Archive of Our Own

***

***

Chan’s thumb hesitated over the decorated icons in the app on his phone. He’d made it through the game’s tutorial, navigating alleyways, dodging branches after he stepped onto a button and teleported into a wooded area. The gameplay was linear, until he hit a rectangular area, lined by trees and bushes. He moved his tiny avatar around the area, making a little sound as that started him climbing. Up through the branches, up through various levels of trees with the screen being obscured as he passed by. He reached the top, the sky becoming clear, an almost grassy-layer of trees sprawling out, with one tree taller than the others.

It was focal, which made it important, but he still almost gasped as his line of sight dropped back down into the tree line, passing branches, and his phone vibrating as he “impacted” the ground.

Story chapter. Find the tree. First quest: make fire.

As he moved down the linear path, there were sounds like rustles every so often, like there was something else nearby. He turned around, seeing if he could see clues in the hazy generic forest scene. He never saw anything, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. He didn’t think it was a horror game, that something was going to jump out at him. He fought several monsters, gained flint, collected kindling.

And he continued searching.

***

Chan was doing his level best not to yawn in the faces of the people around him waiting for the subway just as he was. Sleep had been something not easily obtained, all of his devices off and taunting him as he smashed his face into his pillow. So it seemed like everything was a little too fast and loud, the train arriving, the doors opening. Waiting for the people ahead of him to go and watching people flood in from the other side. But it wasn’t movement that really made his attention focus, it was stillness. He met dark eyes, a man standing amidst the moving crowd on the opposite side of the platform. Chan stepped into the train, wedging himself against a pole. As the door warning chime sounded, Chan looked up, and the man was still there, on the platform. Their eye contact broke when the door closed, and Chan looked behind him, as though the man had been looking at someone else. But there wasn’t anyone there, and glancing back as the train began moving, he caught just a flash through a far window of the man still standing there.

Just someone zoning, maybe, and he brushed it out of his thoughts. Still, he was a little less tired for the trip, a restless question he refused to dwell on. He got through work with a healthy dose of sugar and a nap through his lunch break, and the man from the subway was forgotten by the time he was making himself dinner. Or microwaving himself dinner. It still counted. The last bit of the day had been a meeting, and while he usually was enthusiastically a fan of meetings - they got him away from some of the nagging less-fun duties - he also usually wasn’t called on. The department director had said his name in response to a suggestion as though to get his opinion on it. And luckily his brain had still been halfway inside the meeting room, even if he’d stumbled getting out a half-cogent answer. He wouldn’t have to hide his face going in the next day, anyway.

His phone buzzed with a notification, and it was the game he’d been playing, reminding him of his quest. Food and his phone came with him as he poured himself into a chair. He ate with one hand, guiding his avatar with his left thumb. The occasional rustles still had him almost looking over his shoulder, as though something was around him, and not the little guy on his screen. His eyes darted as the leaves around him seemed to swirl, taking him into an unexpected battle. The enemies looked like little dark clouds with trailing tails, three of them hovering in front of his character. The flint was useless, but he equipped one of the sticks he’d collected, slashing at them when he was given the option for it. One disappeared, and the two remaining attacked. His HP went down, dramatically, and he had nothing to boost it with. He attacked again, watched another blob fade, and figured, surely, the last one couldn’t do as much damage as the two together.

The screen went hazy.

With a shred of HP left, Chan attacked the last dark cloud. With a waver, it lingered, and Chan held his breath for a moment before it too faded. There was no screen of leveling up, no magical unlocking of powers. But his objectives updated. First priority was no longer finding fire, it was finding food.

Chan couldn’t see his helper, but there was another rustle in the leaves.

***

Chan was more rested the next day at work, not wanting to slowly asphyxiate himself with his tie before he got to lunch. And lunch was good too, time enough to actually get out to one of the cafes, feel the sun on his face, check social media, and play with the new game a little. He found a new, bigger stick, and laughed at himself because that seemed to be a great accomplishment. One day maybe he’d end up with a sword, in a thousand years. And that was how the next day went, and the next.

At least, until the weekend. All he had to do was meet up with friends, fresh and free from work, in comfortable clothes, and waiting to cross the street at a light. He languished there, watching both the traffic light and the pedestrian light as well. People were gathering on the opposite side, and there was a subtle movement, people almost parting to reveal a man standing there. So subtle in fact, that Chan nearly missed it. The man wore a tan, double-breasted coat, and long black scarf, standing with his hands in his pockets, and his head angled low so that he seemed to almost glower in his stillness. Chan squinted. That face— It reminded him of the man from the subway, and it wasn’t impossible. The road was just down the street from the station, and yet Chan fought the urge to look behind him, as though someone was lingering there and Chan was just in the way. He didn’t know why. It didn’t feel like the man was looking past him, but rather almost looking through him.

The man moved for the first time when the pedestrian light changed, moving away from the street in the opposite direction as Chan made his way into the crosswalk. But there was no man in a tan coat to be seen when Chan got across the street. Maybe it was just a random person who forgot to turn his oven off. Or maybe he’d just been someone strange, who was lost to the city.

When he finally got to the cafe, he ended up half in Jisung’s lap at first in the booth, or maybe Jisung was half in his, but everyone got themselves sorted, Chan immediately diving into the complimentary chips. And ignored Changbin smirking at him for it.

“What,” Chan asked through a mouthful. He knew Changbin wasn’t going to warn him against not being able to eat his food. Chan had proven that false more than once.

“You must’ve been depleted on the long trek over here.”

“Two whole stops,” Jisung said, but he was eating chips, too, so Chan didn’t take any offense.

“There was a long wait at the light,” Chan said. Though, the wait made him remember the man who’d been standing there, too. “You ever see someone on the street, a stranger you don’t know, but that you’ve seen somewhere else?”

“I probably see the same people all the time. Usually I don’t notice unless they’re wearing something that catches the eye,” Changbin said. “Like a red hat.”

He stared at Jisung who just blinked back at him, innocently.

“Why, you have a friend?” Jisung asked.

“Not really. Just a guy I’ve seen a couple of times. That little alarm like you’re being followed,” Chan said. He didn’t mention the weird staring, or the stillness. It felt weird bringing it up already.

Jisung puffed up in mock outrage. “Are you keeping all the men to yourself?”

“How many men do you need?” Changbin demanded.

“You know how many! We’ll have to look after him.”

Their bickering, and the arrival of the food, had Chan relaxing.

He was just overthinking, was all. It wasn’t like anything had felt threatening. Even the uneasiness had sort of faded, by the time they’d all made their way back to the subway. There wasn’t anyone watching on the way, no prickle on the back of his neck, even if he did glance down the hall of his building before letting himself into his apartment. He opened the game app on his phone, settling in to grind some puzzles and a few more, much easier battles to gather materials for food and for fire. Moving forward triggered an event, all his food materials falling out onto the ground, and text appearing on the screen letting him know he’d leveled up.

A growl welcomed him as he continued down the path, unable to pick up what he’d gathered, but the game assuring him he needed to continue. He could just barely see eyes watching him from the trees as he passed.

***

The game was slow to level, but the quests had just enough ease to finish that it appealed to his completionist tendencies. Some took longer, like arriving at a location. Others like collecting sticks along the way were quick to fall as Chan rattled every bush. Which paid off, when he rattled a particular bush to find some kind of side quest, a door that led underground, two chests with unidentifiable food which restored his HP. The hints were getting fewer, mostly the sounds of him walking, and of the wind, and random animal noises.

***

Chan loved the zoo. The faint and lingering scent of popcorn, the different scents of the habitats, and the marvel for that some there was none at all. Most of all, the animals. Every area was filled with mysteries, little nooks, information, interesting sounds and sights. Finding the animals among the foliage, watching them play, learning about the conservation from standees, information boards. Chan had many memories there. Going as a child with his family, holding his mother’s hand, sitting on his father’s shoulders to try and see an animal in a corner somewhere. He remembered going as a school field trip, and in a group with his friends when he got older. So he knew that place, as he opened his eyes. The slightly scuffed flooring, the wooden bench he sat on. Even the distant chatter of birds native to the habitat they were in. He knew that habitat well, the new jungle exhibits had been built when he’d been in high school. He’d volunteered there for a few weeks one summer handing out maps for school credit. So he knew exactly which part he was in, the rocks for one of the zoo’s tiger’s to sun on, the water to play in. It depended on what time of day and mood the tiger was in, which part of the glass she could be seen from. There was an outdoor part too, looking down into the exhibit, instead of directly out.

But he was inside, the hiss of AC, the gleam of glass. Or plexiglass. Whatever it was, the tiger rested beyond it, sleek, orange, and gorgeous in the warm light of daytime. But she wasn’t looking at Chan, but to his right, at someone else sitting on the narrow benches. It should’ve been crowded, little fingers making smudges, exclamations of surprise, and awe. But it was just him, and the man. It was a profile and a face he was beginning to know, posture relaxed, and Chan almost started when the man turned his head, looking straight at him, meeting his eyes. It was like he was being looked into for a second, before the corner of the man’s mouth quirked, and he stood, walking toward the tiger. She rose with him, walking to the other side of the glass and staring up at him like they were entranced.

It was him, the man who Chan had seen on the street. He didn’t have on the big coat, just dark pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, so intent on the tiger just like he’d been staring at Chan.

“Who are you?” Chan asked. It sounded loud, almost echoey in the empty space. For a moment, neither of them moved, but Chan stood up when the man turned toward him instead.

“You’re here,” he said. His voice was low, quiet, surprised, but he seemed to collect himself, fingers trailing in front of the tiger’s nose before he paused. “My name is Minho.”

He had so many questions, so many, his lips parting to ask who he was, why Chan kept seeing him, why they were there. But before he could get out even a sound, he watched with held breath as the tiger stood up, pressing her paws against the glass on the other side of Minho’s hands.

And Minho smiled at her, head half turning to Chan so that he knew the words were for him. “There’s more to this world than meets the eye. I’d like to show you, if you’ll let me?”

“Show me what?”

“In here,” Minho said. He moved, standing behind Chan, and pointing in to the tiger enclosure, as the tiger strolled toward her rock. “Trust me.”

Trust him? With what? He touched the glass, pushed against it as Minho had and nearly snatched his hand back when it moved, like a particularly stiff plastic curtain. It did it again, when he tried it, and Minho nodded as Chan pushed it further and stepped inside onto the formed rocks.

“Where do I go?” Chan asked, turning his head and hearing Minho’s breathing beside his ear.

“Tonight. Jungle.”

But when Chan looked back, a question to clarify on his lips, Minho was gone. The zoo was gone, just a yawning black emptiness. All that existed was the rocks and trees ahead of him, the tiger watching him. He took a step, reflex, gasping as vertigo grabbed him by the throat, swimming his brain around, as he reached to steady himself—

And woke, hand slapping against his mattress, brain righting as he almost startled at a number on his clock flipping over to the next. He exhaled,

***

“Want to go out to a club we haven’t been to in a while because I had a dream about some guy I’ve seen a few times that I thought was watching me, and I want to see if he’s actually there?” would have been a kind of a wordy way of asking friends to tag along in solidarity, had he opted to. He’d considered it for a while, or even inviting them and not telling them at all. But it was weird enough in his head that he felt like it would’ve made them concerned for his own mental wellbeing on one hand, and if they didn’t know, surely someone would have been concerned for why he was scanning the crowd with so much interest. He was not, perhaps, the most ambitious club-goer. He liked the ambiance, and going to dance, and having a mocktail. If he was going to feel weird about it, he was going to do so on his own, and not put that burden on anyone else.

Chan wasn’t even sure what prompted him to pay attention to the dream, anyway. It’d been incredibly vivid, sure, but he’d had vivid dreams about chasing chickens and hadn’t acted on it. There were only two explanations if the guy actually was at the club: there’d been something subliminal going on (maybe he’d been holding a poster for it and Chan hadn’t noticed?), or he was being stalked. And he kind of wanted to know which. The worst that could happen outside of those two things was he felt kind of silly, and went on with his life. So he had his drink, and felt like some kind of brooding villain as he looked over the dancing mass of people. Jungle was a popular club, almost always full as the night wore on. To meet someone, it was as inconspicuous a place as any. He put the cup back, finished, and made his way to the dance floor. He hadn’t given himself an arbitrary time to leave, or a time of no return. He figured if he felt like he’d done his due diligence, he could put it out of his head. It was stranger, like a motion, pulling at him, more than it was any arbitrary decision.

Few people paid attention to him, as he eased past the less populated edges. And yeah, he was scanning. Eyes flitting past the women, focusing on faces of their companions, or of men who were alone. And that was the first time he really began to feel duped by his own subconscious, as the second song transitioned to a third with hype by the DJ. He’d turned his head, intending to map a way back out of the crowd, when he saw a group to his left part, and a man step through. He didn’t do a double-take but that was because he was up in Chan’s space so quickly that all Chan could do was stare. Minho. Lips shiny, cheekbones gleaming with highlight. Long, dark lashes lining eyes that pinned Chan still and stopped any motion he might have had. Nearly stopped his perception of sound itself, even though the floor thumped with bass, and people danced around them. For a second, he nearly saw the face of the tiger in his dreams superimposed. Someone bumping into Chan, in fact, woke him from his shock.

“It’s you,” he said. He wasn’t a master of faces by any means, but that face was one he’d have remembered. If not from a glance on a street corner, which he had as well, but from his dreams.

“You know me?”

It was not a question of surprise, said loudly, and close, so that they could understand each other. More like he was seeking confirmation, that he wasn’t speaking to someone who was a stranger. Which Chan absolutely was.

“I’ve been seeing you everywhere. Why are you following me?”

“I’m— I’m not,” Minho almost stammered out, but righted himself, his chin rising stubbornly. “I am, but you don’t understand. It’s starting, and they can’t see me with you.”

“Who?”

Minho grimaced. “I can’t tell you. I— No. I can’t. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

Chan froze again as Minho grabbed his shirt and leaned into him, mouth nearly against his ear.

“Stay away from the—”

The hold on his loosened, and Chan had barely blinked before Minho had moved away, melting back into the crowd even as Chan took two, uncertain steps forward, and nearly ran into a couple who were slow-dancing. He half-shouted his apology, and kept moving, looking for Minho. And not finding him. His mind kept rolling that last sentence over and over again. He’d have sworn that Minho had said stay away from the birds. Which made no sense, unless he was supposed to stay away from pigeons. But there weren’t any other words that made sense, unless Chan’s hearing had shorted out from having Minho so close. Possible, but improbable. He’d liked to think he had better game than that, even with a man as handsome as Minho was.

Chan lingered, having another drink and watching, but never spotting Minho again. And left afterward, almost swaying forward as he stood on the subway home, like he was being pulled again by Minho close enough to hear. Stay away from the… The birds. Chan grimaced. It didn’t sound like the most…intelligent warning. And if Minho wasn’t all with it, then if he’d focused on Chan, Chan listening to him also wasn’t the wisest choice.

He let his mind wander as he pulled out his phone, played the adventure game a little more. The sounds in the bushes were still there, but he saw teases of an occasional long, fluffy tail, and distant in the sounds, a howl?. An upcoming boss? He fought more of the dark clouds with tails, heard the flapping of their invisible wings as he barely made it out of the battle intact. His weapon was damaged, and he needed another. He focused on the game, but also tried to wrack his mind, to remember if he’d had some subliminal cue in seeing the figure of a man across the street, then no. He couldn’t remember. It’d been in that dream.. And he wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

***

Grass tickled the back of Chan’s neck as he relaxed, skin warm from the sun. It was luxury to be able to relax together, the sound of their breathing almost louder than the distant chatter of songbirds. Chan caught an ear between his fingers, thumb easing along the edge, sweeping to the base of it and rubbing with the lay of the fur. There was a pleased little chuff as he began scratching, and another as he petted across the broad plane of skull.

“Yeah, you like that,” Chan murmured. He opened his eyes, watching his fingers play over the gradients of light and dark, orange and gold, black and white. The amber eyes were calm, considering him, head heavy on Chan’s stomach and chest. A tiger in perfect relaxation, and a little bratty, flicking his ears and wrinkling his nose to get Chan to keep petting. He snorted a little, gladly giving in and watching the pretty eyes close in enjoyment. The soft grass under them, warm sun, gentle breeze, it felt like paradise. His eyes closed, sinking into honeyed contentment.

The first jolt out of sleep wasn’t the worst. Chan was still warm, horizontal. But his fingers didn’t sink into fur at his stomach, but soft cotton instead. And when he opened his eyes, flying up onto his elbows, it wasn’t a sunny clearing, but his darkened bedroom. It felt like if he just got up, the tiger would be just outside somewhere, wandering, looking for him. Home, and lost at the same time. Chan sank back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before turning onto his side and tugging up the sheet. It distracted him from that weird feeling of missing something that wasn’t real. There was a siren outside passing, probably what had woken him up.

“Dreams’re weird,” he muttered into his pillow. At least there hadn’t been some instruction, somehow. Grounded, he sank back into sleep.

***

No more dreams visited Chan over the next few days. No more sightings of Minho, either. It was enough to make him question himself, but it was as real as the phone he held, or the clothes he wore. He hadn’t dreamed the man who’d pulled him close, who’d spoken a loud warning against his ear. And no, he didn’t eye every pigeon in sight in distrust. Minho’s warning, the dreams, they had taken on a bit of a memory quality. He joked with Jisung that he hadn’t seen his mystery guy again. Hadn’t brought up the club. It felt like every day that passed between felt more like he’d been right not to do that, not to say anything. He exited the subway near his home, and walked toward an alley he usually took to get home quicker. When his phone buzzed, he glanced at a notification from his game.

Don’t go that way!

Apps sending him random notifications, so he pushed the power button, making the screen go black as he kept walking. The alley was short, and empty, and he made it to his building as his phone continued going off in notifications. He’d have to check the app settings when he got home. It was a fun game, but he didn’t need it yelling at him. There was one last one he saw, as he went up the elevator, telling him to stay away. Maybe he was right, and there was a boss battle coming up.

Halfway down the hallway, he was almost pushed back slightly by a gust of air, and saw something dark skittering toward him on the carpet. Chan frowned, reaching down, picking up a handful of the black feathers scattered there - the ends were sharp, edges spiky. They almost looked like weapons than anything else, as he let himself into his apartment and closed the door. In his hands, they crumbled, turning to ash in his palm, streaming between his fingers. Turning to snowflakes as the air around him chilled. From one exhale to another, he could see his breath, a chill tightening his shoulder blades, frost glittering on his sleeves as his apartment disappeared from around him. Wrapping his arms close to his body almost only made him feel colder, twisting around, gasping as he felt like he was breathing in knives of cold. But there was nowhere to go, a flat expanse of rolling white as he looked for something to give him relief. A tree, a cave, anything. He fell to his knees as he staggered forward, his feet getting increasingly numb, exhales falling like snow, and all of it rising up his body like he was sinking.

His lips, cold and dry, split, tasting blood that had already turned to ice, trying to keep his head above the frost and cold. And his eyes flew open as a surge of light. Fire! A fire burning on the snow like it was oil. The snow around him fled and he reached for the heat. But his skin, his skin was still so cold, every nerve feeling like it was splitting, imploding as the heat engulfed him. The frost on his sleeves caught on fire, clothes falling away as he fell, eyes rolling back, and the melted snow, it covered him, pulling him, depositing him face first against dirt and sand. He inhaled, unsure if there was anything left of himself, if he could even move. One eyelid twitched open, and another rush of water moved him, tugging him under, rolling him.

Chan gurgled, air leaving him, reaching for the earth, reaching for the top of the wave. It deposited him again, leaving him gasping, blinking at the bright lights and spots of black swirling. His eyes, he thought for a moment. But the spots kept moving, getting bigger. Black against a bright sky. Feathers. Black eyes.

Birds. His eyes opened wider. Minho’s warning.

He was still trying to cough the water out of his lungs when the birds descended. He tried to roll, tried to protect his head, but there were too many of them, bigger than a pigeon, a crow. Beaks pecking into his knuckles, his arms, his neck. The scaly long tails twining around his legs, his neck. No. He needed help, or he couldn’t—

“M-m—” he tried to get out, but nothing else would come out. There were claws digging into his skin, pulling his hair. They were tearing at his face, sharp beaks catching at his skin, pinching, tearing at his lips like they were trying to get at his tongue. There was warmth and wet on his skin like he was bleeding from too many places to count.

Chan had the image of the man in his head, and the image of the tiger. He needed help. He need that, him, he needed—

“Minho!”

He didn’t know if he screamed it, if he whispered it, using the last of his strength to push another bird away from his face.

***

Chan startled into motion with a gasp, fingers of one hand digging into thick fur, the others into grass before flying up to protect his face. He halfway bowed off the ground before realizing he could breathe, that nothing was attacking him. He panted as he stared up at the blue sky, waving tree tops, feeling over himself, realizing he still had on his clothes, his fingers coming away from his face dry. No blood. It wrung all the strength from him, rendering him almost boneless as he turned, staring at the tiger next to him. It rested like a sphinx guarding him, watching him with intent he hoped wasn’t hunger. A dream? A dream after a nightmare? He remembered other dreams, the gentle petting, resting together. He much preferred that. His hand went out almost on autopilot, touching the still shoulder.

“Hi,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say to a tiger. It wasn’t like a hostage situation. He couldn’t humanize himself. It was a tiger, and he could be a tasty snack. Though, even that’d be a better dream than the nightmare had been. He exhaled, relaxing back fully again. “What a fucking day.”

The tiger nuzzled at his arm, and Chan, after a moment of hesitation, traced one of the stripes on his neck.

“This is a good way to wind down from a nightmare. Wherever…this is. Maybe my brain’s trying to tell me to get away.”

He felt for his phone, but it wasn’t in his pocket. He had no wallet, either. Just his clothes. And he was thankful for that, at least. The sound of a twittering bird made him tense, but the tiger stayed calm, and Chan relaxed. For a little while, at least, because the tiger stood, and regarded him expectantly. Chan got to his feet, and was gratified to find his body wasn’t quite as shaky as his brain was. He stared at the lashes framing the tiger’s eyes, and thought inexplicably of Minho, when they’d met in Jungle. And there he was meeting a tiger in what might be a literal jungle. Though, in some kind of dream. Minho the tiger. As long as he didn’t say it out loud, he could amuse himself with it at least. They walked together for some minutes, tiger easily crossing a narrow stream that it took Chan a minute to get across as he carefully walked from stone to stone, not wanting his shoes to get wet. The air was warm, the sounds of a living space around them. Hums of insects, birdsong. Rustles of bushes in the breeze. A bit like his game, in a way, and he carefully stayed close as Minho veered, and took him toward another path.

Minho took him into a clearing, leading him to a tree a little taller than the others around it. Maybe almost three times Chan’s height. Minho approached it, rubbing his cheek against it, and moving to the side, making way for Chan, too. Scenting it, most likely, but it was almost like he was greeting it, too. And Minho just waited, looking between Chan and the tree. He assumed it meant something was expected of him.

“Nice to meet you,” Chan said, taking one of the tree’s branches and shaking it like he would someone’s hand.

But that didn’t seem to be enough for Minho who was still staring at him expectantly.

“What? Do I need to rub my cheek on it, too?”

What the heck. He leaned in, rubbing his cheek against the bark, and standing back upright. Minho’s head bobbed, like he was pleased, and they continued on their journey. At the edge of the clearing, Chan glanced back at the tree, touching his cheek and wondering what exactly it was. But he didn’t have time to ponder it, putting energy into his feet, and catching up to Minho in the tangle of bushes. They went down several different paths, seeing small animals moving around. Rabbits, little songbirds. Nothing stopped Minho’s rambling, and Chan wasn’t willing to stop, even if there were some shady places near the running water that looked tempting. He’d been getting hungry, as they walked, but there hadn’t been anything obvious to eat, and he wasn’t sure how even to ask a tiger about it. It was still a dream, and he knew that. Knew it, as he licked his lips and watched the tiger walk easily ahead of him.

Everything was green, and lush, and they passed flowers that scented the air heavily, sweet and rich. Like Minho had heard him - and maybe he had heard Chan’s stomach - they stopped once, as Minho nosed into a bush, and pulled something free. A fruit, it seemed. Minho dropped it to the ground, biting it in half and chewing. He pushed his nose into the bush and looked back to Chan. It looked a bit like a peach, but not something familiar. He assumed it wasn’t something that would make him vomit and die. He tried to pick one that looked similar to the one that Minho had taken, grateful at least not to have been offered one with tiger spit on it. He pulled away the skin, and ate the sweet, juicy flesh, and after drank from the crisp, cold water of the stream before taking another fruit.

“It’s good,” he said, and the tiger chuffed at him, giving Chan a minute or two more before they were off again. It was getting darker, and something about the lowering light made him keep closer, Minho’s tail brushing the side of his pants. He couldn’t see any overt sun, though he was sure there had to be somewhere. And the land sloped up gradually at first, Chan pushing his way under thick ferns, and coming to a place that was quite a bit steeper. Raised in steps, almost, like a giant had carved them. The tiger scaled them easily, of course. And the first few were no higher than Chan’s armpits. He could almost roll onto them. The next to last required a boost off a rock, as Minho patrolled the edge above him, watching, almost anxious somehow for Chan to join him there.

He had to pause there, panting, and pausing internally as Minho snuffled against his shoulder. But relaxing with it. He didn’t often, or ever, have a tiger in his personal space. He didn’t know how to magically get used to it. The last incline that he could see was the tallest, and he could barely touch the top with his fingertips when he jumped slightly.

“We have to go up?” he asked Minho, who hadn’t scaled the rise yet.

The little grumble might not have been an obvious yes, but Minho put both front paws on the rise, digging in with his claws. Telling Chan to do the same? He tried. Tried to grab for a handhold as high as he could, and dirt crumbled away. He walked up and down the little shelf, checking for maybe a lower spot, or a higher one that would be more solid that he could grip. Unlike before, there was no rock, no place to get a foothold. He startled at a nose against his hand as he stood back and wondered if he could run and fling himself up. If he fell, rolled? He’d be back where he started, and maybe injured. Minho laid down for a second, and then got back up, walking up to the wall and standing lengthwise against it. Chan followed the movement, saw Minho turn to look at his own back before looking at Chan again. Another chuff. Oh.

“Will it be okay? I won’t hurt you?” Chan asked.

The tiger didn’t seem amused, just lowering his head like telling Chan to get on with it. But just getting onto the tiger was a challenge. He opted for a place by the shoulder blades, where his weight would be more supported instead of in the middle of the spine. And Minho was not— Well. He was thankfully not short, given that he was giving Chan a boost. But there was also skin that wanted to roll, and Chan had to account for that, moving the skin as much as he could as he got his foot up, and paused. There was one root sticking out, but too middling to be of any help other than to steady himself. So he grabbed it, inhaled, his whole focus on the level of ground above. The root guided him up as he shifted his weight onto the tiger, bringing up his other foot as his balance wavered and he grabbed for the roll of grass. Instead of just his fingertips, he could get his whole hands up flat. If it had been the first level, it would’ve been easy. But they’d been climbing, and his arms were tired. Still, he was balanced on a tiger’s back.

“Hang on,” he said through gritted teeth, and bent his knees slightly. That small bit of momentum, plus the push of his hands just after, got most of his torso onto the ground. And then he felt trapped, trying to swing up a leg and not being close enough. Not able to roll without falling. Not able to fall without— No. He grunted, dug his elbows in, and got no purchase as the edge began to crumble.

“Minho—” he croaked. There was a shaking as a weight landed near him, and hot breath on his neck. And before he could squeak, a mouth gripped his jacket, and dragged him over the edge. And then dropped him, face against the dirt, panting.

“Thanks,” he said after a second, reaching out to pat a very large paw still standing next to him. There was a nuzzle against his head in response. And when he could move, to sit up, and move a generous amount of space away from the edge again, he realized that yes, that was the highest point. There was no more climbing. He was glad for the fruit he’d had, not sure if he’d been able to make it without that burst of energy.

“I thought I was in pretty good shape,” Chan joked wryly, and Minho snorted. He hoped there wasn’t far to go, and luckily, there wasn’t. The place Minho took him to overlooked a bay with rocks below and crashing water. There was a beach beyond, dim in the dying light.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, sitting when Minho sat. And felt the worry of the walking fall away. He had dirt under his nails. The nape of his neck was damp from the tiger grabbing him up like a kitten. His arms ached, and his palms stung. He thought he’d be sore the next day. “I thought this was a dream.”

The tiger looked from the water, to Chan, and made a low sound. Almost mournful. He reached out again, stroked the tiger’s neck and shoulder. The tiger turned into it, pressing a nose into the hollow of Chan’s shoulder, and letting out a long sigh. From that, from the closeness, Chan wasn’t afraid.

“It’s beautiful here,” he said. “I don’t know that I’d want to be here alone, though.”

When the tiger lifted his head, Chan was caught in the amber gold of his eyes. So intent. Chan let his fingers come up under the strong jaw, and heard the low sound of contentment. Just a large cat, that was all. An enormous cat with fangs nearly as long as his fingers. Minho tensed before Chan could tease him with a “nice kitty.” And Chan withdrew his hand, almost like Minho had heard the tease. No. No, Minho was looking behind him, standing and beginning to growl, putting himself between Chan and what he saw. And then Chan saw it, too, standing. At first it looked like a strange gray speck, or a cloud. But out of it, he caught the definition of flapping wings.

Long scaly tales. And there, high on the cliff, there was no shelter. No stand of trees. He had no weapon. No stick like had been in the game. A tiger could fight them, that was true, but— There were so many. And Minho seemed to come to that same conclusion, turning to Chan. He didn’t like the move. Raised his hands in defense from the birds, and tiger both.

It felt like he was falling even before Minho’s paws hit him. Looking to the sky all he could see was a mass of swarming black and his fingers tried futilely to grab at Minho’s fur. Falling, and falling, the air whipping, and stealing his breath. Falling toward the rocks, the high splashing waves. He couldn’t even brace himself before they hit the water, Minho just before him, gasping one last breath before it covered them. It was cold. So cold it made him want to gasp, his head swimming, limbs flailing as he tried to figure out which way was up in the cold. All he could hear was the rush of the water, ears full, eyes stinging as he twisted, looking for any sign of gold and orange and black as he sought the surface.

Bubbles escaped his mouth as his arm was grabbed, a strong grasp that pulled him upward. Up, far further than it seemed like they had fallen, until his head and shoulders popped out of the water, gulping air into his burning lungs. Just as soon as he’d done that, a wave slapped down over him, roiling the water and his sense of where he was - which way was up again— Trying to drive them into the rocks.

He broke through the surface again, choking, gasping for air, eyes blurred as he looked beside him. It was a human hand grasping his arm, a dark head ducking under the water and propelling them out of the line of waves toward the rocky cliff. He did his best to help, kicking, trying to paddle with his free arm. But he almost kicked in fright when his leg brushed something solid. Solid. Land. Sand. It felt like all his joints were jelly as he tried to start crawling, water still flooding past and trying to tug him back out. Strong arms grasped him around the ribs, half picking him up, helping him until the water was at his feet. He collapsed onto his belly for a second before pushing feebly to his back, needing the open and the air. His ears were popping, clearing, tears streaming as his eyes tried to right themselves from the salt.

It was a man who hovered over him, touching his cheek and smearing the sand there.

“Are you all right?” Minho asked.

“Ugh,” he got out, still panting like a dog. Was he? He couldn’t stop staring at Minho, like looking away would put him back in the water. He’d never been so glad to see someone’s face, no matter how wild, and wet he looked. He was… He was gorgeous? Had he been that good looking before? Maybe he was just high from being alive or something, with Minho still abrading his cheek with his thumb and the sand. But he blinked several times, realizing it wasn’t just hair hanging over Minho’s forehead. The seaweed came away with a wet sound and they both stared at it.

“We have to get away from the beach,” Minho said. “Try and stand.”

On his own, Chan might not have managed it. His clothes were sodden, and heavy, shoes squelching as Minho half guided, half-supported him into grass, and then into the trees. He wasn’t sure if he could hear birds overhead, or if it was his ears still clearing. Or if it was the sound of the waves. He stood, braced against a tree for a moment, while Minho left. When he returned, he was carrying something large, and Chan blinked at it. A tiger pelt.

“This way,” Minho said, and the slight reprieve allowed Chan to stumble forward on his own. They ended up in a hollow along the cliff edge, still crowded by trees. A solid roof, as Chan crawled in, and laid down.

“You should get out of the wet clothes, once I get a fire going,” Minho said.

Chan thought he’d replied, but moments later, coughed out a little more seawater with a grimace. He eased to an elbow, watching Minho flit in and out of the little cave. He’d seen Minho’s face, but hadn’t been nearly aware of the rest. He wore— He wore little. Some kind of abbreviated shorts that showed off strong thighs and lean muscle. There was a necklace around his neck, a little bag on string, and it swung as Minho gathered soft fluff, and small sticks, with larger ones nearby. And the sound of two rocks striking together rang in the cave, and in Chan’s ears. Once, twice, three times. Four. Sparks flying down into the soft fiber. Glowing as Minho bent, and blew gingerly, and like Chan’s breath was taken too, he held his own breath as he watched, and waited. And the sparks glowed, and brightened, and caught. Quickly, far more quickly than Chan anticipated, the fluff was nearly engulfed, and Minho gingerly added more, and then small sticks again, as he gently rested the little packet on the bed of larger sticks he’d brought. It wasn’t an easy process and the fire waned a bit as he urged it with more small fuel, bits of bark, grass, and leaves. But it climbed onto the larger pieces Minho arranged, feeding greedily. And Chan almost startled, mesmerized by it, when he realized Minho was looking at him.

“Strip,” Minho said.

Minho took the shoes when Chan got the swollen laces undone, and put them on their side near the fire so they could dry. Socks, his shirt, undershirt. Layer after layer of clothes. Minho took them to the underbrush outside the shelter, laid them over the branches, as the world outside got darker. The fire, their only light. There was no point to shame in his nakedness, and he was half glad of it as he got closer to the fire. The heat seemed to wick away the uncomfortable damp from his skin even as it itched with salt.

“Will the fire keep the birds away?”

“Mm,” Minho seemed to agree. And he picked up— He picked up the pelt, and moved to Chan, letting it fall free, and wrapping it over Chan’s shoulders like a blanket. Chan clutched it close, letting it warm his back as Minho sat artlessly nearby, lit half, and half in shadow. Chan had tens of millions of questions crowding like puppies trying to get out a door. His mouth opened several times, and then closed. His mind was full and blank. His body heavy, and warming slowly with the thick tiger pelt on him.

“We’ll be safe tonight,” Minho said, before Chan could form his words. “I’ll…explain what I can in the morning. You should sleep.”

“Are you sleeping, too?” Chan asked, his voice rustier than he had thought it would be. He was half afraid if he slept, he’d wake up alone. Or not wake up at all.

“I will,” Minho agreed.

But he had Chan lie down first, aching body on soft sand, a smooth rock for a pillow that felt like a luxury product as his muscles groaned and gave. Minho settled behind him, leaving the fire between them both, and the outside world. His clothes were bright on the branches, and Chan half smiled, even his cheek muscles hurting. The pelt was almost too warm, and he murmured, asking if Minho needed part of it.

He slept before he heard the answer.

***

Chan startled as he woke to birdsong, eyes flying open. Brightness. The open cave mouth. The fire. Minho. That forced more air into his lungs as he eased up, saw Minho sitting by the fire. Something smelled incredible, and his stomach growled.

“Good morning,” Minho said, clearly amused. His hair was messy, but he was no less handsome than he’d been the night before. Golden skin against darkness.

“I slept?”

Minho snorted. “Hard, too. I took my pelt to go hunt, and you didn’t even stir. It’s ready to eat..”

HIs pelt? It was on Chan again, sliding down as Chan sat up. Minho had taken it with him? The prospect of food enticed him, but so did emptying his bladder. Minho paid him no mind as he creaked to his feet and went gingerly, cautiously, out to find a tree. He picked his clothes off the bushes like they’d grown there, stiff with salt. They - and him - needed washing in fresh water, but that wasn’t a right-then luxury. And it felt nice being covered, even as bare as Minho was.

Minho served him on wide leaves, a fruit like the day before, berries. Succulent roast bird - not the kind of bird that attacked them, it seemed, as Minho shook his head at Chan’s speculative look. He was hungry enough almost to eat the bones, but he settled. It was all for Chan, it seemed, because Minho refused any. He might have eaten before Chan woke, he guessed. And he didn’t judge as Chan licked the grease from his fingers. No seasoning, and he probably could’ve eaten two or three more.

“Thank you,” he said, and Minho nodded at him.

“We’ll find water first,” Minho determined.

He waited for Chan to get into his shoes. They were, if not entirely dry, then at least comfortably so. The last thing he needed were blisters. The fire was scattered and out, and Minho carried the tiger pelt over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. A fact Chan knew not to be true. Walking felt like he had new limbs, feeling them out for the first time and Minho glancing back like he was being sure Chan was keeping up. He was. Barely. But Minho was true to his word. The cold of the stream water hurt his teeth almost, and Chan drank until he nearly felt drunk with it, lodged like a slug on the stream bank. Minho, just as easy as before, settled near him, not drinking, but looking out over the water, thumb absently tracing against one of the tiger stripes.

He could see the tiger’s ears, and head. Knew trailing behind was the tiger’s tail. Knew the day before he’d walked next to a tiger, woke to a tiger.

“What—” Stopped. “Who—” Stopped. “Where—”

Minho’s lips twitched, looking at him. Chan felt a little bloom of anger that nearly took a pout to his lips. What was he supposed to ask, and in what order to not sound like he was babbling? He did appreciate that Minho had said they would talk in the morning. He’d clearly been in no state to do so the night before. Not from the exertion, or the dream, or the fall. None of it.

“Is this real?” Chan settled on.

“Yes,” Minho said. “All of this is real. You’re not dreaming. You’re not in a coma, or ill. It’s as real as the fact that you’re sitting on solid ground.”

“And you,” Chan said because he needed to hear it aloud, to be sure the threads in his mind that didn’t want to connect were true, “are a tiger.”

“Not right now,” Minho said, flipping the ear of the tiger pelt a little sassily. “But yes. I am…what you can think of as the tiger’s spirit. And I can become him, bring life to this empty pelt.”

Impossible. Incredible? He’d seen, and touched. He’d fallen off a cliff with a tiger, and staggered onto land with a human.

“Why were you a tiger yesterday?”

“It seemed less complicated. You weren’t afraid of me, so I could show you this place, and let you take it in. I would not have taken you up so high if I’d known…”

Minho frowned.

“You warned me. In Jungle, you warned me to stay away from the birds,” Chan said. “I—”

“Did you?”

“I never saw birds. I was going home, and there were black feathers in my hallway. And then I was in some kind of hell, I don’t know. Sweating, and drowning. And they were all over me, trying to eat me.”

“They took you between,” Minho murmured.

“Between what?” Chan asked.

“Between this world and ours. There are… There are so many worlds. And even this one hasn’t existed forever. The tree I took you to, it’s the root of this place. It existed once before, taller, and stronger. Animal spirits that tended to the forest, who lived only here, and…”

Minho was silent a moment, and Chan watched him, until Minho shook his head.

“Once, it was forbidden for love to be between spirits. What they gave each other couldn’t be sustained, and the scar on the land, and the pain of the spirits losing each other created the birds.”

“What happened to the spirits?” Chan asked.

“They were reborn, and found each other again, and lead happy lives,” Minho said. “And so the forest was reborn, too. The tree grew in our world, until it was strong enough to sustain this place.”

“But the birds still…”

Minho nodded, head falling back. “Yeah. It was hoped that the birds would pass when the forest before did. But…they didn’t. Some of them still lived between. And apparently they still feel that this world is their home. Or, I don’t know. Home sounds sentimental. Their right. I must have let them through when I brought you.”

“If it’s not home, then what do they want?” Chan asked.

Minho frowned, his eyes closing even tighter. “To kill my mate,” he said, his voice low and raw, “and destroy me and the tree.”

“Are there other spirits yet?”

Minho turned his head for a moment to look at him, looked away. “No. No, there aren’t.”

“And the tree…told you all this?”

“Some came from the one who was the tiger before me. He lives with his mate. He cared for the tree for many years.” And Minho sighed, frustrated. “I’d hoped you would find your way here on your own, but they found you first.”

“I kept seeing you, almost like you were stalking me,” Chan said. And looked at Minho who’d muttered half under his breath, “Tiger.” “But you were protecting me.”

“I was trying,” Minho agreed after a moment. “You would have come here then, or later. That part was never in doubt. If they couldn’t kill you first. We should get going.”

Chan needed as much time to digest that information as he did his breakfast. At least with Minho being able to speak, he could ask about fruit, and grazed a bit as they walked. As the air got hotter, they sat in the shade, and Chan dozed to the sound of buzzing insects. He woke, a little sweaty, and took Minho’s hand when Minho offered it to help Chan up. It was his skin buzzing then, as he rubbed his fingers together at the contact. Minho led him, lifting branches for Chan to duck under. Making sure Chan stayed nearby. In the stickiness of the afternoon, they came not to a stream but what looked like a larger river, not very deep, or fast, in the bend that Minho took him to. It wasn’t quite as cold as the stream, and he realized why Minho had taken him there. To wash.

“Is it safe?” Chan asked, and Minho gestured, indicating yes, to go ahead. He started to strip after taking off his shoes, and Minho barked out a laugh.

“If you’re going to wash them anyway, you might as well take them with you.”

That made Chan laugh as he realized that was true. He did remove his socks for later washing, but otherwise waded right in. No colder than a swimming pool because of the shallowness of it, and he sank down almost to his chin, braced against the lazy current as the water seemed to run through him almost like atoms in space. Once everything was wet, he went back to the shallows, and began to strip for real. Squeezing and swishing his shirt several times and wringing it before doing it again. Minho handed him his socks and was there, ankle deep, to take the clothes one by one, and to hang them on little outcroppings of branches, or to lay them on sun-hot rocks.

Sand from the edges felt good as a gentle exfoliation, getting all the salt from his skin. He ducked and rinsed his hair several times, coming up shaking like a dog and clearly getting droplets on Minho, still on the shore from the way he sputtered. After floating a bit, carried down, and then swimming back a few times, he settled, waist deep, and looked at Minho, comfortable on the shore, maybe up to his shins in the water.

“Can you swim?” Chan asked.

“As a tiger,” Minho said. “But not as a man.”

“Come play, then,” Chan said. “I won’t let you drown.”

There was amusement in those eyes.

“Another time. Don’t wear yourself out.”

No, that was true. The pleasure of the water didn’t outweigh the fact that it was tiring. He waded back to the shore, and settled on grass, laid out and unconcerned as the sun began to dry him. He nearly would have slept again, but didn’t want to burn. His clothes were various stages of drying, but he put them on anyway. They’d dry more. The only thing he didn’t put on were his socks, instead carrying them so they could continue drying. The dampness on his skin was a good thing, in the end, keeping him cool as they walked through harsh light, and dappled shade. By the time night came again, they hadn’t seen any more birds, though Chan would have sworn he heard them in the distance. It made him shudder, as Minho found not a cave that time, but a thicket. He helped to bring stones, and to get sticks. And Minho again made fire. He couldn’t hear the waves like he could the night before. Somehow quieter, and louder for it. Chan was sated with a meal of fruit and clean water, and Minho promising meat again in the morning. And Minho settled behind him again, putting the tiger pelt over Chan.

“You can use some of it, too.”

“I’m fine. I thought you might be cold.”

There was a face very near him suddenly. Minho exhaled against his neck, ostensibly to help warm him, but it made him shiver instead, laughing with it as he startled. Minho patted him, and Chan took that as the apology it was. He slept, not as hard that night, though. He woke at least once to the call of a night bird, hearing Minho’s steady, even breaths behind him. He did notice when Minho took his pelt again, and watched through foggy eyes as a tiger walked out of the dim morning light, laying a bird near the fire, and then disappearing again before returning with something else limp in its mouth. A rabbit, he realized. And then Minho was… Minho again. Plucking feathers, and slipping skin from the rabbit. There was no spit, so he acted as one himself, putting them over the fire, and turning them every so often as fat dripped and hissed. It smelled of butchery outside of the thicket, when Chan rose, though Chan saw little evidence of it. The ground had not been as comfortable as the sand in the cave had been, and he stretched out some aches for a moment while he stared around still in some shock at where he was. There was no sound of traffic. No glitter of buildings high in the distance. Part of him wondered why he wasn’t questioning where he was more, and the rest had decided it was obvious. It was clear all around him. There was a man with him who could turn into a tiger.

The food that morning was a bit more diverse, when he sat back down. There were several small carrots, gleaming and clean. A couple of small onions with the tops still on. More fruit and berries. And of course, the meat. He hadn’t been asleep again so long as the food cooked as to have missed Minho eating that time. And he’d only remembered him returning with two carcasses, both of which were offered, though thankfully cooked.

“Don’t you need to eat?”

“I can, if I wish to. But this place sustains me, and I sustain it,” Minho said. “So this is all for you.”

It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful. And certainly, he ate everything that was put in front of him with the exception of the roots of the onions, and the bones and scrap. Minho had not watched him, like a parent watching a child, but there was a sense he was monitoring what Chan was doing as he rested against a tree trunk and stared at some point in the distance.

“Thank you,” Chan said again, when he was done. And Minho nodded, acknowledging him.

“It’s what I can do for you here.”

“Do we have a goal?” Chan asked. Trying to put himself on Minho’s side. Hoping that Minho might open up to him, not see Chan as the weakness he was just trying to keep alive.

“The only way you can leave is through the tree,” Minho said. “Because your arrival wasn’t as planned, it’s— But I’m afraid if I take you there directly, the birds will intervene. I’m trying to figure out how we can get there safest.”

“Will it transport me or something?”

Minho nodded. “Something like that.”

“You said the birds lived between. How many were here before I came?” Chan asked.

“A few,” Minho said, “but they were weak, and I took care of them.”

“But you said I need to be here. If I need to be here, and the world is supposed to be without them? Would the tree even let me leave? Can you leave?”

“I…can,” Minho said almost hesitantly. “I can leave when I wish, which is why you saw me before. But if I leave, there’s nothing to protect you from the birds.”

Chan grimaced at that thought. If he’d had a sword, maybe. Or a machine gun.

“If I go, then maybe I can come back the way I was supposed to,” Chan said. “However that was. Is there something else I can do, so I can leave like you?”

“I don’t know.”

And then Minho stood abruptly. “Let’s keep moving.”

That was fine with him. He got his shoes on, blessedly dry, and was continually thankful for them as they walked over uneven ground. He would have held back Minho entirely, hobbling along, picking his way across paths. Even the softer, even paths would have been rough to him. He did find a sturdy stick along the way that he used part as walking stick, part in his mind partially as a weapon. Like the game. Like the—

“Did you have something to do with the game?” Chan blurted, almost stopping at the thought, and getting Minho to glance back at him, amused.

“It is connected. It was preparing you for a journey you might take,” Minho said.

To bring him there. He’d dreamed of a tiger, but the tiger was Minho, not himself. He’d fought little flying clouds with tails in the game - the birds, he realized. There had been a wagging tail in a bush, howls in the distance. But he didn’t ask Minho that. He’d gotten the impression that Minho felt it wasn’t his place to talk to Chan more about what he could possibly be, other than the fact that he was supposed to be there. It was like untangling the puzzle in the game itself, finding things to eat, and weapons to use. There would be no swords hidden, but his stick at least gave him more than his fists to use.

They saw the birds, with their dark forms and trailing tails, in the distance that day. Shadows mostly in the sky beyond. Not the way they were going, thankfully. Minho had backed into him, grabbed the shirt at Chan’s belly like Chan might move from him or make a sound. The birds did not wheel and come toward them, so Minho had relaxed, slowly, and they continued on. Chan helped Minho look for food that night, like Minho did not want him out of sight, and Chan dreamed that a bird half as tall as he was hopped toward him over the fire and tried to peck at him. He jerked in his sleep, and a hand on his side - Minho - steadied him. And he studied Chan as Chan ate the offerings of the morning. Whatever bird it had been that morning was more succulent than the sort of stringy one the day before.

“I should be bringing you more food,” Minho said. “You’ve lost weight.”

He’d had to tighten his belt a notch, sure. But they were also moving more than he was used to.

“I’m all right,” he said, though he wasn’t sure Minho believed him. “How long until you feel it’s safe to try and get to— You know.”

He almost didn’t want to say it, like the rocks had ears.

“Another day or two at least,” Minho said. And sighed, but didn’t elaborate.

The afternoon, almost unbearably humid, was spent in the river. They’d wound somehow back to it, though in a different place. Chan was turned around utterly, but the thought of washing his clothes, and his body, had him nearly wriggling into the water like a fish once Minho gestured that he could. Maybe his clothes weren’t “clean” but they were rinsed well and drying on the bank before Chan eased back in. Taking lazy strokes felt nice, using muscles he wasn’t while walking, and stretching his skin. He felt a disturbance in the water, turned, and half whooped a heavy tiger body met the water. It sent a wave over Chan, but he endured it, sputtering, and laughing as the tiger’s head popped up, eyes bright and almost mischievous. Chan cupped his hand, tossing water at the tiger. And Minho, in return, used paw splash, which was very effective.

“Good day for a swim,” Chan said.

The tiger grumbled, agreement, Chan assumed. Tigers could and did swim, and Minho easily kept pace with Chan, lazily paddling but not getting in Chan’s way. Chan was tiring as they approached back to where his clothes were, and reached out, petting down the sleek back as Minho passed him.

“Can I just hang onto your tail, like I’m water surfing?” Chan asked.

That earned him an outright growl, like Chan could, if he dared. Chan giggled, floating instead, and watching with interest as Minho dove, disappearing with bubbles coming up for a few seconds before doing it again. Standing with head partly in the water, before diving again, almost like he was—

Chan gasped when Minho came up with wriggling silver fish almost the length of Chan’s forearm. It was already dead, by the time he took it from Minho’s mouth, so all he had to do was put it safely on the bank. It took a little while longer, Chan still in the shallows as Minho nosed around, looking, moving. Trying two more times, before a third rendered success, and he came up with another fish, smaller than the first but still good sized.

“That’s enough, if these are for me,” Chan said. Minho seemed to agree, coming into the shallows as well, and shaking off. Chan laughed, getting sprayed but not minding. He put the fish with the other in the shadow, and with a groan laid out on the grass, intending to dry off, and get back into his clothes. He opened his eyes when Minho joined him not long after, human again. His skin was perfectly dry, like he’d never touched the water, though it gleamed in the sun.

“There’s a storm coming in,” Minho said. “We’ll shelter early tonight, and get the fish cooked before they spoil.”

Chan didn’t mind it, and didn’t question how Minho knew. Still, they lingered a little longer, and Chan was mostly dry but for his hair by the time he dressed. He felt clean again, and refreshed, and drank deep from a nearly icy-cold stream as Minho led them on. Minho was more picky with his choice of shelter, and what he chose was a cave, its entrance sloped down so water couldn’t run in, even though it was quite low in a rocky outcrop.

The fire was laid, and Chan helped carry wood and picked vegetables to go with the meal. Chan was a bit wistful for the tender, sweet carrots of home, but the ones he found around the shelter were fine. The fish were set up on sticks, guts abandoned, to roast. He gnawed at another carrot as Minho prowled nearby. He always carried off the tiger pelt and turned from man to tiger out of sight. Chan wondered what that looked like. Maybe terrifying, if Minho didn’t want him to see it. Or maybe just private. There was commotion in the bushes, and Minho returned with a small bird as well, laying it by the fire before returning a minute later human, with several large fruit in his hands.

“You meant it when you said you’d bring more food,” Chan said.

“In case you get tired of the fish,” Minho said simply. He butchered the bird, and the smaller fish was ready to eat, by the time the bird had been set to cook as well. And fat drops of rain had also begun outside, as Minho had said. Chan feasted, tossing the small bones into the fire as he ate fish, and greens, and the wild onions. The larger fish was a different kind, slightly oilier, and tastier in a way. There wasn’t quite as much meat as he might have thought, once the tail, fins, head, and scales were gone. He would have been satisfied enough to sleep and not feel deprived, but the smell of the roasting bird told him he had a little room left. Minho was amused, but pleased, when Chan dug into it, having to blow on his fingers because he hadn’t let it cool quite enough. Having the fish had been a nice change, but the bird with its pretty plumage was familiar and comforting.

“Maybe they hunt us because of this,” Chan mused, waving a leg that was just bigger than his thumb.

Minho snorted. “Then they should hunt most of Earth.”

“Are you missed there?” Chan asked. Was he, for that matter? He hadn’t even considered it, too lost in the moment.

Minho shook his head. “Time moves strangely between the worlds. I don’t know if that will always be the case. I’m able to step back in as though I never left.”

“How do you come and go?”

“The tree has entries, portals. Only a couple, but I think there will be more as the spirit’s power grows as well.”

It was fascinating. Terrifying in a way, to think. But all things stemmed from that one tree. The way to come, and the way to go. Except when Minho had brought him by force, to save him.

The one nice thing about the storm was being able to stick out his hands, and rinse them clean of meat, and his dessert of fruit. He was a bit more than pleasantly full, but not so much so he was in discomfort. He could have rested back and dozed, utterly content as the fire crackled. He sighed at the thought of getting up again, and Minho looked to him.

“What is it?”

“I should’ve gotten a drink before sitting down. Or, before the rain came. Is the rain good to drink?”

“It is,” Minho said. “Wait there.”

And then Minho was moving beyond Chan, to the cave mouth. Whatever he might have expected, it wasn’t Minho putting out his own hands to catch water pouring down from the sky. He blinked, processing that, as Minho moved back toward him, water dripping from his hands until he could offer them to Chan.

“For you,” Minho said, like Chan hadn’t quite grasped that. And maybe he was staring a bit stupidly. It was like cupping at a hand at the end of a hose, or drinking from a faucet. Just from the hands of a handsome man, instead.

Couldn’t they have gotten a leaf, or something? But Minho was serious, so focused, so earnest, that Chan leaned before all the water could drip away, pressing his lower lip against the edge of Minho’s cupped hand, and sipping as best he could at the water there. Cool and sweet. Most of it made it into his mouth, but some trickled down his chin, down the outside of his throat. He felt less like laughing, when Minho moved, filled his hands again and returned, making Chan having to lower his eyes as Minho watched him so frankly, and so close.

“It’s enough,” he said, when he’d drank the last of the water. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Minho said.

Minho’s face was very near, his expression still, though he blinked, considering Chan. For a moment, he stayed like that, taking a single, shallow breath. Minho’s hair was longer, curling down behind his ear, over his eyebrows. Like he’d been there long enough for a haircut to grow out a little too much. And it was without thought that his hand raised. Not to give Minho water, but just— Chan touched Minho’s face, his cheek, the corner of his lips. The start of the curve of his chin. Minho was still, but not afraid. Letting Chan touch him, look at him. He’d admired that face. Days of relying on him, learning from him, hadn’t diminished that. It wasn’t entirely admiration, though. He knew that. He swallowed, met Minho’s eyes.

“Is this something—”

Minho nodded, but slowly, gently enough not to dislodge Chan’s fingers.

“There— If this is what you want, there are few ways to return from it. Things are already in motion, but this could change how we proceed.”

Chan didn’t entirely understand.

“You wanted me here,” Chan said.

“Yes. But I wanted you to be safe.”

Chan nodded, letting his thumb gently move against Minho’s skin. He was doing that. Feeding Chan. Literally letting Chan drink from his hands.

“Will this help me be safe?”

That made Minho pause, before his hand came up, covered the back of Chan’s hand, holding it still.

“I hope so. I hope it will be that and not…danger.”

Chan nodded. Nodded, and sighed.

“Then what can we do? If we want this?”

Because it wasn’t just him. He’d seen Minho watching him. He didn’t think it was all because Chan was, comparatively, weak and in danger.

“Stay here for a moment,” Minho said, and stood. He ducked out into the rain, unconcerned, and Chan sat there, rubbing his fingers together. He didn’t know what to expect, or how to feel. And waiting felt uncomfortable, too, like he watched for his only source of safety. But his spine stiffened, when he heard footsteps, and Minho came back into view, ducking back into the cave.

Rainwater dripped from his hair, and down his skin, and he still wore the leather at his hips. But there was something else there, too. Marks. No. Mud, maybe, smeared along Minho’s arms, along his ribs, and the outside of his thighs. Tiger stripes, Chan realized, inhaling a little too sharply as Minho moved to him, slow, and knelt, straddling his lap.

“There were rituals, before. When things were unequal. Spirit, and human. A promise to protect, and care. A type of binding,” Minho said simply. “I’ve fed you. You know my name. I hope you know I’ll protect you.”

Chan nodded, searching his face.

“I remember my life before you, and I was content. But once I saw you, I don’t think there will be any after without you,” Minho said.

Chan’s hands rose, gripping Minho’s sides, unknowingly smearing the marked tiger stripes there as Minho’s face got very close.

“It wasn’t your choice to come here, not this time,” Minho said, very softly. And his eyes, dark, were somehow also very soft. “But this is. This is yours to choose, Chan.”

So Chan chose. He kissed the soft, rain-wet lips as the storm raged outside. Pulled Minho against him, until Minho’s arms were around his neck and Chan’s arms held Minho close, hands gliding over warm skin. The little bag Minho wore around his neck was caught between their chests, a point of glowing warmth. And they were there, together. Kissing. Half-sputtering with laughter as a crack of lightning made them both jolt. Smoothing through the damp of Minho’s hair as Minho smiled against his mouth, and kissed him, met him. Sweet, not always, but soothing him when his breath grew short, like there was no need to kiss too fast, to take too many bites of that want too quickly. Time to savor.

And breathing together, Minho’s head on his shoulder as they listened to the rain fail. Later, when it was cold, Minho draped the tiger pelt around him again, and that time settled under it with him. And he dreamed, head against Minho’s heart, as his fingers curled into the dirt. Dreamed of running, of claws digging into soft ground. Dreamed of a howl, but not distant. Dreamed that instead of feet, paws. And instead of loneliness, his shoulder rubbed against orange, and black. And he did not remember it yet, when he woke, to Minho murmured to him and apologizing as he took back the pelt. He watched for the first time as Minho turned to his tiger self, pulling the pelt over him and leaning until instead of landing on his hands, he stood on four paws. He snuffled at Chan’s chest, somehow always larger than Chan remembered. He reached, and touched, stroking against ear, and jaw. He was going to hunt, Chan realized.

“Come back safely,” Chan murmured.

The tiger chuffed, and bunted against his hand, and left him there. A little less warm, but knowing Minho would be back. He rested his head on his arm, and thought of Minho, of kissing him. Of the way he said Chan’s name. The smile was silly, but the feelings weren’t. He needed Minho, there in the forest most of all. Even if there had been no danger, there would have been that need. But Minho also needed him. They’d find a way for Chan to be more to him, however that was. Maybe they could take the threat of the birds away for good. Or at least, to reduce it. Somehow.

He kissed Minho when he returned, when he tried to put the pelt back on Chan. Trapped Minho, really, before he could move away to take care of the small birds he’d brought back for Chan.

“Do you want to eat?” Minho complained, and frowned as Chan grinned at him before kissing him one more time.

Yes, he’d made his choice.

***