Chapter Text
Predator and prey. That’s what vampires and werewolves have always been to each other—at least, that’s the story told for centuries. Eternal rivals, locked in a cycle of blood and moonlight.
But Yujin knows better.
He’s been around long enough to see past the clichés, floating on the sidelines for nearly 180 years. Ghosts don’t need to sleep, after all. They just watch, and sigh, and occasionally meddle. And what he’s watching now is not rivalry, not war—it’s something far worse.
It’s love.
Not that his two dearest friends would ever admit it. They’re blind to what’s already shimmering right before his eyes. If only they could see how badly they want each other, Yujin wouldn’t have to keep spinning it like a ghost story.
Instead, they keep circling, fragile as glass. Pretending that every small act of care, every glance that lingers too long, is nothing more than friendship. Pretending they don’t know what it truly means, even as it shatters them from the inside out.
And now, with Halloween fast approaching, here they are again. Dancing on glass. Literally.
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“Gunwook, isn’t your hold too tight?” Ricky asked, his voice calm as ever, even as his slender hands shifted slightly against the wolf’s grip. He didn’t break eye contact, not even when a flicker of discomfort passed over his expression.
Gunwook’s ears twitched instantly, his tail lowering in embarrassment. “Was it too tight? Sorry.” He loosened his hold, careful this time, his large palms swallowing Ricky’s delicate fingers as though they were something fragile, breakable.
Gunwook’s broad frame matched Ricky’s too well, almost like it was made for this, his taller figure just enough to guide but not overwhelm. The pairing looked seamless, the werewolf and the vampire moving together beneath the clock tower’s glow.
“It’s fine,” Ricky said evenly. “It only caused slight uncomfortability.”
“It’s my bad. Truly, I’m sorry.” Gunwook’s voice softened, his grey ears and tail lowering with guilt.
Ricky’s lips curved softly. “It is most certainly fine.” He spun with a graceful turn, the hem of his coat catching a sliver of moonlight that streamed through the tall clock tower windows. The shards of glass scattered across the floor sparkled underfoot, forcing every step to be careful, deliberate—a reminder to tread gently, not rashly. It was part of the practice, yes, but to Ricky it was also poetry.
And so they danced. The moonlight was their orchestra, the clock’s steady tick the metronome to their steps. With each passing second, the air between them grew heavier and sweeter. They told themselves it was practice for the party, but that was only half the truth. What they really wanted—what they could not admit—was simply this: to stay side by side, to hold each other’s hands a little longer. To dance until the final toll of midnight.
But of course, the dream could not last forever.
“Have you decided who will accompany you to the dance?” Ricky asked, his tone smooth but curious, his lashes lowered as he looked at Gunwook.
Gunwook froze for the briefest moment. His golden eyes flickered, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Ricky’s beauty under the moonlight was almost unbearable—the pale curve of his face, the faint glow of the heart-shaped mark beneath his eye, the way it shimmered as though it was carved by love itself. How could he answer honestly, when the only answer he wanted to give was already standing right in front of him?
“I’m still… undecided,” Gunwook managed, voice softer than usual, betraying him.
“For someone who is always so sure of himself,” Ricky murmured, tilting his head with a chuckle, “this topic seems far too much for you. How adorable, Gunwookie.”
Gunwook’s ears flicked again at the nickname, and his throat tightened.
Ricky stepped closer, his eyes shining impossibly bright, catching the moonlight until they gleamed like silvered glass. His gaze was steady, knowing, yet there was something fragile threaded beneath it—something yearning, hidden between the curve of his smile and the playful lilt of his words.
“I hope you’ll be able to choose well,” Ricky said. And in his cat-like eyes, wide and glowing, there was an unspoken plea that was louder than any word. Please choose me. I’m right here.
But then again, the two of them were always so caught up in loving one another that they couldn’t even see they were already doing it.
The practice ended in Ricky’s way: a deep, graceful bow, his coat flaring like a partner in the dance, every motion precise, elegant, and just a little dramatic. It was classic Ricky—so much so that it was amusing in its own right.
Gunwook, meanwhile, was undone. His wolf ears shot upright, his tail giving him away with a delighted swish, and for a few unguarded seconds his face lit up in the kind of grin that couldn’t be faked. Only after realizing how obvious he must look did he try to reel himself back in, shoulders squared, expression schooled, but the brightness in his eyes betrayed him still.
Hovering cross-legged in the air, Yujin watched the whole thing like a ghost condemned to witness not tragedy, but the funniest, sweetest kind of comedy.
Another night of them circling each other, another night of Ricky gleaming like the moon and Gunwook the restless wolf who couldn’t help but howl for him.
Another night gone, another sigh pressed from Yujin’s chest as he drifted above them. If only they would see each other clearly. If only they would admit what everyone else already knew. Until then, the burden of pushing them forward seemed to rest on his shoulders alone.
He let out a long, tired sigh.
And oh, how heavy the work of love could be.
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For all the years Yujin has lingered—or rather, drifted, unmoored and half-forgotten—he has never been so frustrated by what stands before him.
It is not the living who trouble him—he has long ceased to envy the pulse of mortals—but these two, who by all accounts should know better. Vampires are not the living, not truly. Yet Ricky blushes as though blood still remembers how to rush, and Gunwook smiles as though warmth itself bends toward him. Yujin sees it plain as the flush blooming on Gunwook’s cheeks, pink that deepens until it threatens to consume him whole. He sees it in Ricky’s smile, soft and bright and so unlike the aloof grace he grants the rest of the world. That adoring, unguarded gaze is one Ricky has saved for no one but Gunwook.
And Yujin, who has no need for such things, aches with the knowing: that what binds them is already too large for their chests to hold, too luminous to be hidden, too dangerous to deny. Perhaps it is because only now has he cared enough to want something for someone else. Only now does he find himself longing for them to be truly, completely happy.
But ghosts have always been witnesses to what others deny. A ghost is a shadow with no trace, condemned to see what others cannot—or will not—see.
He remembers when it was just him and Ricky, many moons ago. Ricky-hyung, transferred from Vampire Prep to this academy, carried the grace of old bloodlines and noble lineage like a second skin. He was elegance embodied, with his perfect posture, his faultless manners, his faint chill. And yet, that same aura made others shy away. Vampires were already creatures of distance, but Ricky seemed untouchable even among them, a cold heir with riches and legacy carved into his every step. Some whispered he was arrogant. Others said he was bored of everyone and everything.
But Yujin, who floated on the edges of halls and rooftops with nothing but time, saw past the surface. And the simplest way to learn more about someone was, of course, to ask.
So he did.
And Ricky, when asked directly, revealed not coldness but unfamiliarity. He was not used to monsters beyond his kind. He was still adjusting, fumbling quietly in this place where werewolves laughed too loudly, banshees shrieked in the courtyards, witches stirred their potions in dorm kitchens. Yujin understood him then, and chose to stay close. He filled the silences Ricky did not know how to break, guided him through strangeness, and slowly, gently, Ricky began to bloom.
By the time Gunwook appeared, the Ricky Yujin knew was different. His world had filled with strawberries, with cats, with laughter tucked into corners. He had more friends, more warmth, more color than when he first arrived.
And then came Gunwook.
A lone wolf, fresh from the countryside, shoulders squared with both pride and uncertainty. He had seen much—humans, monsters, even those who turned their noses up at his kind. Vampires still muttered that werewolves were too primal, too low. But Gunwook did not let it stain him. He carried friendliness in his stance, sincerity in his grin. He wanted connection, and he did not hesitate to reach for it.
Yujin remembers the exact moment they met. A lecture had just ended, the professor slipping out as the room stirred restlessly, chairs scraping, pages rustling, everyone eager for the cafeteria. Ricky had lingered, composed as always, notes aligned in perfect order, a picture of patience against the noise. Yujin hovered at his side, invisible in the ebb of the crowd, when Gunwook strode straight toward them with a single word.
“Hello.”
Just like that, the first thread was tied.
Gunwook’s ears twitched faintly, betraying a curiosity he clearly didn’t intend to hide. Ah, to be a wolf and wear every feeling on your sleeve—or in this case, on the tilt of your head, the flicker of movement you could never disguise. Yujin thought, that he might one day have to teach him about subtlety.
“I can feel you staring at me,” Gunwook said suddenly.
Ricky’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open in a small, round surprise. And Yujin, who had long ago learned how to shield Ricky from scrutiny, could do nothing now. Because the wolf was right. Ricky had been staring, and Yujin knew him well enough to understand why: curiosity that edged too close to wonder.
“Forgive me,” Ricky said at last, voice smooth. “But you intrigue me.”
“Is that so, Mr. Vampire?” Gunwook’s lips curved, amusement bright in his tone.
“I wanted to get to know you,” Ricky replied, earnest in the way he always was when something—or someone—snared his attention.
“You could’ve just come closer. I don’t bite.”
Ricky blinked at that, head tilting slightly. “But aren’t you a werewolf? Don’t you bite?” he asked, as though the idea had only now occurred to him.
Gunwook’s laugh rang out, full and warm, startling in how easily it cut through the fading chatter of the classroom. He held out his hand, grin still in place. “You’re cute, you know? I’m Gunwook. I hope we can be closer?”
Ricky hesitated only a beat before taking it, his fingers pale against Gunwook’s sun-kissed skin. He smiled softly, as if setting aside the question that lingered unanswered. “I’m Ricky. I’m looking forward to being your friend.”
“Friend,” Gunwook repeated, and this time the word sounded different—lighter, like it meant more than it should. His ears twitched again, betraying the little smile he couldn’t hold back. “I’d like that. Really.”
And all the while, Yujin lingered just outside their orbit. A ghost has no presence in the space of those who only ever see one another, and in that moment, Ricky and Gunwook might as well have been standing in their own little world.
So Yujin did the only thing he could—he spoke.
“I’m Yujin,” he announced, letting his voice slip into the space between them, thin and weightless. “Nice to meet you too.”
Gunwook startled, eyes snapping to him as if he were only just noticing there had been a third presence all along. “How long have you been there?”
“Since forever ago,” Yujin said with the kind of calm only a ghost could manage.
Gunwook blinked, then gave a sheepish nod. “Oh. Hi.”
It was almost funny, how easily they resumed after that, as though his interruption were a ripple smoothed over by the current. Ricky, ever gracious, turned to Gunwook again. “You can join us, if you have no plans.”
And so he did. From that day forward, Gunwook seemed to fall into step with them naturally, as though he had always belonged there. Yujin couldn’t decide if it was Gunwook joining them, or if he himself had become the one caught in the middle of something larger than he could hold, something blooming between vampire and wolf, fragile and inevitable all at once.
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Gunwook had blended seamlessly into their everyday since the first time they met. Because really, it doesn’t take long to open up when you look like you’d give up the moon just to be close.
And it had started with teasing, mostly. If Yujin knows anything, it’s that Ricky is far too fun to tease. As a ghost, pranks come easy to him—slipping shadows, rattling doors, vanishing trinkets—but once Gunwook came along, Yujin realized wolves had a streak for mischief too. Or maybe it was just Gunwook himself, unable to help the grin that split wide across his face whenever Ricky reacted. Because Ricky always did react, more than he ever allowed himself to with anyone else.
Like now.
“If you must know,” Gunwook began, leaning lazily against the wall as though he had all the time in the world, “werewolves are born when a human and a wolf fall in love.”
Ricky’s brow twitched. “That’s not true.”
“You sure?” Gunwook tilted his head, smile tugging, eyes just a shade too bright. “Think about it. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“We learned this in monster biology.” Ricky’s voice was steady, but Yujin could hear the edge of exasperation already. “You came from other werewolves. Just like I came from other vampires.”
“But what about the first ones?” Gunwook pressed, relentless. “Someone had to start it. There had to be—”
“Not everything needs an origin,” Ricky interrupted, sharper this time, but his lips quirked in spite of himself. “We might not even know it, but what if we just exist simply because humans believed too hard that we did.”
Gunwook let out a laugh. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”
“And you’ve been talking nonsense since morning,” Ricky returned, but his voice softened, almost fond.
The exchange should have ended there, but Gunwook wasn’t done. Mischief clung to him like moonlight, restless and unshakable. He leaned closer, grin turning conspiratorial, as though sharing some secret too delicate for the rest of the world.
“Alright then,” he said, “let me show you a trick. I can turn invisible. Just like Yujin.”
Ricky blinked at him, skeptical in the way only Ricky could be—serious, measured, but with the faintest tilt to his lips betraying amusement. “No, you can’t.”
“I can. Close your eyes for a second and I’ll prove it.”
Yujin, drifting nearby, tilted his head. For a moment, he thought to step in, to save Ricky from whatever nonsense Gunwook was about to conjure. But he stayed. Better to let the wolf play his hand. Better to watch.
And Ricky—perhaps because curiosity still tugged at him even after centuries of living, perhaps because there was something in Gunwook’s voice that made him want to believe—actually obeyed. His lashes lowered, shoulders loosening just slightly as the world slipped into self-imposed dark.
For a moment, there was silence. Then a touch: the slow glide of hands over his face, warm palms covering his eyes, turning the darkness complete.
“Alright,” Gunwook whispered, close enough that Ricky could feel his breath stir the air. “Open them.”
Ricky did. And the world was gone.
No invisibility, not really. Only Gunwook’s hands blotting out every trace of light. But still—what even is invisibility, if not this? Is it vanishing from sight, or erasing presence entirely? Because Gunwook’s presence was anything but erased. It pressed against Ricky in every sense.
“You can remove your hands now,” Ricky said at last, his voice steady, but with the faintest thread of laughter winding through it. Yujin, watching, caught the moment subtly.
“What gave it away?” Gunwook asked, not moving an inch.
“Your touch,” Ricky replied. He spoke simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. But the softness in his tone betrayed him. “It’s very distinct.”
The words lingered, heavier than they should have. Ricky stepped forward toward the classroom, slipping free of Gunwook’s palms, face calm but touched with a small smile that warmed the edges of his composure.
And Gunwook… he remained rooted where he stood, staring after him as though Ricky had struck some hidden chord in his chest. His ears burned red, the flush rising too fast to hide, as if those three simple words carried far more weight than Ricky intended.
In Yujin’s opinion, it was a very interesting experience indeed.
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It was not a surprise any longer that they were always walking each other to class. Different schedules pulled them apart sometimes, but not for long. The main lectures were shared, and that meant sitting side by side, sharing the same space, the same small boredom. Looking at notes like they were more fascinating than they really were. It was easier that way—to pretend scribbled words held weight when, truthfully, they would rather rest their heads against the desk or drift into hushed conversations.
This lecture promised to be the same. Another hour of steady words, easy to forget, destined to be studied again later. Until the professor’s voice shifted, calling for something different. “Form groups,” he said. “Compare the natures of monsters unlike yourselves. Devils and angels, for instance—their opposition is integral to history.”
A ripple of interest broke through the monotony. Ricky tilted his head, his voice quiet but sure. “We could ask Hao-ge. He’s a devil.”
Simple words, but they carried more than that. Yujin knew it. Ricky and he had friends now. Real ones. Slowly, things were getting better. And Gunwook was already part of it too. So he agreed, in that silent, steady way of his.
It might have ended there, if not for the interruption.
“Yo, can we join your group? Others have five or six members, you only have three.”
The voice was casual, but the look was not. The demon’s gaze fixed on Ricky, direct and shameless, as though the rest of them—Yujin, Gunwook—were invisible. Yujin felt the weight of it immediately. He didn’t even need to glance at Gunwook to know he felt it too. Outside of these walls, Yujin might have taken matters into his own hands, slipped into that body, bent it away until it learned never to return. Gunwook, perhaps, might have bared his teeth. But here, under the quiet order of the classroom, restraint won.
Ricky looked back at them, asking without words. Gunwook answered.
“We already decided on a topic. A demon’s close enough to a devil, so sorry.” His tone was polite enough to stand, but there was steel beneath it.
The intruder laughed awkwardly, retreating back into the rows of desks, his presence dissolving as quickly as it came.
Gunwook’s smile was small, victorious. Yujin’s mirrored it as he bent over Ricky’s notes, pretending to study with exaggerated interest. Gunwook leaned in, shoulder brushing closer as if to stitch the circle closed again, and for the first time since the interruption, the balance returned.
Yujin caught his eye then. A look passed between them, unspoken, a flicker of recognition that the task was done—and done beautifully. Gunwook’s mouth curled higher, Yujin’s gaze lingered, and the smugness in their shared smile said what words didn’t need to.
They didn’t need to say it aloud. They knew. And Yujin—he knew everything. This was exciting.
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Every moment with them feels like a date, and Yujin is always a willing audience. At least for now. He knows one day it’ll stop being fun, when years pass and they’re still circling each other like shadows that never touch. But for the first instances—these fragile beginnings—he lets himself watch.
The cafeteria was full of choice, a spread for all monsters alike. Platters of meat, simmering soups, even blood served neat if you wanted it. Nothing lacking in flavor. Ricky and Yujin had settled on the safer option: one bowl of stir-fried beef each, though Ricky padded his plate with side dishes like he was curating balance itself. Gunwook, meanwhile, sat across from them with two bowls of pure meat, nothing else, as if greens or sauces might betray him.
Still, he had something tucked away. A secret.
Gunwook unwrapped a chocolate bar from his bag, the crinkle of foil loud in the chatter around them. He said it was dessert, casual, as though he hadn’t been waiting for this moment. His hands were sure, already breaking off a piece.
The wolf’s movements made Yujin go into shock.
“You can’t eat chocolates,” Yujin blurted before the bite reached Gunwook’s mouth. “You’re a wolf.”
Gunwook didn’t flinch. “I’m a werewolf,” he said easily, like the word carried all the permission he needed. “I’m still part human. And I love chocolates.”
“But it doesn’t make you sick?” Ricky asked, his curiosity slipping out unguarded. Nice, Ricky-hyung. Always asking the right questions, the ones Yujin wouldn’t ask himself.
“No,” Gunwook said. “It makes me feel good, actually.” Then, with a smile, “Want some?”
Ricky tilted his head. “I heard it’s poisonous for you.”
Yujin thought about that. He knew the fact well—chocolate and canines, an old story of danger. It wasn’t foolproof logic, but it made him wonder. Did that mean Gunwook wanted things that were no good for him? Did he chase poison just to prove he could stand it?
Gunwook’s voice dipped low, enough to catch Ricky’s eyes where he sipped from his strawberry smoothie instead of blood. Red, still red, Yujin thought, but Ricky always found reasons to hold onto his favorites. Little excuses to bend the rules without breaking them. If that was allowed, then maybe Yujin shouldn’t be too quick to react to Gunwook’s cravings either.
“Sometimes,” Gunwook said, breaking another square of chocolate, “you don’t know it’s poison until it’s already corroding you inside.”
Yujin stilled. Did he mean it in some other way? Or was it just chocolate in his hand, bitter and sweet in turns? The words clung stubbornly anyway.
None of them were going to fit into the molds others expected. Ricky wasn’t the perfect heir, Gunwook wasn’t the obedient wolf, and Yujin—well, he couldn’t even be called a normal ghost. He didn’t need food, didn’t even have a body to weigh it down. And yet here he was, savoring lunch with them, enjoying fruit as if it was the most delectable thing.
Gunwook shifted suddenly, his hand extending across the table. “Want some?” he asked again, this time holding the chocolate out directly to Ricky.
It was only on that second offer that Ricky accepted, fingers brushing Gunwook’s as he took one neat square. He placed it in his mouth, thoughtful, then let the smallest smile curve his lips. “It’s delicious.”
“Right?” Gunwook’s grin widened, sharp teeth showing. Even his ears betrayed him, flicking just slightly, like they couldn’t hide how much he liked that Ricky liked it.
And then, without hesitation, Ricky turned the act back on him. He picked up a slice of meat from his bowl, held it out as if testing something, and simply said, “Ah~.”
Gunwook’s eyes lit, startled but delighted. He leaned forward and bit down, savoring it in a way that felt more intimate than it should. Yujin almost laughed. This was supposed to be lunch, wasn’t it? Not whatever this performance had become.
Still, Ricky didn’t forget him either. With the same casual grace, he held out a strawberry. Yujin took it, teeth sinking into the soft flesh. Sweet, with a faint sourness that lingered. Maybe it was what Gunwook was feeling right now—sour, bitter, sweet, too much all at once.
When Yujin looked up, Gunwook was watching him with an expression he couldn’t name at first. Not envy, not annoyance. Something gentler. Almost like pride. The look of a father watching his child eat properly for once.
Why didn’t they just adopt him at this point?
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They all spent a lot of time together, and sometimes that meant retreating to Gunwook’s dorm. His space was immaculate—books lined perfectly, objects arranged with a careful precision that spoke of his need for order. Not a single thing was out of place, yet it felt alive, personal, welcoming.
They would play games, watch movies, or simply lie around, talking about whatever crossed their minds. Sometimes, they would pick up a photo, a notebook, or a small trinket, and Gunwook would tell a story about it—little moments from his life, memories painted in words. The stories were ordinary, yet intimate, each one telling of who he was. And Yujin would linger at the edges of it all, quiet, observing. Like a ghost that he is, he floated, present yet unseen, soaking in every laugh, every sigh, every whispered detail. It was his way of giving them the intimacy they didn’t even realize they craved.
Gunwook welcomed them with open arms, insisting that they treat his dorm as theirs. It wasn’t just cozy or warm—it was a kind of home Yujin hadn’t expected. Unlike the cold, sterile hallways of wealth and perfection he and Ricky were used to, this place held treasures that mattered because of the care Gunwook poured into them, not the value stamped on their surface. Books lined the shelves, pens were arranged by color and purpose, little collections of hobbies scattered like soft markers of his presence. Everything was treasured simply because he treasured it.
“Do you have something to eat here?” Ricky asked, settling into the couch as the screen lit up with the colorful chaos of a vampire film—a human take on monster history, Hotel Transylvania.
“Do you want my blood? Bleh bleh bleh,” Gunwook said, tilting his head, mimicking the vampire from the film with exaggerated menace.
Ricky turned to him, a small smirk tugging at his lips, and gave Gunwook a light smack on the arm. Slightly offended, but not really. “No, thank you,” he said, shaking his head.
“Chocolate-covered strawberries, then?” Gunwook offered, a softer edge in his voice, like an invitation rather than a question.
“Yes,” Ricky said immediately, eyes shining, the light from the screen catching in them, making them almost glow. Gunwook held out a strawberry, and Ricky leaned forward. His fangs sank gently into the red flesh, the sweetness coating his senses, while Yujin nibbled on grapes, the satisfying crunch grounding him in this small, soft moment.
The movie played on, but Gunwook’s voice cut in again, low and amused. “Look at the zombie-turned-human staff… humans really don’t understand monsters, do they? But at least they got one thing right—vampires do turn into bats.”
Ricky’s grin widened, and before Gunwook could react, he shifted, transforming into a small bat. He fluttered onto Gunwook’s head, his tiny claws threading through Gunwook’s hair, shaping it into a heart, delicate and precise, as if leaving a small, living mark of mischief and affection.
Gunwook froze, eyes widening for a heartbeat, then let out a soft laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Did you live in a castle-turned-hotel?” Gunwook asked, teasing lightly, though he knew the truth probably lingered somewhere in Ricky’s past. A vampire of long ancestry like Ricky would have grown up in grandeur, even if modern times offered other forms of wealth.
“Our house hasn’t changed for centuries,” Ricky said, shifting back to his human form, brushing at his hair. “But I quite like it. Nostalgia clings to the halls whenever I go home. You should visit sometime.”
Gunwook’s grin faltered just slightly. “But I’m a wolf… they’d probably call me some rabid, disgusting mutt,” he said, words light, but the shadow of doubt and old hurt lingered.
Ricky didn’t let it pass. He moved closer, sitting next to Gunwook, taking his hand in his own, fingers curling reassuringly. His gaze met Gunwook’s directly, unflinching.
Meanwhile, Yujin knew when to listen and when not to. But in a room this small, silence spoke louder than the television. Almost unconsciously, he lowered the volume, just enough that the flicker of dialogue faded, leaving the weight of Ricky’s words to be heard clearly.
“Wook-ah,” Ricky said softly, voice quiet but resolute, “you know that’s not true. I’m a vampire, and I have never treated you as such. You don’t always have to live with what others speak of you.”
Gunwook’s jaw tightened, shoulders sinking. “It’s just.. hard,” he admitted after a beat, voice low. “Especially when it’s what you’ve been told your whole life.” His lips quirked faintly, an attempt to chase it away. “My bad—we were supposed to be watching a movie.”
Ricky’s hand stayed firm around his. “It’s fine,” he said gently, a hint of warmth breaking through the shadow. “Yujin’s enjoying it for our sake.”
At that, both their gazes shifted—and found Yujin, grapes halfway to his mouth, eyes very much not on the screen. He froze, caught in the act, before blinking back at them with wide innocence. For a suspended moment, all three hung there, the vampiresque hush thick in the room. Ricky and Gunwook startled, faint blushes rising, while Yujin only shifted slightly, his small smirk giving him away.
He didn’t say a word. He simply leaned back and resumed chewing, eyes flicking between them and the screen, unwilling to look away. Because truth be told, this was better than any five-star film he could ever hope to see.
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But there were times when Gunwook didn’t want them in his space, no matter how warm his dorm usually was. His home became a boundary he held firmly for reasons he called “personal”—though Ricky and Yujin both knew it meant something more. Wolf reasons, he had once muttered. And on that particular night, the reason was written plain across the sky: a full moon.
The glow was impossible to ignore, silver and unrelenting, swallowing the dark whole. It was the kind of light that consumed everything in its reach—and Gunwook, a creature of the night, could not slip free of it.
Full moons meant hunger, always. Nights when he insisted on being alone, though he never admitted just how sharp the pull became, how badly his body wanted, wanted, wanted. The craving rose until his restraint thinned, senses blazing, instincts calling him to the hunt. To let them see that—no, it was unthinkable.
And so the group chat blinked alive with his message, short and cold.
Gunwook:
It will only be for a week.
Ricky stared at the words, his reflection caught dimly in the glass of his screen, Yujin leaning close beside him. Silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of what wasn’t being said. Ricky’s fingers moved before he thought better of it.
Ricky:
We don’t even have those scents that wolves have in those A/B/O universes.
Yujin let out a sharp snort at that, unable to stop himself. “Hyung, you should really lessen your readings in those human fictions.”
“But we are a part of those too,” Ricky replied, eyes still fixed on the glow of his phone. His voice was soft, as if defending something precious. “It’s educational at some point.”
Yujin opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t exactly deny that. So he just shrugged, letting the moment slip past.
The chat went quiet again. Gunwook didn’t answer, though Ricky saw it—the flicker of “seen” that felt colder than no response at all.
So Ricky typed again.
Ricky:
Wook?
Still nothing.
The silence was worse than words. It was the silence of distance, of something slipping out of reach. Finally, Ricky’s thumb pressed again:
“We’ll go there.”
Yujin’s eyes widened at the glow of the message, his voice rising before he could temper it. “Is this a good idea?”
“Not exactly,” Ricky admitted, his face turned toward the window now. The moonlight filtered through, staining him in silver. “But we shouldn’t let Gunwook go through this alone, should we?”
There was no answer needed. Yujin’s protest caught in his throat, dissolving into acceptance. He only nodded, heart heavy, because Ricky was right. Of course.
And the night felt thicker for it, as though it already knew what they were about to walk into.
──────✩₊˚.⋆☾♱❣𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧──────
They reached the forest Gunwook had mentioned in his note. Of course—it had to be here. This was the only forest wide enough, endless enough, to swallow someone whole. And if Gunwook wanted to disappear, to hide himself from their eyes, then it was only natural that he would choose this place.
“Where do you think he’ll be, Yujinnie?” Ricky asked, his voice tight as he scanned the darkness.
“I’m not a werewolf,” Yujin muttered, his words clipped but uneasy. “I don’t know where they go when they… hunt.”
“Neither am I,” Ricky admitted, though his feet never slowed, carrying him deeper between the trees.
Yujin swam through the air at his side, his form flickering pale against the black. He pushed himself faster than he ever had, as though he could actually tire. “Hyung, can’t you just teleport us there?”
“But what if we miss him in the middle of it?” Ricky answered, breath steady even as his speed seemed to defy reason, his body a blur cutting through the dark.
Then it came. A howl.
It wasn’t the sound of a predator. It wasn’t hunger. It was grief, ripped raw into the night. A cry that carried every mile of distance between them.
Gunwook.
They didn’t need to speak. One look at each other was enough—they both knew. They had to be faster.
Branches blurred past, the ground uneven beneath Ricky’s feet, the forest pressing closer, until finally the trees broke open into a cliffside. And there he was. A lone wolf, dark grey beneath the silver moon, standing at the center of the clearing like something the night had claimed for itself. His body shook with the force of his cries, the sound clawing out of him as though he could never be emptied of it.
“Oh, Wook…” Ricky’s voice cracked on the name, fragile as glass. Yujin felt it pierce him too, that sharp edge of sorrow, and if a ghost’s heart could break, his did then.
They approached slowly, the silence heavy around them save for the wolf’s sobbing breaths. Gunwook’s great frame trembled, but he didn’t move when Ricky came closer. Ricky knelt at his side, hands gentle as they threaded through thick fur, soft strokes meant not to tame, but to soothe.
Gunwook let out a low whimper, folding beneath the touch as though even that gentleness was too much.
“Are you alright?” Ricky whispered, his arms sliding around as much of him as he could hold. Gunwook was twice his size, all strength and shadow, but Ricky pressed close anyway, clinging as though his cool body could still be enough. “Forgive me,” he murmured against his fur, “for I am not as warm as you would need.”
There was no blood. No signs of a hunt. No carcass dragged into the dirt. Only the earth torn apart by claw marks, the soil scarred where he had tried to bury the unbearable ache. The forest had borne witness to his restraint, to how he had chosen the pain of tearing ground instead of tearing life.
Ricky tightened his hold, inch by inch, until his own body shook with the effort. Slowly, achingly, the wild rhythm of Gunwook’s heart began to ease, though the tremors in him never fully stilled.
When at last Gunwook raised his head, his eyes met Ricky’s. Gold, molten and fever-bright, clashed with the deep red glow of Ricky’s. The world seemed to hold its breath. Then Gunwook leaned forward, nudging him lightly with his snout. A gesture. A question.
Ricky blinked, startled by the sudden intimacy. “What…?” he whispered, almost afraid to break the moment, his hand still pressed against the trembling beast’s chest. Gunwook only shifted his head again, a silent urging, as if telling Ricky to climb onto his back.
“Do you want to go somewhere?” Ricky asked quietly. The answer was obvious, written in the urgency of Gunwook’s body, and so Ricky climbed onto his back. Yujin followed too, drifting just behind, tethered by something unseen, unwilling to be left out of this fragile moment.
The ride was a rush of wind, wild and relentless. It clawed at their faces, tugged at their hair, yet there was something cleansing in it too. It felt as if Gunwook needed to empty himself, to let the storm inside spill out with every pounding step. Ricky’s hands threaded through the wolf’s fur all the while, not once letting go. Yujin noticed—he always noticed—and could not stop the small smile from curving his lips.
The willow tree welcomed them at last, its long branches bowing down like veils. Only there did Gunwook allow himself to shift back, his form twisting, reshaping, until he was human again. His body trembled in the sudden stillness. Ricky was ready—he always was—slipping his coat from his own shoulders to cover him without a word.
They leaned back against the tree, the three of them gathered beneath its shade. Gunwook blinked against the light that filtered through the leaves, his lashes heavy, his voice low and gruff. “Ricky… Yujin… I said this would take a week.”
“Do you want us to just wait while you suffer alone?” Ricky’s tone was firm, but softer than breath.
“I’m not really suffering,” Gunwook tried, but the lie faltered.
“Is that why your body’s burning like fire itself?” Ricky countered, his hand lifting, pressing against Gunwook’s steaming skin. “Earlier, you needed warmth. Now it’s the cold you crave.”
“Ricky…” Gunwook rasped. “This is what I have to go through. Every time. Every period of this.”
“Precisely why we should be here,” Ricky answered. “At least let us make it better.”
The moment softened into something tender, unbearably so, and Yujin almost didn’t know how to exist inside it. Comfort wasn’t his role—he was for teasing, pranks, the light in the shadows. Yet still, he forced himself to speak.
“Gunwook-hyung,” he said, his voice a little too bright at first, but steadying with conviction. “You can rely on us.”
Gunwook gave the faintest nod, his breath shuddering. Yujin watched as Ricky’s hands moved again, searching for where the fever burned the hottest, laying his cool palms against the fire. The effect was immediate—Gunwook’s harsh breath loosened, his body sagging into the relief. Ricky’s touch was cold, unnaturally so, and in that cold was solace.
“You’re cold to the touch,” Gunwook whispered, almost reverent. He leaned closer, closer still, until his forehead brushed Ricky’s nape. He inhaled, eyes shutting as though the scent itself could mend him.
“You smell good. It’s comforting,” Gunwook murmured, half-plea, half-confession, his breath hot against Ricky’s skin. Ricky’s hand never left his hair, fingers combing through with slow patience, offering coldness that seemed to steady the fever running through Gunwook’s veins. Even the night air itself joined in, cool and quiet, wrapping around them both.
“What do I smell like? Strawberries, musk, sandalwood?” Ricky asked with a small laugh, his tone feather-light, as if plucked straight from all the human fiction he had buried himself in. “Or maybe… like overly sweetened vanilla—the kind that fills your senses so completely you can’t smell anything else.”
Gunwook’s lips curved in an almost sleepy smile, sharp edges softened by exhaustion. “Strawberries… you smell like strawberries,” he whispered, “and cigarettes.” His voice was low, joking and not, as though his body still hurt but his heart had finally loosened enough to tease.
Ricky blinked, startled, immediately meeting his gaze. “I don’t smoke.”
“You don’t,” Gunwook agreed, eyes half-lidded, a strange warmth lingering in them. “But you smell like strawberries. That’s true for me. And it’s… intoxicating. Addicting, like cigarettes would be.”
“Wook,” Ricky sighed, shaking his head. “You’re delirious.”
But Gunwook only breathed out a laugh. “I like you.”
The words cut through the night, simple, unguarded, falling from his lips without hesitation. He didn’t seem to care where they landed, didn’t seem to mind what they meant.
And Ricky, with a smile soft enough to be mistaken for everyday affection, answered just as easily. “I like you too.” His tone was light, casual—like it was nothing more than a daily exchange, just another “friendly” truth tossed into the open. As if he had let himself be pulled into Gunwook’s delirium without even knowing it.
Yujin, hovering just beyond them, caught every word. Of course he did. His eyes widened, though not completely with shock—he had seen too much between them already. Still, hearing it aloud made something click sharp inside his chest. They said it. They both said it.
And yet… they didn’t even seem to notice. As if the words slipped past before they could weigh them, as if they had been circling the thought for so long that saying it out loud felt almost ordinary. If morning came, Yujin was sure they would brush it off, call it nothing, hide behind the word friendship. Idiots. Both of them. Beautiful, stubborn idiots.
Yujin drifted closer to the ground, his eyes catching the small figure of a spider lowering itself on a thin thread nearby. He tilted his head at it, whispering, “You see what I’m seeing?” The spider twitched, shifted, and in that small movement Yujin chose to believe it answered yes.
And what they saw together was Ricky and Gunwook, lying side by side on the grass beneath the willow, the night folding itself around them, careless and tender all at once.
God—or the greatest holy spirit, or whatever he was supposed to call on—Yujin was not very holy. But even so, he knew this much: they cared for each other with a force that was already too much for the night to contain.
──────✩₊˚.⋆☾♱❣𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧──────
Sometimes, Yujin wondered if they were even conscious of their own actions—if they realized the weight of everything they did and didn’t say. Because if they were aware, then truly, applause was in order. To be this blind? Oblivious, or simply foolish.
Those foolish, love-drenched “best friends.”
They were sprawled on the school rooftop now, bathed in moonlight. The night air was cool, tinged with the faint perfume of blooming moonflowers that crept along the ledges. From up here, the world below was hushed, distant, as if the sky itself had sealed them in.
The two of them sat close, heads bent toward each other, laughing quietly as they tucked blossoms into one another’s hair.
Gunwook had started it—plucking a flower with the intention of teasing, of crowning Ricky with something silly. But the moment he pressed the pale bloom behind Ricky’s ear, his hand lingered. He stared. Because the flower did not make Ricky ridiculous—it made him unbearably beautiful, as if the moon itself had claimed him. Something inside Gunwook cracked wide open at the sight.
And Ricky, ever unwilling to let him have the last word, retaliated with his own flowers. An excuse, really. An excuse to touch Gunwook, to thread petals through his dark hair, to lean in too close under the quiet sky. Together they looked like two figures pulled from a painting—each gesture of mischief only blooming into tenderness.
Yujin floated nearby, watching them with mounting disbelief. His patience wore thinner with each giggle, each flower, each stolen glance they seemed not to notice themselves giving.
Finally, he cut through the softness. “Are you two dating?”
The words dropped like a pebble into still water.
Neither answered at first. They only glanced at him—startled, almost guilty—as though he had shattered something fragile. Ricky’s hand froze mid-motion, another flower resting between his fingers.
Yujin had to repeat himself. “I asked if you were dating.” His voice came sharper this time, threaded with exasperation.
“No. We’re not.” Ricky’s tone was cool, steady, but his brown eyes betrayed something else. “What made you ask such a question?”
Yujin nearly scoffed aloud. He wanted to point at them, to grab both of their heads and make them look at themselves—at the flowers still tucked neatly, at the distance that didn’t exist between their bodies. If they weren’t dating, then what were they? A couple trapped in denial. A couple pretending not to be one.
Gunwook, meanwhile, sat stiff for a beat too long. His expression was shocked at first—like he’d been caught red-handed—before it softened, the edges of his face folding into something like uneasy acceptance. He looked almost pained, his gaze darting from Yujin to Ricky, then back again, as if terrified of how much could be read in the silence between them.
And Yujin caught it. Oh, heavens, he caught it. The ache, the longing barely contained beneath Gunwook’s skin.
“Yujin-ah…” Gunwook finally said, his voice low, roughened by everything he wasn’t saying. He forced a small smile, though it trembled at the edges. “We’re not dating.”
It was as if they wouldn’t budge. They wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, so Yujin redirected, sharp as ever, because how long could this go on?
“Then what do you think about dating?” he asked, hovering closer.
Ricky answered first, smooth and composed, though the moonlight touched a softness at the corner of his expression. “It’s not something I think about a lot,” he said simply, like it was the truth and nothing more.
Gunwook’s turn came slower, heavier. He shifted, eyes catching briefly on Ricky again—on the flower tucked behind his ear, beautiful against pale hair. “Dating is good and bad,” he said at last, “depending on how you see it. Many in our class are dating now, almost all of them. But if the one you date is the one you truly want… the one… then it’s more than good. It’s the best thing there is. The kind of feeling that nothing else compares to.”
The words hung between them, tender and achingly transparent. Yujin squinted, trying not to roll his eyes at how obvious it all was.
“You sound like you have a lot of experience,” he teased, lips quirking, though he knew exactly where this was going.
Gunwook let out a breath of a laugh—hollow, almost bitter at himself. “I don’t have any,” he admitted. Then, glancing at Yujin, his gaze was pleading in a way he couldn’t hide. “But Yujin… if you want advice about dating, we’re not the ones to ask. You should… talk to others.” The look that passed between them was louder than words: Please, not now. Please don’t make me say it.
“You could ask those who are dating,” Ricky offered smoothly, saving him from unraveling. “Like Hao-ge and Hanbin-hyung. We could go with you, if you’d like.”
It was painfully clear Yujin had reached the end of this particular conversation. They weren’t going to break. But still, he’d gathered enough—more than enough.
“Thank you, Gunwook-hyung. And Ricky-hyung.” His grin was sly now, though his tone stayed light. “Let’s see them all together some other time. For now, I have very important business to attend to.” With that, he floated off, quicker than before.
“Alright then, meet us at the dorms?” Ricky called after him.
“Of course,” Yujin replied over his shoulder, eyes still on the sight they made—his hyungs, sitting there beneath the moon, their hair crowned with flowers. His smile turned knowing. It was always like this. Always the same dance.
But not for much longer.
Now he had a plan, a vision clear as starlight, and he would see it through. Because it had been years already, and someone had to help them move.
There was no time to waste now.
──────✩₊˚.⋆☾♱❣𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧──────
Yujin met Hao and Hanbin at the library. The library, of all places—because if they were anywhere else, they’d be interrupted. Here, tucked between the smell of old paper and the weight of silence, they could talk for as long as they wanted.
Hao, of course, was the devil. Not merely a demon’s spawn, but a devil in his own right, with a smirk that seemed to know too much and horns that caught the lamplight just so. Hanbin, meanwhile, was Frankenstein’s son, always seeming to lose bits and pieces of himself. Arms, legs, even a rib once—it was honestly fine. Each part had a mind of its own, loyal enough to find their way back eventually.
But the important part—the part Yujin cared for right now—was that Hao and Hanbin were dating. Properly, openly, ridiculously dating. Which meant they were qualified to give him what he needed: dating advice.
“Ricky-hyung and Gunwook-hyung are still not together,” Yujin whispered, hunching closer, one hand cupped to his mouth as if the shadows themselves might eavesdrop.
Not that anyone needed to eavesdrop. It wasn’t as if their situation was a secret.
Hao arched a brow, devilishly unbothered. “Why? Did something world-changing happen for you to ask us this again—for the hundredth time?”
“They were playing around with flowers. Acting like a couple,” Yujin muttered.
Hanbin leaned back, unimpressed. “So… just like always?”
“Yes, hyung. Just like always.” Yujin’s voice cracked higher with frustration, like a kettle left to steam too long. “I mean— I need a plan!”
“Shhh.” The librarian shot them a glare from across the shelves.
Yujin shrank for all of half a second before hiss-whispering, “Because how else will I make them realize? I need your help.”
“How about setting up a date between them?” Hao suggested, lazy as if the solution were obvious.
“They’re already always on one!” Yujin groaned, dropping his forehead against the table.
Then Hanbin sat up straighter, as though the memory of some ancient revelation had just struck him. “You know, when Hao and I—before we were us—something strange happened.” His eyes gleamed with the drama of it, and Yujin knew he was about to regret asking.
“My hands,” Hanbin began, “flew away while I was practicing my tutting routine.” He lifted his arm, shaking it for emphasis, though Yujin swore it threatened to detach again. “One hand went rogue. Just floated away. And who happened to be there at that exact moment?” He paused, his grin stretching wide. “Hao.”
Yujin blinked, flat. “Congratulations on losing control of your limbs.”
But Hanbin wasn’t deterred. He leaned forward, all theatrical flair. “The hand—it landed in his. And instead of letting go, it clung to him. Fingers intertwined. Wouldn’t budge no matter how much I pulled. It held on for dear life. For love.” His voice dropped lower, dramatic, as if he were narrating some gothic epic. “And Hao, with my hand trapped in his, found me in record time. My hand had chosen him. My heart had chosen him.”
Hanbin pressed his palm against his chest with exaggerated tenderness. “It was fate.”
“You don’t have a heart, hyung,” Yujin deadpanned immediately.
But his words were drowned beneath the flood of Hanbin’s gushing. He was already clasping Hao’s devilish fingers, recounting every detail of that so-called destined moment as if it were scripture. Hao let him, the corner of his mouth quirking—equal parts devil and doting boyfriend.
And Yujin, pinching the bridge of his nose, thought: These two are no help at all.
“I can feel the spark,” Hanbin said suddenly, his eyes dreamy. The next second, quite literally, sparks crackled from the bolts in his neck, a jolt of electricity leaping out and catching Hao by surprise.
“AH—!” Hao yelped, jerking back as a devilish plume of smoke curled from the tip of one horn.
“Shhhh! Out. Quiet in the library!” the librarian snapped, though there wasn’t a single soul actually studying at this hour—only the three of them cluttering up the silence.
They knew they were asking for it.
“Sorry…” Yujin muttered on their behalf, tugging them out before Hanbin could electrocute anyone else.
They eventually found a new corner of the campus—an abandoned storeroom that had long since been claimed for student council business, with boxes of old props and costumes shoved into every corner. Here, at least, no one would scold them.
Hao and Hanbin had drifted back into discussion, heads bent close as they scribbled plans for the upcoming Halloween party.
“Maybe skeletons,” Hanbin suggested, tapping his pen on the page.
“You’re saying we should hang our schoolmates as decoration? No, Hanbin.” Hao didn’t even look up, his tone flat as ever.
Hanbin grinned sheepishly. “But Halloween for humans looks so much like ours, doesn’t it?”
“Then what if we include human things? Like their… normal parties?” Hao offered.
“Eh, that won’t work. Humans are boring,” Hanbin shot back.
Their voices tangled together in playful bickering, fading in and out for Yujin, who was only half-listening. His mind spun elsewhere, caught up in the ever-present question of how to make Ricky-hyung and Gunwook-hyung finally realize what everyone else already knew.
“What do you think, Yujin?” Hao’s voice cut clean through his thoughts.
He blinked. “Yes, yes—everything’s good. But what if we… I don’t know, make it hearts-themed? Combine it with the humans’ Halloween. Or better—invite humans, pretend it’s just a costume party.”
Hanbin scrunched his face. “Yeah, let’s not do that.”
“Yeah…” Yujin trailed, zoning out again. His gaze had gone distant, like mist drifting above a graveyard.
Hao and Hanbin exchanged a look, their own argument dissolving. Hao leaned his chin on his palm, eyes narrowing. “Yujin, if you want love advice—real love advice—why don’t you just ask Matthew?”
Yujin blinked again, pulled back into the room. “Matthew?”
“Seok Matthew,” Hanbin supplied cheerfully. “The cupid.”
And just like that, something shifted. The gears in Yujin’s head—rusty from worry, stubborn from overthinking—suddenly turned smooth again, well-oiled with a new idea. Brilliant. Of course. Who else could help him with love, if not the cupid himself?
“Thank you, hyungs.” Yujin rose in a graceful float, his long sleeves brushing the air as he did. “I’ll report back to you when I have a proper plan.”
“You’re floating off again?” Hanbin teased.
“Seems like you’ve been floating everywhere lately,” Hao added with a knowing smirk.
Yujin didn’t deny it. He had been. From one corner of the campus to another, chasing answers and advice—all for two people who mattered more to him than anything. His hyungs, his fools, his “not-dating” best friends.
He hoped—no, he swore—that it would all be worth it in the end. Because he would not allow it to be anything less than perfect.
──────✩₊˚.⋆☾♱❣𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧──────
Yujin was alone in the school halls when the crackle of the old speakers rang out. He stayed, floating in the hallway, to listen to this Cupid that Hao and Hanbin had convinced him to give a try. The familiar jingle played, followed by Matthew’s voice, bright and unreasonably cheerful.
“Alright~ ladies and gentlemonsters, welcome once again to Thew’s Love Radio Show! Alright~! We have ourselves a fine morning today, a perfect day for romance, and I, your trusted Thew, am here to help you with your L-O-V-Emergencies—shooting arrows straight through your hearts, alright~!”
Yujin blinked, lips parting in disbelief. He really talks like this every morning? Still, he didn’t move. Something in him was curious. Maybe he’d hear a decent answer before seeking advice himself.
“Now! Our very first caller of the day. Hello, caller, what seems to be your L-O-V-Emergency, alright~?”
A muffled, distorted voice spilled through, crackling with static. Yujin couldn’t quite tell what the problem was—something about wanting to impress their beloved with a meal.
“Alright~ that’s very simple actually,” Matthew said immediately, voice warm with confidence. “You know how the saying goes, the best way to anyone’s heart is through their stomach! Cook them a meal—try something bold, like octopus stew with a little slime dessert on the side. A romantic touch, alright~!”
“But… they are of the Kraken kind,” the caller interrupted.
There was a pause. Yujin imagined Matthew blinking on the other end.
“Oh! You should have said that first, silly caller! In that case, scrap the octopus, you don’t want to look like you’re serving their cousin. Instead—make them a seaweed soup, something comforting and familiar. Treat every day as though it’s their birthday. Alright~!”
“Oh, you’re smart! Thank you, Thew!” the caller chirped, already satisfied.
The line cut, and Matthew hummed proudly to himself.
Yujin, on the other hand, nearly choked on air. The caller had just ignored the first piece of advice so easily, as if Matthew hadn’t just suggested a borderline crime. And they trusted him completely anyway. He shook his head slowly, muttering, “Unbelievable… monsters really do have blind faith.”
Still, despite himself, he lingered. Maybe the next call would be less absurd.
“There we go~ another satisfied monster saved from heartbreak! Let’s move on. Next caller, what is your L-O-V-Emergency, alright~?”
Static crackled again, then a new voice came through.
“Cupid Thew, my boyfriend and I… we haven’t spoken for about a week. I don’t know what I did wrong. He just… won’t look at me anymore.”
“Ohhh, that’s a tricky one~,” Matthew crooned, voice dipping theatrically. “When silence lingers like that, it’s not always anger—it can be fear. Maybe your boyfriend doesn’t know how to tell you what’s in his heart. You have to open a door for him, alright~! Invite him gently. Write him a letter, sing him a song, cook him something he loves. Tell him you’re there, and he’ll come back.”
The caller sniffled audibly. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course! Trust me, Thew never lies about love, alright~!”
The line clicked off. Matthew hummed happily again, while Yujin… stayed quiet. His expression softened, though he masked it quickly.
“Not bad,” he muttered. Then, with a faint huff, “Better than the Kraken one, at least.”
Alright—oh no. That word again. He realized too late that Matthew’s strange, singsong “alright~” had already rubbed off on him. Yujin groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. Still… he had decided. He would call now.
It didn’t take much for a ghost to sneak through the school’s strange old wires. Before he knew it, his voice echoed from the speakers, distorted by a simple changer.
“Hello,” Yujin said at last, low and careful.
“Hello, dear caller! What is your L-O-V-Emergency, alright~!” Matthew’s bright tone chimed back.
Yujin hesitated. Then, flatly: “So this is about my friends…”
“Oh, the classic it’s about my friends,” Matthew teased, his smile almost audible. “Sure it’s not about you, caller?”
“No. Really. This is about my friends,” Yujin said, utterly dry.
Matthew chuckled softly, then played along. “Okay~ so what about them?”
“They’re so idiotic,” Yujin burst out, more emotion in his voice than he intended.
“Whoa, whoa, alright caller, calm down a bit,” Matthew soothed, but the amusement in his voice never left.
“My friends…” Yujin started again, his tone heavy now.
“Yeah?” Matthew prompted.
“They keep circling around each other like glass for years,” Yujin said, frustration spilling out of him. “Fragile, close, but never daring to touch. They do not realize they are in love. How can I push them to see it?”
There was a pause, then a thoughtful hum from Matthew. “Hmm~ nothing is harder than two people who know, deep down, that they love each other… but keep pretending they don’t. Blindness can be comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” Yujin echoed, unimpressed.
“Yes, caller, comfortable. But comfort doesn’t make hearts beat faster, alright~. Maybe what they need… is an external push.”
“An external force?” Yujin asked, his voice suddenly sharper. “Like your arrows? Or a love potion?”
“Oh dear caller,” Matthew laughed, “that is very dangerous. You don’t want an illusion of love—you want the real thing. Instead, how about something we can all do? How about… make them jealous? Jealousy can light a fire they’ve been too afraid to strike.”
“Jealousy?” Yujin repeated, frowning. Then slowly, almost begrudgingly: “…That’s really smart.”
“See? Cupid Thew always delivers, alright~!” Matthew said with a grin in his voice.
“Cupid Thew, you really are smart. Thank you!” Yujin said, his tone softening just slightly. Then he added, “Can you… perhaps meet us, with my friends, to plan this out? If possible.”
“Sure, dear caller,” Matthew replied easily. “I’ll know you when I see you, alright~”
Yujin allowed himself a small smile, unseen in the empty hall. “Alright~. Thank you.”
And with that, he floated away in a rush, determined to find Hao and Hanbin before the idea could cool.
Back on the speakers, Matthew’s voice chimed once more, smooth as honey.
“There we go~, another caller saved from their L-O-V-E crisis. Now, for our final call of the day. Hello, dear caller, what is your L-O-V-Emergency, alright~?”
A new voice slipped through the speakers, hesitant, almost trembling. “Umm… hello.”
Yujin, still drifting through the empty corridors, slowed his pace. If it was the last caller, he wouldn’t mind knowing what the initial problem was, at least. He floated lazily toward Hao and Hanbin’s wing, the faint static carrying Matthew’s cheer with him.
“So, I have someone I love,” the caller confessed.
“Of course you do, dear caller! I’m the expert for love, alright~” Matthew chimed, playful as ever.
The voice wavered. “How can I show more that I love him? He already has everything—the riches, the legacy, the affection from everyone. But I… I want him to feel that I am special to him.”
Yujin tilted his head, eyebrows quirking. “Someone who has it all. Good luck, caller,” Yujin mumbled to himself.
“Is it your boyfriend, maybe?” Matthew teased gently.
“N-No… at least not yet. I’m scared of what we’ll be if I confess.”
Matthew’s voice softened, though the brightness never left. “Then show him in the ways only you can. Show him in the things he loves, things no one else could think to do. Because you know this special someone, don’t you, caller?”
“Yes,” the voice whispered, almost too soft for the wires to carry.
“Then that’s your answer. Love is never about grander than what you are—it’s about the smallest things that only you could give, alright~.”
A pause. Then, almost shyly, as if the secret could break in his mouth, “He likes cats and strawberries—”
And that was the last thing Yujin heard before the signal faded, the speakers cutting as he drifted away from Matthew’s world of hearts and into the devil’s lair—Hao’s.
The ghost gave a crooked grin, shaking his head. “Strawberries and cats? Hah. Sounds like one of Ricky-hyung’s hopeless admirers.”
He twirled midair once, amused at the thought. “Good luck, admirer. You’ll need it. Gunwook-hyung’s already a big, immovable wall standing beside him all the time.”
A soft laugh escaped him, echoing faintly in the empty hall, too quiet for anyone to hear but himself. Then, with a sweep of his pale form, Yujin pressed forward, fully-focused now.
“Alright. Time for the mission.”