatred. It did not matter that people whispered about him in the tavern, about how the top half of his black hair suddenly turned a dull grey and eyes an orange-brown and his fingers permanently pruned after the blue moon a year ago. It did not matter that people laughed behind his back in the streets at how he now walked with a detestable amount of confidence for someone so poor. This was his home. No matter how much it hated him and he hated it.

So here Jisung was, having trekked for almost an hour through the forest to Minho’s cottage. Chan and Changbin were gone. They had stolen away in the night and left Jisung alone in a freezing cold bed and it was Minho’s fault. It had to be. If he had not come to Jisung with those propositions all those months ago, he would not have been here. He would not have lost his friends for a second time. He would not have had to grieve all over again.

He pounded on the front door until his fist hurt. “Minho, open the fucking door!” Said man did so from the kitchen, his grin wavering for a millisecond when he saw just how mad Jisung truly was as he stepped past the threshold.

“Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Han.”

“Do not start with your sarcasm, Witch.”

Minho’s smile dropped. “I thought you said you were done with me?”

“I am.”

“So, you are only here for one reason.”

“...Yes.”

“You know they cannot leave the village, correct? They will evaporate.”

“I am aware,” Jisung gritted out, hand twitching for his knife.

“Are they?”

Jisung hated that the question made him visibly falter. He had to remind himself that this was Minho's fault especially as the other man cackled at his hesitation. “Oh, you poor fool.”

“You lied to me!”

“I did no such thing.”

“You told me I would get them back!”

“Did you not?”

“They are different!”

“When you make deals with the devil, Mr. Han, you never truly win.” Jisung could not take how indifferent Minho seemed to his anger. He looked seconds away from yawning and it made him want to punch something more so when the witch’s grin morphed into a smirk. “I told you they would not come back as the people you once knew. To live again they would have to sacrifice something they loved. These are the results.”

Jisung walked further into the house, stopping at the dining table. “No. You must do something! This cannot be–”

“You chose to bring them back out of your own selfishness, your own grief and denial, Mr. Han. This is your problem… well, not anymore, I suppose. They are probably piles of ash by now.”

“No!” Livid, Jisung searched quickly for something close to throw, eyes landing instantly on the feast of his favourite foods that seemed to have been set out in anticipation of his arrival. He threw everything on the plates and then the plates themselves. Minho dodged everything, laughing when Jisung ran out of things to hurl at him. The melodic, mocking sound was what finally brought him to his knees, his head in his hands.

Jisung focused so hard on trying not to cry that he barely heard the rustle of Minho's cloak and the tap of his heeled shoes. He crouched down in front of him, saying, “The dead must stay dead, Jisung.”

Said man’s hands fell away from his face and his expression must have been full of so much unadulterated fury that it surprised even Minho. For a split second, the fear and sadness within the witch were clear as day, but Jisung did not notice it at the time. He was too busy lunging at him, hand on his neck as he whispered a spell to quickly bind the other man's hands above his head. “Why did you give me the option!”

“And miss out on this rage, this pain?” Jisung knew Minho was lying, knew that he could easily break out of his binds with no more than brute force and a rudimentary counterspell. He was just saying things now to rile him up and it worked when he coyly added, “One way or another, it got a pretty boy into my lap, no?”

Jisung yanked his hand off his throat as though burnt by a kettle straight off the fire. “You are–”

“The boogeyman?” Minho huffed, breaking his bonds so that he could comfortably rest the back of his head on his hands. “Wait, no, I am much worse: Lord Ruthven incarnate, Frankenstein’s creature. Must I go on?”

“Stop.”

“I was once like you, Jisung. I was in love and then in pain. You asked me why I gave you the option, it is because of that.”

“Stop. What are you even talking about? I was not in… Christopher and Changbin were my good friends.”

“You know I know much about everyone, Mr. Han. Mostly through trusted word of mouth and a looking glass, but I am not obtuse.”

“Stop!” The younger man’s hand reached for his pocket, wanting desperately for the witch to just stop talking.

“Jisung,” The witch warned calmly just before the knife pierced his skin. After, his expression was unreadable and his lack of a real reaction or visible pain was terrifying. It was as though he had been pricked with a toothpick, not had a knife lodged into the side of his neck. Soon, however, the black veins under his eyes bulged, his mouth became downturned. Minho tugged the knife out, both of them staring at the black blood dripping from the blade and the wound. “I told you your little toy had no effect on me,” he chided, a rumble running through the house.

The last of his fighting spirit torn away, Jisung let his hands grip at the witch’s black button-up as emotions overcame him. “You-You lied to me,” he whispered meekly, wanting desperately for it to be true.

He did not expect to feel a warm and gentle hand lay itself atop one of his clenched ones. “Jisung, I did not want–” Minho shook his head, looking away as a single tear of blood fell.

Eyes widening at the spectacle, Jisung jerked his hands away from Minho and guarded them against his own chest, “You are a monster.”

Minho gasped brokenly at the word, more tears staining his face. Jisung barely had time to register what followed before the witch had raised one of his hands into the space between them and mumbled, “Sleep.”

That night, as he slept, Jisung dreamed of a green valley where at the edge lay a forest with pale yellow treetops and orange trunks. He was at the centre of the valley when he saw a figure standing at the forest’s edge. They wore a linen sundress and thatch hat, long black hair flowing gently in the breeze.

“Jisung,” they called and he instantly recognized the voice.

He began to run, the grass of the valley prickly, making him itch as he tried desperately to get to her. The nearer he got, the harsher the grass got as though each blade was as sharp as a knife. He felt blood trickle down his arms and legs, tears stinging his eyes, blurring his vision though he tried his best to swipe them away.

“Mama! Mama, I am sorry!”

Many hours later, Jisung woke up in Minho’s bed, the quilt that normally sat at the foot of the bed thrown over him. He forgot where he was for a moment. The mattress was soft, the pillows softer, the sheets were a cool linen and the quilt a nice, reassuring weight around him and a scent of lilac lingered in the room. But then he came to his senses, throwing off the blanket and rising into a sitting position.

He noticed two things: he was still in last night’s clothing and, looking through the window to his right, it was night. His mind and body were groggy from hours upon hours of sleep, so he assumed the sunlit hours had passed and the events that occurred before he lost consciousness were in fact the night before. He also assumed so from the smell of his favourite dinner foods creeping into the room through the gap at the bottom of the bedroom door. It was what forced him out of bed, past the chest of drawers with curiously downturned photos, through the living room and into the kitchen. His socked feet made the ancient floorboards creak no matter how lightly he walked, so his arrival was very conspicuous much to his displeasure.

“Slept well, dearest?” Minho stood over a wood stove, stirring a pot of stew. The ties of a red apron sat around his waist, the fabric protecting the front of his black button-up and trousers. The sight was confusing to say the least.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that,” Jisung snarled.

Ignoring his question, Minho explained, “You slept for quite some time. Almost a perfect twenty-four hours. I know you probably want my head on a stake right now, so I have prepared you dinner to take home. I know you have more cobwebs in your cupboards than food.”

Jisung’s hand twitched at his side, but the bandage wrapped around the witch’s neck was a reminder that Minho was an evil Jisung could not yet overcome. “You do not have to act your version of nice with me anymore, Witch. I know who you really are now.”

The tightening of Minho’s jaw was a small victory for Jisung. “I have told you I do not like that term.”

“It is what you are.”

“That does not mean it is what I have to be.”

“You are what you are, Witch. No matter how much you run.”

“Funny of you of all people to say that, Mr. Han.”

“Why do you insist on claiming such heinous things?” Jisung exclaimed, utterly exasperated by the witch’s persistence.

“Because I know how selfish you truly are, Jisung. I know that you were not kicked out of your parents’ house. They feared seeing you inherit consumption, yes, but the fear was no more than a nudge. You left because you knew of the true curse that lay within you. You could not bear the thought of them realizing who you truly were, so you left them in their dying moments. You still cannot fully face the memories imprinted in the very structure of your recently inherited house. That is what I heard at least.” Minho pours the stew into an onggi, something Jisung had not seen in years, as he continued quite pompously, “Just admit it, dearest–”

“Do not call me–”

“You admired more than Christopher and Changbin's passion for creation. You did not only envy their skill, but also the connection they shared. A connection you would not let be extended to you. You wanted them to prove to you that they loved you. You knew complaining about your hunger would lead to them doing something drastic. And, well, if only you had more time you may have been able to reconcile things...” The witch placed the pot back on the stove, sealing the lid of the onggi securely to its bowl with the swipe of his index finger along the seam.

Jisung had to hold in his anger after Minho’s litany of damning accusations, but his last words piqued his interest... “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you think about it, it is their masters’ fault. They let the security guards and rabid dogs deal with them when it was a crime more worthy of a loss of trust and apprenticeship. They could have just thrown them in jail for a bit at most.”

“What are you proposing?” Jisung knew deep in his gut that the witch was once again trying to convince him of something, but he had been more focused on how much sense it made that it was actually Chan and Changbin’s masters’ fault instead of his or Minho’s.

Turning around, the witch smiled at him, splatters of deep red kimchi stew staining his apron like blood. “You still have the option of revenge.”

“I thought I only had one?”

Minho chuckled. “It would be so very boring to stop our story here, Mr. Han, at such an anticlimactic point. Where is the excitement in a failed resurrection, in trying to hurt someone that cannot die? Besides, I know you think I am right. Their masters took them away from you too soon. They are the ones that deserve to hurt as much as you did.” Jisung barely got a moment to mull over his options before Minho pressed, “So, what is your answer, Mr. Han?”

“I need time to–”

“A decision like this needs no pouring over, no list of advantages and disadvantages, no–”

“Fine! Yes. I want to make them pay.”

“Good.” Minho wrapped the onggi in a cloth and handed it off to Jisung, patting him on the head like a well-behaved mutt before beginning to push him towards the front door. “Preparations will start next full moon. I am afraid the next blue moon is not for another two years, but that gives us more than enough time to assemble ingredients and practice! Revenge takes a lot more energy and skill to be enacted. I will see you at the cemetery. How exciting!”

☆

Minho assists Jisung in moving the cauldron more in direction than physical assistance and he must begrudgingly concede that it is still helpful, a last-minute lesson if you must.

“Are you ready?” Minho asks and it puts a bad taste in Jisung’s mouth and a pit in his stomach at the memory of the first time they did this. This time, Jisung is not as jovial as he once was, his face blank and turned away from Minho as he works on moving the wooden worktable from its place under the kitchen window to the centre of the backyard where the fire pit is, cauldron suspended above it from its tripod.

“Yes,” Jisung answers confidently, “I want to make them pay.”

He had not fully meant the declaration when he had said it that first time two years ago. But a spark ignited in the pits of his darkening soul that night. He now knew the spark as rage and hatred. They’d became his friends in place of Chan and Changbin and Minho. Recently, however, he’s beginning to think that it was never supposed to go this far. His anger and pain were never supposed to manifest into a real-life revenge plot. Yet here he is, too far along in his preparations that he cannot give up now. He has to see this through regardless of his ambivalence and how little enthusiasm he has towards facing the awaiting consequences of his future actions.

As the cauldron of spring water begins to bubble, Jisung snaps his fingers and his notes appear. He tosses in each of his ingredients for the spell, stating their names and chanting a line of practiced and perfected Latin in their wake. After they are all added, he hovers his hands above the now boiling concoction, steam searing his palms as he magically stirs the cauldron’s contents.

Jisung does not see the first of the transformations, instead feeling how his magic drains the remaining colour in his hair and his cheeks lose their plumpness. Then he watches as his nails grow longer, sharper and pointed, black beginning to spread from the nail plates towards the skin. His skin is just starting to forgo its healthy glow when Minho snatches one of Jisung's hands from above the boiling pot.

The expression of pure horror that imprints itself on Minho’s suddenly healthier and prettier and younger looking face must mean that Jisung’s eyes mirror his crimson ones. “Unhand me, Witch,” Jisung warns, his voice leaving him as though two beings speaking through one mouth.

As per usual, Minho does not listen to him, inspecting his hands and letting out a sigh of relief as the discolouration on his fingers recedes, his nails shorten and the paleness lessens. With the flick of the witch’s wrist, Jisung suddenly goes flying back from the cauldron, skidding across the dead grass on his side, unable to raise any more than a struggling arm, an invisible force keeping him down.

He wails out, helpless as the witch presses his hands to the scolding cauldron and pushes, all of Jisung’s work pouring out onto the ground, turning into a fast-drying green tar. “What have you done,” Jisung bemoans, tears cutting through the dirt smudges on his cheeks. “What have you done, Minho.”

The witch turns around and Jisung is shocked by the tears of blood streaming down his face, “I am sorry. You do not deserve this, Jisung.”

“You bastard! How could you!” The witch raises his hand, the palm painfully blistered. “No!” Jisung screams before everything goes black.

When he opens his eyes, he is in a field. The grass is a bright yellow and unnaturally soft. He sits up and notices a forest a few yards away, the leaves on the trees the same vibrant yellow colour. The location feels oddly familiar.

“Ah, you are awake.” Jisung instantly reaches for his switchblade, but it is not in its regular pocket nor the other nor tucked into one of the sides of his boots. “You cannot kill me, Jisung, and most certainly not here.” He stops searching and meets eyes with Minho, the man standing over him. He is different, his hair a soft-looking black, eyes a calming brown instead of the usual intense red, skin a healthy colour, hands and palms unmarred and nails clipped to perfection.

“Am I dead? Are you dead?”

“Do you not listen? I cannot die.”

“Can I?”

Minho sighs. “Yes, but this is not purgatory, limbo… whatever you might believe it to be.”

“What is it?” Jisung asks, inquisitively brushing his hands along the flittering tall grass.

“Yellow Wood.”

“What? Like the old folktale?”

Minho nods, offering his hand for Jisung to take. He accepts it hesitantly, standing with help from Minho. The witch (if he even is a witch here) gently guides Jisung towards the woods and he lets him, too confused to fight.

“Why are we here, Minho?” Jisung asks, wanting a distraction from how their joined hands bring warmth to his cheeks and a sinful nervousness to his heart and stomach.

“You will see.” Minho stops just on the precipice of the grass and the forest. “Close your eyes when we step through. Seeing everything can be too overwhelming the first time.”

“What do you–” Before he can finish his question Minho steps over the edge with him in tow and Jisung is forced to close his eyes as instructed. A blinding, squirming light suddenly emerges, so harsh that even covering his closed eyes does not help lessen the pain. Then a violent wind comes in before everything stops, Jisung rubbing at his sore eyes after Minho tells him to open them.

When his eyes do not feel as though they will shrivel up in their sockets, Jisung finally realizes where they are.  It is late evening and they are in front of a familiar cottage door, but everything is fundamentally different. The cottage is well kept, the door a strong mahogany compared to the mere driftwood it looks like in what Jisung assumes is reality considering that he is supposedly not dead. The grass surrounding the cottage is a healthy green and ivy grows along the stone walls. Flowers bloom along the sides of the house, wild dandelions and daisies sprinkled around the yard.

His attention is brought back to the door where Minho’s hand hovers shakily above the knob before turning it, stepping in with Jisung’s hand still in his. They walk to the kitchen, another man with chestnut hair standing near the wood stove with his back to them, chopping away at a thick cut of meat. “You are finally home,” the man snarks.

“You are early,” Minho answers, the response automatic like he has lived this moment a thousand times even though the genuineness of his tone says otherwise.

“Someone died in the factory today, so they let us go early to dispose of them.”

“Again?”

“Yes. She had a family, too, a large one.”

“A widow?”

“Might as well be. Her husband works in the mines hours away. Has not come back in three months. Would not be surprised if he is dead too.” The man puts down his knife, Minho letting go of Jisung’s hand as he turns around and observes Jisung. He wears a pair of circular framed glasses and a stoic expression for the most part, brown hair covering his forehead.

“I do not know why you insist on working at that hellhole still, Seungmin.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes at Minho before they return to Jisung. “Someone needs to put real food on the table,” he responds absentmindedly.

“The King pays me enough!”

“He pays you in gruel and pennies, Minho. It is not enough to feed one mouth let alone two.” Minho sighs like this is a battle he has fought and lost many times. “Will your guest be joining us for tea?”

“No, no, I have got to take him home. Just wanted to introduce you to him.”

“An apprentice?” Seungmin seems so excited by the prospect that it makes the fleeting sadness within Minho’s expression even more clear and startling.

“Something of those sorts.”

“What is your name, lad?” Jisung flinches before clearing his throat and stating his full name, “Ah, one of us.” Seungmin steps closer and wipes his bloody hands to offer one to Jisung to shake. Jisung gets such an unexpected whiff of lilac that he doesn’t think to pass on the offer, shaking Seungmin’s hands and feeling the thick calluses marring his palms.

“Amongst other similarities,” Minho snickers, “Anyways, we must go, dar–  I will be back in time for dinner!” Motioning towards the front door, Minho lets Jisung lead the way. “Close your eyes,” he whispers before opening the door. The light returns but this time it is a bit more manageable, Jisung not needing to cover his eyes when he closes them and it leaves behind only a slight and quick sting when it ceases.

They are back at the cottage, but it has changed. Snow blankets the ground and roof and the flowers that were outside the house seem to have all died, the surrounding trees bare of any leaves. It is nighttime. Late. There is not the faintest hint of light in the sky, covered by clouds, or through the cottage windows. Then the door flies open and Seungmin stands in the doorway in nothing more than a nightgown and petticoat. He holds up an oil lamp, squinting into the darkness.

He looks exhausted, deep bags under his eyes and an unhealthy hue to his skin that is visible even in the dim lighting. “Where have you been!”

“I am sorry, the King had visitors from another country. He requested an evening show.”

“You know the forest is dangerous at this time of–” Seungmin’s yelling is cut short by a coughing fit, the brunette keeling forward from the force of it, gripping the doorframe. Minho wastes no time in running to his side, rubbing his back as Seungmin coughs into his hand.

“Here,” he says softly, taking Seungmin’s hand once he is done and wiping it clean with a handkerchief as best as he can.

“Thank you,” Seungmin whispers, not thinking before he wipes his hand down the front of his nightgown. Jisung spots the faintest smear of red before Seungmin pulls his petticoat closed. “Jisung, how are you?” Said man takes the question as an invitation to close some of the distance between him and the other two men. He leaves a healthy gap, suspicious of Seungmin’s sickly condition. Minho, however, is quite close to the other man, letting him lean most of his weight onto him with an arm comfortably resting on his hip.  

“I am okay. Seen better days.”

Seungmin laughs hoarsely, “I can clearly say the same.” Jisung chuckles more out of curtesy than anything.

“Let us get you inside, dearest,” Minho says to Seungmin, ushering his weak frame back into the house. “I will only be a minute, Jisung!” With that, Minho closes the door and the cottage fades away.

☆

Jisung’s parents died when he was only sixteen and he told Minho this a few months before the night of their first blue moon together. His mother’s birthday had fallen on the same day as that month’s full moon and Jisung could not focus. He had snapped at Minho a couple times out of nowhere, mindlessly tripped over one of the witch’s many stacks of books in the living room, chose the wrong ingredients from the cabinet, chanted the wrong Latin and accidentally opened a portal to somewhere that Minho had to hurriedly close.

“No more of this!” Minho had screeched, the sleeves of his button-up torn as though invisible claws had tried to tear into him. “Go sit in one of the armchairs until you have calmed down!” He faced the cauldron and raised his index finger, blowing on it to extinguish the roaring flames under the pot.

Hanging his head, Jisung trudged back into the house and flopped down into one of the armchairs. He tried wiggling his finger like Minho usually did and ordering, “Come.” But his magic was too weak. The only thing it did was shake one of the magic discs of recorded music in its place on a shelf. He knew Minho was near, however, when the disc swiftly flew out of its casing and onto the player, orchestral music pouring out of the contraption soon after.

“What is the matter, Jisung?” Minho asked, sitting gracefully in the armchair opposite him. They were both equally grand pieces of furniture, plush maroon leather with a wooden frame and a tall, proud back. The only difference is that the chair that Jisung now sat in was covered in a thick coat of dust when he first visited Minho’s home. He did not know why at the time, just assumed that Minho was not one to have willing guests due to his magic use and appearance or that he simply did not like people sitting in that chair specifically.

“Nothing is the matter,” Jisung grumbled.

“You will not so much as touch the cauldron tonight until you tell me.”

“Minho!”

“Tell me.”

Jisung sighed, curling into a tight ball and averting his eyes from Minho’s narrowed ones. “It is my mother’s birthday today.”

“She is dead, correct?” Minho said after a silent moment. Jisung nodded. “Would it help to talk about it?”

“Do you not already know all there is to know?”

“I know your parents died from consumption and they casted you out when they had little under a year to live so as to not watch you inherit it.”

“That is all there is to it.”

“Is it?”

Jisung glanced at Minho, mistaking his amusement for sincerity, “No, but that is not to be spoken of.”

“I know, but I was asking more so why their deaths still plague you.”

“They were my parents?” Jisung looked at Minho as though he had told him one plus one equaled eleven. He knew the witch was not the most empathetic at times, but this was just plain ridiculousness. What would a witch understand, though. “Did you ever have parents, Witch?”

Minho rolled his eyes, “Yes. I was once a normal human.”

“Are you still even human?”

“Barely.” Minho shifted in his seat, crossing his legs and spinning one of his rings as he said, “They died when I was young as well. Just young enough to remember them. Then my maternal grandparents raised me until old age or disease stole them away. Aunts and uncles, cousins. I have seen many a town, been passed around and kicked out of an equal amount.”

“I am sorry all that happened to you.”

“I cannot help that people find my mere existence grating. When I was not a magic user I continually ran from town to town, hoping this time people would accept me instead of tolerate me, this time I would not lose a loved one or grow attached to someone. Now, I no longer run and simply hide.”

“It sounds heavenly.”

“I would not wish it on my worst enemies. There is no happiness in an eternity alone, no happiness in running from the grief and pain.”

“I am grieving them.”

“When did you lose them?”

“When I was sixteen.”

“Mourning should not consume you for six years, Jisung.”

Jisung looked away, focusing on one of Minho’s stacks of books. The Vampyre sat at the top. Minho had been reading it to him amongst other gothic novels during the dinners they had at the start of each full moon meeting. “Does it not still consume you?”

Minho paused his fidgeting. “Sometimes, yes, but it is neither for my parents nor my grandparents. I learnt long ago that I need not mourn their deaths and the lost potential of a life with them when it was all so out of my control.”

“Who is it?”

Standing, the witch wiggled his finger and the music stopped, disc flying back to its shelf and casing. “Someone I cared about deeply, but that is a topic for another time. Today, I think we should end early.”

“I agree.” Jisung rose to his feet as well, his coat appearing in front of him at the snap of Minho’s fingers. “Good night, Minho.”

“See you soon, Jisung.”

☆

Jisung opens his eyes to a white room, lines of images he does and does not recognize soaring past in entangled Möbius strips. One strip has his memories, another has Minho’s, Seungmin’s, Chan’s, Changbin’s, their parents. As Jisung goes around in circles trying to catch and understand any of what he is seeing, he understands why the witch told him to close his eyes the first few times. The more he turns, the more strips are added: uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents and great grandparents. The room fills so quickly that Jisung can see nothing but moving colours and feel the harsh breeze caused by the now wreathing mess of strips.

The images multiply so much that they begin to close in and, panicking, Jisung thinks of the yellow woods, wanting the comforting caress of plush grass and fresh air. Through the chaos of light and wind an image of the valley then comes forth. He wastes no time in reaching for it, the room falling away as soon as his fingers graze the edges of the image.

When Jisung finds himself once again lying amongst soft yellow grass, he takes a minute to inhale large breaths of air while letting his heart calm. He knew he could not die here, but he surely did not want to see if pain or claustrophobia could be experienced (he had a suspicion it could be). Taking one final big breath, he stares up at the sky.

It is a dazzling light blue, clouds floating by leisurely. He raises his hand to them. For a moment, he realizes that he wants to be like them and have no thoughts or feelings or responsibilities. He wants to be aimless and worriless.

“Mr. Han,” an all too familiar voice sings, making Jisung twitch in both surprise and irritation. “Come join me at the table.” The man does not have to move, the witch snapping his fingers and portaling Jisung from his spot on the grass to an ornate metal chair. The raven-haired man is sat opposite him, pouring out two cups of lemongrass tea. “I apologize for not accompanying you in the Room of Memories. For one to move onto another memory or space you must partially or completely act out the memory at hand.”

Jisung nods along even though he is more concerned about getting his hands on that cup of lemongrass tea and answers. He tries his best to calmly ask, “Was Seungmin the one you deeply cared about?”

“Yes.” Minho passes Jisung his cup and saucer, pushing both a small dish of sugar cubes and a little spouted container of honey in the other man’s direction. Jisung excitedly plucks and plops two sugar cubes in his tea (they were too pretty and new not to choose) and stirs them in with an offered teaspoon.

Focus, Han Jisung.

“Why did you show me your memories, Minho? Why am I here?”

“You know why you are in Yellow Wood, Jisung.” Minho pours a bit of honey into his tea, spoon clinking against the sides of the porcelain.

“I do not.”

“Do you not remember the story mothers used to tell their children before bed? Did you not see what you were becoming before I stopped your metamorphosis?”

Jisung gasps, “Have I strayed that far?”

Minho does not meet Jisung’s eye, blowing lightly at his tea before taking a tentative sip. “I’m afraid so.”

“How?”

“At my hand and your own.”

“It makes sense.” His tone and demeanor exude defeat. He had known for months now that Chan and Changbin’s first and second deaths had been somewhat his fault.

Minho was right to a degree all those years ago, the first time he had unknowingly been too much of a coward to let his friends form a lasting bond with him, wanting to test and push them to see if they truly cared like their actions constantly suggested. He had not understood why exactly he had wanted to test them until they were gone. Grief stricken and heartbroken, he had yearned to turn back time so badly that he accepted Minho’s terms. The second time, he became so terrified of losing his friends, of them hating him for taking away the things they loved just so that he could have a second chance to lo– to care so deeply for them as they had for him, that he accidently ended up torturing them instead.

Yes, Minho had swayed his reasoning at his most vulnerable. Yes, Chan and Changbin’s masters had given them allowances of pennies and gruel, not enough for a third jobless and homeless person, even after they begged for more money and a possible apprenticeship for that third person. But, Jisung also had his part to play and he had been running from that fact for too long, letting Minho and his own anger and vindictiveness convince him otherwise. “Why did you trick me?” That was not what Jisung meant to say. He clears his throat. “Why did you not tell me about the transformation?”

“I was not supposed to.”

“Why?”

“The emotions must be pure. You must feel the harrowing pain of an unequitable reanimation, then be consumed and, consequently, transformed by the rage and hatred within revenge. Only in that order and you must truly believe or convince yourself that these are the only routes for you, the only emotions you are allowed to feel.”

“But why other than to play with me like a cat with a string?”

Minho takes another sip of tea before sitting back in his chair, twirling one of his rings, trying to choose his words carefully it seemed. “There is a reason why your village only has one magic-user at a time, Jisung. It is because my form in reality is a curse, handed down from one grieving person to another.”

“How other than your complexion is it a curse?”

“Well, there is a reason why we can only meet on full moons, Mr. Han, or why my house is not visible during the day or why we must meet in that one specific graveyard.”

“You are… trapped?”

“Yes. Unless in dire need for food, I cannot go past the gate of that graveyard and most definitely cannot leave your village.”

“You keep saying my village.”

“I was never from it, like Chan and Changbin, neither was Seungmin. I was a travelling performer and he the son of a weaver, born in a town that was home to the last of the traditional weavers. He left his tutelage to come with me to your village.” Minho looks up to the sky, at the clouds. “I still feel as though it is my fault.”  

“He would have left eventually to find better work.”

Minho nods, looking away from the sky to refill his cup and Jisung’s that was emptied as soon as the tea was cool enough to gulp down. “I know, but I also spent days in his village begging him to leave with me because I was so entranced by him.”

“The witch has a heart,” Jisung snarks.

Minho huffs, “Whom I have ignored for too long.”

“...Oh, I–”

“Not like that!”

“Oh.” Jisung gulps down his tea to give reason to the mortifying heat rising to his cheeks, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as the hot liquid burns his mouth and throat. Dabbing at his eyes, he clears his throat once again.

“What I meant,” Minho starts, fidgeting again, “is that I have known for quite some time that I did not want to pass the curse onto you or anyone else for that matter. My life is a lonely one, but I would rather suffer through an eternity alone than die seeing you go through the same isolation and pain that I did. You have so much to live for, Jisung. So many people to meet and love. You should not throw away your whole life for lost love or one foolish, selfish mistake. You are still mostly human. You can change, you can grow.”

“So can you.”

“I cannot. Not with this curse.”

“Is this not growth?” Jisung motions to the two of them, before offering his cup for another refill.

Minho does so quickly but freezes in realization just before pouring into his own cup. He looks up at Jisung and gives him a smile that the other man must admit is quite dazzling. “I suppose you are right.”

Jisung returns the smile, before deciding, “I want to wake up now.”

If Minho is caught off guard by the abrupt request, he does not show it. “I will need a few moments to prepare things back in reality for your return if that is okay.”

“That is fine.”

“Lay down in the grass in the meantime.”

Jisung does as told, the table and Minho disappearing as soon as he stands. He walks a few paces away before falling back, the grass gently accepting him. He watches the blue sky, feeling as light as the clouds for once.

“Jisungie!” a feminine voice calls and Jisung tries to look for it but quickly finds that he cannot move even a finger or toe. “Dearest,” the voice says, the sound of fabric fluttering in the wind. His mother gazes down at him, hand holding her thatch hat securely to her head. She looks spirited and young as she smiles at him. “I love you. All of you. Though it pained me to while I was alive.”

“Mama–”

“You must wake up very soon but do know that I do not want you to suffer as you are now, Jisung. Live for me, live for them.”

His mother vanishes after that and Jisung must close his eyes to hold his emotions down as the field fades away. When he opens them, he is in Minho’s bed and the bedsheets smell very faintly of a scent Jisung can now place as Seungmin’s. Minho sits at his side, both hands bandaged and a damp rag poised above Jisung’s cheek. He looks like himself again: sickly skin, red eyes, silver hair. It is almost comforting to see at least more than the surprisingly handso– healthy young man the witch appeared as in Yellow Wood.

“Sorry for taking so long.”

Jisung shakes his head, sitting up. “I saw my mother.”

“What did she say?”

“The same as you. To live.”

“Jisung...” Minho rests the rag on the nightstand, eyebrows furrowed. Jisung knows the face well now and can now sense that Minho’s hands are itching to play with his rings.

“You have another proposition.”

“Not a woman of the night!” Minho squeaks, indignant.

“I mean technically–”

“No!”

Jisung cackles, though he is wary of the offer he knows is coming. He says seriously, “What do you want?”

“It is too much to ask now, but I wanted to suggest that you stay with me.” If Jisung was not absolutely exhausted he would have confidently sworn that there was embarrassment in Minho’s expression.

“What?”

“Until your summers of tutelage with Christopher’s old master is done you could stay with me so that I might have a companion for a short while and in return I will find you all the books you will ever need to learn whatever interests you, all the music you could possibly want to listen to. I will let you practice your own craft here and let you live with no worries of an empty stomach.”

“And if I say no?”

“You will see no more of me. This moon will verily be the last we see of each other.”

“What is the catch?”

“No catch. I could put this in clear writing if you would like.”

After the night he has had, the things Minho has revealed to him, Jisung wants to believe him but he just cannot, “I need time to think it over.”

“So, it is not a no?”

“It is a very weak maybe.”

Minho smiles and Jisung is startled to say the least. It is the first genuine smile he has seen the other give, one that is not tainted by amusement or secrets. “Take however long you need.”

Sensing the end of the discussion, Jisung moves to get out of bed but does not make it far before his arms give out and he falls onto his side. “Can I rest here for the night?”

Minho nods, light amusement returning to his lips. “The revenge spell – completed or not – as well as dimensional travel takes a lot out of a person. I will walk you back to the graveyard when you wake up again.”

“Small steps,” Jisung reminds, shimmying back into a comfortable position, “I would prefer to just be portalled there.”

“Okay.”

“Minho,” Jisung calls when the latter has gathered his dirtied rag and shuffled towards the door. The witch stops, doorknob in his hand and expression curious. “You can change too.”

Eyes falling to the floor, Minho hums. “Good night, Mr. Han,” he says.

“See you soon, Minho,” Jisung answers even though the door had already closed behind the witch.