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AS A MORTAL, CHANHEE doesn't know much about the ins and outs of blood.
Most of what he does know, he learns secondhand from Inseong—or, really, thirdhand, because Inseong never willingly discusses his vampirism with Chanhee. Like, how every person's blood tastes different, fragrant with the memories of the life they've lived. Or, how synthetic blood doesn't taste like much of anything at all, beyond its heavy metallic tang. How the bottled stuff Inseong takes from the fridge each morning doesn't quench his thirst nearly as much as when it's live and warm and from the source.
Or, even how Inseong has a not-so-secret hierarchy of which of the other members he likes to drink from the most, except Chanhee knows exactly where he ranks. In the nine years since Inseong became a vampire, he hasn't drank from Chanhee once.
Chanhee rolls over for the umpteenth time. Across the apartment, the front door slams, and he groans, all his hopes of an early night evaporating into the air. Youngkyun must finally be home, after a long night of practice. But, judging by the low rumble of voices sticking to the walls, sticking to the gaps in Chanhee's door in an indistinct murmur, he's not alone.
Irritated, Chanhee shoves up onto his elbows. Without the pillow muffling his ears, he can clearly identify the other voice as Inseong’s, which prompts his next question; what the hell is Inseong doing at Chanhee and Youngkyun's apartment at one in the morning? Doesn't he have an early schedule?
Chanhee discards his duvet, laying one foot, then the other, against the floor. Chilled wood presses upward into his soles. He ventures towards the door, but their voices are no clearer to him; they must've migrated into Youngkyun's room.
This is definitely the part where Chanhee should give up. He doesn't care, he wants to sleep, and he doubts whatever it is will be of any interest to him anyway.
But, then Youngkyun laughs, high-pitched and hysterical, and Chanhee's curiosity gets the better of him. Wrapping his fingers around the door handle, he urges it open, and pads out into the fully-bloomed darkness of the hallway, lit only by the amber of his bedroom lamp and the pale golden beam escaping from Youngkyun's door.
Chanhee shoves it open, revealing—
"What did I walk into?"
Youngkyun, sprawled back on the bed, expression coloured pastel-soft with contentment as Inseong leans over him, one hand stamped into the mattress beside Youngkyun's hip and the other clasping the back of his hand. Delicately encasing Youngkyun's wrist in his palm as he feeds, rhythmic and greedy, the colour around Inseong's mouth flushed dark onto Youngkyun's cheek.
Upon hearing Chanhee's voice, Inseong drops Youngkyun's arm as if scalded. Meanwhile, Youngkyun beams, making grabby gestures at Chanhee with his free hand.
"Chanhee!" he cheers, with all the exuberance someone should not have at this time of night. "Did you come to give Inseongie-hyung an audience?"
Inseong hisses, muffled by the hand he clamps over his mouth. "You're the spectacle here," he says, half-scolding, and Youngkyun laughs, eyes sparking amidst a foggy glaze. That, and the blood drooling from an open wound on his arm, bright around Inseong's lips and teeth before he licks it away…
Inseong's tongue dips out of his mouth like clockwork, and Chanhee looks away, ears stinging hot. "You drank from him?" Chanhee asks, and to his horror, his voice comes out demanding.
It's a thin veneer. Blooming thinly over shock and embarrassment and incredulity, and, underneath, the smallest needle of hurt. He thought—
At least, that Youngkyun would always share the feeling of never being drunk from.
Inseong flinches at Chanhee's tone of voice, carding a stressed hand through his hair. "Well, yes."
Chanhee looks at Youngkyun again. The slack lines of his posture and the loose droop of his mouth and the honey-dark of his eyes, opnely wanting in a way that both dissuades Chanhee from the doorway and draws him in further.
Chanhee grips the doorframe so hard his knuckles flush white, desperate to say something, anything, that'll distract him from the tumult of midnight feelings vying for attention under his skin.
"Why—does he look drugged?"
"Because Seongie-hyung is trying to kill me," Youngkyun says, and Inseong swats his arm.
"I am not. You asked, remember?" Inseong sighs. Chanhee can't help but notice that, in all of Inseong's stiff posture—rigid arms, shoulders almost up to his ears—he won't turn to look at Chanhee.
Meanwhile, Youngkyun stares at Chanhee as if signalling for help. "He drained the life out of me. Twice. Two times!"
"I should hit you two times," Inseong grumbles, hands kneading into the rumpled duvet. The tip of his ear blushed red as he explains: "He had a scrape on his knee he wanted me to heal, but, since he wanted me to drink from his arm, I thought it would be a problem if I didn't heal his wrist too. So, I injected enough venom to cover both, but then he started acting weird, so he said I should try sucking out the venom—"
Vampire venom has a dizzying effect, or so Chanhee's heard, but it's strange for it to linger so long after Inseong's had his fill. Chanhee can't be sure how long it's been, but, judging by the dried blood around Inseong's mouth, Youngkyun should be more or less fine by now. The fact that he's not—
"Let me guess. By drinking from him twice, you injected even more venom." When Inseong winces, Chanhee knows he's right. Though, for some reason, it doesn't give him as much satisfaction as he'd like. "Maybe you should've gone easier for a first time."
Inseong laughs guiltily, a sound close to despair. "First time? If it was his first time, at least it would be understandable. Somehow, I've managed to overdose someone who should be completely used to me."
Chanhee's eyebrows draw together, "How many times have you drunk from him?" and this, at least, finally gets Inseong to look at him.
"I don't really keep track," Inseong hedges, which sounds like a lie, and when Youngkyun holds up three fingers, Chanhee knows for sure. "Three?"
"Oh. No." Youngkyun flips his hands back and forth, puzzled. "How do you make a twelve again?"
Twelve? Inseong has fed from him twelve times? And that's only the times Youngkyun's venom-soaked brain remembers.
Chanhee imagines it; Youngkyun's forearm balanced in Inseong's palms, Inseong suspended over him, the daggers of his engaged fangs sinking into Youngkyun's flesh—
Chanhee stares at Youngkyun's arm, tiger-striped with scarlet, made bloody by the ragged marks of Inseong's teeth, his bite. But, in front of Chanhee's eyes, the wounds warp. Change. Youngkyun's forearm pulses, crawling like there's a creature trapped beneath his skin, and before Chanhee can even express his digust, he instead watches, fascinated, as Youngkyun's flesh knits itself back together, sealing over like there was never anything there to begin with.
Then, he looks at his own, pale and unmarked.
Never knowing the intent pressure of Inseong's breath, the devoted tenderness of his touch. Of being fed from, favoured, chosen and desired.
Chanhee reaches out, ghosting the tips of his fingers over Youngkyun's now-smooth skin, hating it, hating the crescent of Inseong's mouth now taken into Youngkyun's flesh, inextricable. Hating the way Inseong licks his lips again in Chanhee's peripheral, as two sets of eyes blaze into the path of Chanhee's attention.
Silently, Youngkyun uses his free hand to capture Chanhee's, forcing him to make contact. "You'd never know I was bitten," he gushes, and Chanhee knows it's the after-effects of the venom, but—
He really, really wishes he didn't.
"Yeah," he agrees anyway, fighting not to sound strained. He pulls back from Youngkyun before the moment spreads too long, too thin and revealing. Heart pounding, inexplicable. "'m gonna go back to bed now."
The corners of Inseong's mouth turn up. "Goodnight. Sorry for disturbing you, I'll leave soon."
Unbidden, he gently pats the inside of Chanhee's wrist, and Chanhee's mouth dries as he nods, makes the most normal escape to his room as he can muster, lies back on his bed, pulls up his duvet, and closes his eyes.
His mind a whirlwind, he mourns the intimacy of a connection he'll never have.
▬▬▬
THE FIRST TIME INSEONG drank from another member was during practice, scarcely more than a few months since he'd turned.
Their practice room back then was in the basement, a mirrored box dug directly out of the ground. Chilled in the wintertime, the steam from their sweat fogging up in pale clouds against the glass.
After a particularly strenuous run-through, most of the members migrated towards the water fountain, desperate for a break. Chanhee, whose bottle was already empty, filled up first, condensation a thin veil of relief against his scorching palms.
Inseong was alone in the room when he returned, hand wrapped around a bottle of blood. Swirling it experimentally, and, in the silence of the room, even Chanhee could hear the last drops thudding hollowly against the bottle's glass walls.
Chanhee didn't mean to be so cognisant of him. Then again, it was hard not to be. He just wasn't used to vampires; none of them were. Not even Inseong, freshly-turned and reluctant to give in to his ancient urges. They all knew, of course, within days of him turning—they were around each other too much, too suffocatingly not to—but…
That was different to the threat of his bloodlust, hanging over their heads. All of them pretending this was normal, fine, and all the while wondering how long the charade could last.
When the other members filtered back in through the door, practice resumed. Rejuvenated, Chanhee's brain was clearer, his motions sharper; he was hyperaware of every pulse of his breath, every placement of his muscles, every slam of his shoes against the wooden floor. When he was thrown off Jaeyoon's back, he felt the sweat-dense air against his sides, the slice of his limbs, rainforest-humid, blitzed with energy.
But, the angle was off. Almost imperceptible, but, to Chanhee, completely at the others' mercy, it was enough. Struggling to correct himself, Chanhee landed with a thump, heels stinging, body off-course. Knees bent, softening the blow, but he failed to stick the landing, and the floor slipped beneath his soles.
Breathing hard, Chanhee braced himself against the seam of two mirrors, scraping his palm as he pushed into the next move. They finished the dance, wheezed apologies floating over his head, then took a minute, timed on Juho's phone.
Sanghyuk sprawled onto the floor first, Juho collapsing with him. Youngbin next, though he managed to stay sitting up, a hand mopping the sweat from his bangs and forehead. One by one, they lowered themselves to the floor, eager to feast on whatever scraps of rest they could muster before they had to get back into it.
All except Inseong, overgrown hair sticking to his strawberry-flushed cheeks, a hand pressed to the centre of his chest. Stooped over, his breaths rapid-fire, gaze seemingly locked to an indistinct point on the floor, just past his shoes.
"Hey, Inseongie-hyung," Youngkyun said, lifting his head from where he'd let it loll against the mirror. "Come sit."
"Are you okay?" Seokwoo asked, frowning.
"I…" Inseong started, odd and alien and out of his throat, and in that moment, the brief, open oh of his mouth, they all saw it. His fangs, engaged. Gleaming, from their spot settled over the curve of his tongue. "I'm thirsty."
A hitch of breath. A pause.
Chanhee leaned back on his arms, about to scamper back, when, in a supernatural burst of speed, Inseong lunged towards him.
Someone shouted, and blood thundered in Chanhee's ears, and he saw Inseong's shadow before his face, lost and crazed and unfamiliar, unrecognisable from the Inseong he knew and loved. Chanhee prepared himself, for the bite, the pain, the end, maybe, but it never got that far.
Sanghyuk around one of Inseong's arms and Youngbin clutching the other, holding back, either a hair's breadth from Chanhee, or a lightyear; Chanhee couldn't quite decide. Couldn't quite—
Inseong tried to—
Something flickered, indistinct on Inseong's face and quickly swallowed, as Youngbin shoved his wrist under Inseong's nose. "Here," he snapped, panicked and a little high, when Inseong wouldn't stop struggling against his hold. "You're thirsty, so drink. But, you don't get to hurt Chanhee like that."
When Inseong didn't immediately move, Sanghyuk shoved his head down, and he went, still, pliant, desperate. The room falling silent, save for the greedy slurping of Inseong's mouth, Youngbin's sharp intakes of breath and hissed curses and every half-bitten noise of pain he made, on and on and on, until—
Inseong pulled back, licking the residual blood from Youngbin's forearm.
In the aftermath, the flicker became known. Horror, surging onto Inseong's face full-force as he freed himself from Sanghyuk's grip, staggered back.
Meanwhile, Seokwoo got up to kneel by Chanhee's side. "We should probably get you a plaster," he said, soft. "Give me your injured hand."
Chanhee did, and Seokwoo tucked it protectively between both of his as they got up to leave. Inseong flinched when they passed him, presumably at the fresh scent of blood, and, when Chanhee slipped through the door after Seokwoo, the last thing he saw was a glimpse of Inseong's fraught expression as he buried his face in his hands.
▬▬▬
"MORNING," YOUNGKYUN YAWNS, RUBBING his eye as he saunters into the kitchen. Despite his sleep-rumpled curls and the precarious way he sways as he walks, he appears decidedly more alert—or, at least, compared to how he was during last night's venom-induced haze.
"Morning," Chanhee replies, stirring his spoon through his cereal though it has long since turned to mush.
Youngkyun circles the counter, making a beeline for the coffee machine. It whirs to life, an undercurrent to the soft sounds of Youngkyun making his own bowl of cereal: the clink of the bowl against the draining board, the rasp of the cereal dispenser against the cupboard.
He stands across from Chanhee at the counter as silvery morning light strobes across his glossy surface, illuminating the handle of Chanhee's spoon and the rim of his bowl, and every ripple in Youngkyun's milk as he tips in the cereal, puffed rice raining in in a sizzling lullaby.
"You would not believe how hungry I am," he says, shoving the first spoonful in his mouth, chewing rapidly as he continues, "Like, I feel like I haven't eaten in six weeks."
"You'd be dead," Chanhee points out, and Youngkyun swallows, stabbing the spoon at him.
"That's how dire it is." He pauses, his gaze falling to Chanhee's bowl, the sad, congealed remains of his cereal. "Not eating well?"
Chanhee makes a face as he pushes his bowl away, admitting defeat. "Lost my appetite."
Youngkyun shrugs, seizing Chanhee's bowl and piling it with the other dishes neither of them washed last night. Chanhee, because they were Youngkyun's dishes to wash, and he was supposed to do them after he got home, and Youngkyun, because—
"What's it like?" Chanhee asks, before his brain does something traitorous, like populate his brain with unwanted thoughts.
"What, the venom overdose?" Youngkyun drains his bowl, milk clinging to his lips until he licks it away with a flourish. "It's like the normal euphoria you get after a feed, but… I don't know. More. I felt it all over my body, like…" At the memory, his eyes shine. "Like—when we perform, and the music gets under your skin, and you can't hear or feel anything else. You want the feeling to last forever."
Chanhee shrugs. "I don't," he says. "Inseongie-hyung has never fed from me before."
Youngkyun's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "Seriously?"
Chanhee stiffens. "Yeah. I mean—weren't you the same?"
"Well, yeah," Youngkyun agrees. "But, I asked him once 'cause I was curious, and after he tried—well, I guess he likes how my blood tastes because he's come back a lot since then. Well, that, or because I'm the only one who, like, likes it."
The only one? Chanhee's not so sure. He wouldn't be, not if Inseong would finally drink from Chanhee too.
But, in the interim, Chanhee can only ask: "So… What does it feel like? The feed."
The minute Youngkyun sinks into deep thought, Chanhee thinks he'll regret that question. And, as the corner of Youngkyun's mouth lifts, a small smirk forming, Chanhee knows for sure.
Hands flat against the counter, icy light haloing his back, Youngkyun rocks forward against the counter. "Why don't I just show you?"
"Show me?" Chanhee echoes, skin prickling at the implication. He doesn't mean—
"What?" Youngkyun's smirk turns wolfish. "You'd only let a vampire bite you? Or is it just Inseongie-hyung that's allowed?"
Scorching heat blazes a trail up Chanhee's spine. Eyes darting from his wrist, exposed beneath the dark sleeve of his shirt, to the blushed rose of Youngkyun's mouth; his tongue, peeking out from between his lips, and the wet glaze of his saliva.
"That's stupid," Chanhee says, a hair too quick, and the weight of Youngkyun's gaze doubles, unbearable. "Fine, then. Show me."
Youngkyun breezes out a laugh, rounding the corner of the counter in a swift, smooth motion. "Well, I've never done this before, but," he cradles Chanhee's forearm in two palms, scrolls back Chanhee's sleeve, "how hard can it be, right?"
With that, he dives in, the crescent of his winning smile imprinting into Chanhee's flesh. Youngkyun's sharp teeth and the hot vacuum of his mouth, the pleased hiss of his breath, and the way his body vibrates as he laughs, Chanhee’s arm shaking with the motion.
It's—different. Everything and nothing that Chanhee could've imagined alone. Somehow, there's tenderness in the way Youngkyun sucks at his arm; sincerity. An earnestness folded into the silly gesture Chanhee doesn't have words for, just the knowledge that Youngkyun would do it for him.
Youngkyun never breaks skin. Instead, when he pulls back, a string of saliva connects him to the glistening veil over Chanhee's forearm. Icy air rolling across its surface in the empty absence of Youngkyun's mouth, and Chanhee is so painfully aware.
Youngkyun wipes his face with the back fo his hand, just shy of shielding his cat grin. "Well? What did you think?"
Chanhee holds up his arm, letting disgust curl at his bottom lip. "It's painful. And gross."
It's meant to be an insult, but Youngkyun's smile only widens. "But, it wouldn't be if it was Inseongie-hyung?"
"Shut up," Chanhee grouses, followed by a little, unconvincing scoff.
"Hey." Youngkyun lifts his hands appeasingly. "Maybe he'll want to feed from you soon. I'll put a good word in, let him know how good you taste."
Chanhee seizes a stray salt sachet from the counter to throw at him, "Fuck off," but when Youngkyun laughs again, bright and free and infectious, Chanhee finds it hard not to join him.
▬▬▬
AFTER THEIR THIRD RUN-THROUGH, Chanhee drains the last few sips from his water and shakes the rest over his head, icy droplets quelling the fires on his scalp, the back of his neck.
The other members left a while ago, to get dinner and sleep before their schedules tomorrow, but Chanhee and Inseong have a pair dance they have to get right, and staying late after practice is the only way Chanhee can catch Inseong at a time when he's not inundated with a million other things.
At the other end of their practice room, Inseong stands with his head bowed, shoulders tremoring with the unnevenness of his breath and his cheeks and ears flushed bright with exertion.
"Should we go again?" Chanhee asks, passing the last residuals of water back through his sweat-slick bangs. "Inseongie-hyung?"
A beat. Inseong turns around, delayed, blinking unnaturally quick. A lopsided smile struggles to hang on his face. "I think… That'll have to wait."
His breath comes out in a little pant. Chanhee takes a step closer, taking in the quiver of Inseong's fingers, the pinpricks of his pupils. Chanhee has never seen it this bad, the classic signs of blood-deprivation. Not that Inseong would ever admit that to him. "Are you okay?"
"I will be." Inseong's hand strikes out against the mirror, and he blinks, as if surprised when his palm makes contact. Stares at it, the pink-tinged flesh of his palm. "I just feel a bit faint. I need to get. Um. Home."
"Can you even get to the car?" Chanhee retorts, and Inseong laughs weakly. He staggers a half-step forward, then another, and that's all it takes for him to lurch. Chanhee's hand darts out, catching a fistful from Inseong's shirt as his side collides with the mirrored wall. Inseong's gaze drops to Chanhee's hand, fingers bunched around Inseong's sleeve.
"Are you offering to help me? That's… sweet, Chanhee-ya, but, I'm…" Chanhee yanks sharply on his sleeve, "fine?" and Inseong stumbles, caught only by Chanhee's unyielding grip.
"Idiot," Chanhee hisses, "I'm not offering to help you, I'm offering my blood," and Inseong's eyes widen, snared and helpless and confused.
"I—Chanhee, I can't—"
"Why not? You need to drink, hyung. And, I… want you to." Chanhee licks his lips, throat parched. "So, please. Drink from me."
Another tug on Inseong's sleeve, imploring this time. Inseong swallows, his breathing rushed, just this side of desperate. "Are you sure? I—don't think I'll be able to—"
Chanhee thrusts his wrist in Inseong's face. "Drink," and Inseong goes, his teeth plunging into Chanhee's veins without inhibition.
Being drunk from for the first time is both nothing and everything that Youngkyun could ever have prepared him for. Instead of the warm run of saliva, it's blood, thick and hot, quickly lapped up by Inseong's tongue as he dives in deeper, and Chanhee is enamoured by the heat of his mouth and the press of his tongue and the sharpness of his teeth. His breath against Chanhee's pulse point, his sweet venom flooding Chanhee's veins, his heartbeat thrumming against Chanhee's skin.
Chanhee rarely gets to witness the full extent of Inseong's vampirism, but, here, Inseong overpowers him thoughtlessly, effortlessly. Chanhee's back slams against the wall, chilled glass against his spine as he bites his tongue and doesn't make a sound, hyperconscious of the fact that, the moment he does, Inseong will stop, flinch away, retreat back into himself, and Chanhee can't let that happen.
If this is going to be the first and the last time, Chanhee wants everything.
He sinks back against the wall, Inseong over him, all around him, gorging on Chanhee's blood like it's the most delicious thing to him, and maybe it is, and Chanhee would be glad for it, if Inseong fed on him and never stopped, if Inseong developed an addiction only Chanhee could cure.
But, when they're on the floor, Chanhee braced on one hand as Inseong looms over him, Inseong suddenly stops. Physically pulls back, wiping his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand, his breath coming out in soft, broken pants.
His face, an expression of dazed overwhelm, melts into a mask of gratitude. "Thank you," Inseong says, hoarse and a touch ragged, muffled by his hand pinned over his lips. "You were right, I wouldn't have been able to make it to the car, even. Now, I should at least be able to make it home."
Chanhee shoves himself upright, incredulous. "You need more?"
"Well, I… I let it get pretty bad," Inseong admits, forcing a frail laugh. "Really though. Thanks for tiding me over."
Tiding him— "I didn't—I don't want to tide you over, hyung. You were supposed to drink your fill."
Two spots of pink bloom vividly on Inseong's cheeks. "You're… really enthusiastic, aren't you?" he accuses, in a voice that doesn't match the way he can't quite make eye-contact. "Well, are you dizzy? Did it hurt a lot? You handled it well."
"No." Chanhee uses his injured hand to swat against Inseong's knuckles. "I'm fine."
Of course, part of that is due to Youngkyun preparing him for the pain, but there's no way Chanhee is going to admit that.
"Okay. Well, I don't want to overdose you, so I'll need your other arm," Inseong says. Chanhee pulls back the collar of his t-shirt, baring a flash of his shoulder, and Inseong promptly chokes. "Isn't your neck a little… I've never fed from anyone's neck before."
"Do you want to?" Chanhee asks, and Inseong's gaze skims over Chanhee's neck and jugular, the plane of Chanhee's shoulder, expanded pupils devouring the whisky-amber of his eyes. Chanhee smiles. Wraps his fingers around the underside of Inseong's jaw, tugging him close, "Good. I want to be first,"
and Inseong pounces with animal speed, knocking Chanhee to the ground, the breath out of his lungs, as Inseong engages his teeth, digs in deep, and drinks, drinks, gulping, greedy, senseless, as Chanhee hisses and writhes beneath him. Held in place by Chanhee's hand at his nape, curved around the slant of his jaw, so he'll feed to the point of gluttony, selfish satisfaction.
Hand stamped around Chanhee's neck, pinned into his heartbeat. Inseong's weight caging him in place; a feedback loop of trapping and being trapped. Pain flares under Chanhee's skin, sharp and raw and blinding, rolling, rolling, radial, from his temples to his hips to the tips of his fingers, spreading out like a disease.
Fog climbs into his vision. Inseong angles his head, probes his tongue around Chanhee's neck, and, under Inseong's body, the intimacy, the tender devotion of his breath, Chanhee's world goes dark.
He rouses to the sensation of Inseong rubbing his arm, coaxing him into wakefulness. They've relocated, back up against the practice room wall, the fluorescent lights obnoxiously bright overhead, and there's a chilled bottle of water and some iron tablets beside Chanhee's bent knee.
Chanhee blinks. He feels—groggy. Off-kilter. The air too soft and grainy, rough against the raw sting of his neck. His mouth too dry, no matter how much water he drinks, half the bottle gone in seconds. The gentle nurture of Inseong's palm, setting his skin alight.
He emits a low groan, shaking his head, forcing himself into some semblance of steadiness. "Did I—pass out?"
"It's not uncommon for a first feed," Inseong assures him. He breaks rhythm, fingers lingering on the bulb of Chanhee's shoulder. "Was it okay?"
"Yeah. Obviously," Chanhee replies, but the vulnerable anxiety present in Inseong's face doesn't fade, imprinted into his skin. Lifting his hand, Chanhee uses it to catch Inseong's, winding their fingers together, like Inseong so often does to him. "So, you can stop being weird with me."
When offence flickers across Inseong's features, it's an improvement. Chanhee can look at him now, his eyes adjusting to the brightness, because, as usual, Inseong attracts all the light in a room. "What do you mean, weird?"
Chanhee counts off on his fingers. "You're always awkward about drinking blood in front of me. You discuss your vampirism with everyone but me. It took you all this time to feed from me, when you've been feeding from nearly everyone else for years."
Inseong blinks. Then laughs, an astonished, warm sound. "I—didn't realise it bothered you. After that first time, when Youngbin had to stop me from drinking from you, I thought—maybe you'd be more comfortable if you didn't have to think of me as a vampire."
"But you are a vampire. Why would I care about that?"
Inseong drops his head back against the wall, Chanhee's arm now firmly encased in his grasp. It's well on its way to healing, the marks of Inseong's teeth scabbing over in tiny, terracotta shields, guarding the fresh pink skin underneath. Part of Chanhee wonders whether it's the venom, or Inseong's touch itself.
"You know, I don't know," Inseong muses, bringing his knees up. Fingers, tightening against Chanhee's even as his gaze gets farther away. "It's… weird. Waking up, and being dangerous to people that only ever thought of you as safe."
Chanhee doesn't know how to respond to that. It's been a long time since Chanhee thought of Inseong only as safe, whatever that entails—and, in all that time, that was all Inseong was trying to be.
"Anyway," Inseong's voice cuts the silence. He turns to Chanhee, a slight frown dipping between his brows. "Why isn't your neck healing? Do you mind if I…"
Chanhee shrugs. "I don't want to end up like Youngkyun," he says, and Inseong laughs, half-scolding, his breath a comforting flurry against Chanhee's exposed skin.
"I wouldn't be so careless with you."
His tongue slides across Chanhee's neck and shoulder, licking away the last of the blood, before the soft pad of Inseong's tongue is replaced by his teeth, gingerly grazing against the emaciated surface of Chanhee's wounds, igniting a buzzing, fiery sensation in Chanhee's veins.
Chanhee grips his hand tight until the moment passes, fades, and Inseong pulls free, sucking the remnant blood from his lips. "There," he says approvingly, one finger ghosting the ragged edge of his bite. "That should heal nicely now."
Chanhee swallows, nodding, but, before he can formulate a reply, the practice-room door bursts open. Youngkyun sticks his head in, and it doesn't take long for him to survey the situation, judging by the speed at which his mouth curls up into a pleased, Cheshire grin. "I brought blood," he says, brandishing a dark bottle from behind his back, "but, I guess you won't be needing it."
Inseong laughs, bloody finger hooked in his mouth as he shakes his head. "No, I've had my fill. Thanks, though. I thought you left already?"
"Decided to come back," Youngkyun replies, striding across the room. He plops down across from Inseong and Chanhee, completing their triangle. "But, I didn't think I'd be interrupting anything."
"You're not," Inseong says kindly, at the same time Chanhee says, "Yet you came and sat down anyway."
Youngkyun hums, undeterred. With a gentle hand, he reaches for Chanhee's collar and gently tugs it back up over his shoulder, covering the wound. His hand hovers over the space where cool air once resided, as he remarks, "You never neck-bite me," to Inseong, a sour note in his voice.
Inseong startles, a rosy blush surging up his neck. "You never asked!"
"Well, I'm asking now." Youngkyun hesitates before batting his eyelashes, and a laugh chokes in Chanhee's throat. "Please?"
"I told you, I had my fill," Inseong replies apologetically. "Why don't you ask Chanhee?"
"Wh—I'm not a vampire."
Inseong shrugs. "Youngkyun bit you, didn't he?"
Youngkyun snickers. "Yeah, Chanhee, return the favour."
Ignoring Youngkyun, Chanhee's head whips to Inseong. "How did you know that?" he splutters, and Inseong looks at him strangely.
"We drank from the same place. I could taste him," he says, as if that's obvious.
"That's not normal." Groaning, Chanhee flops back onto the hard wooden floor, the overhead light a star above his head, until it's shadowed by both Inseong and Youngkyun's faces, baring matching cat grins.
In strict defiance, Chanhee clamps his eyes shut.
"Chanhee-ya," Inseong says, warm and fond. A heavy weight settles over the centre of Chanhee's chest; he feels soft hair, skin, until he navigates his way to Inseong's eye. "Well, don't poke it out."
"I'm considering it," Chanhee mutters, as a flurry of movement erupts on his other side. Youngkyun, pressing into the space next to him, throwing his leg over both of Chanhee's and winding tight.
"I warned you I ranked high," Youngkyun says, and Chanhee elbows him, unsure of where it hits, but satisfied when he makes contact anyway.
Inseong rubs Chanhee's hip. "You do too," he assures, and—what the hell is going on, exactly? Chanhee is beginning to think this is the part Inseong should've warned him about. "It always tastes nicer from someone willing. Sweeter. And yours was so sweet."
"'Cause willing was an understatement," Youngkyun snorts, this time catching Chanhee's elbow before he can strike.
"Like—sweet grapes," Inseong continues, either incognisant of Chanhee's heart squirming beneath him, or more likely, all too aware and relishing in it. "Or churros. Or… chocolate fudge cake!"
And Chanhee, snared and nuzzled and practically embroiled in his own embarrassment, shoves his face into his hands.
"How do I leave?"