Work Text:
circa 1875.
“Get those sons of bitches! That nine tailed fox is a traitor! We have to kill him!”
Jeonghan hears the old man speak while holding a sword. He turned to his brother—Yeon—shielding him with his arms. His brother, who is a full-blodded gumiho, was also the former guardian spirit of Baekdu-daegan mountains.
“Brother, where are we headed?” Jeonghan asked while holding his dog—Geumdung. “We have to get out of here, it’s not safe anymore,” Yeon looked at him. “Han, those men are going to kill us, we have to move.” Jeonghan nodded and followed his brother. Soon enough, they reached a cave, where they decided to take a break from the long walk.
“Stay here, I’ll find us some food to eat. I’ll be right back,” Yeon told his little brother. Jeonghan nodded. “Okay, Brother! Bring me lots of delicious food! I’ll wait for you,” He replied with a smile. Yeon left him inside the freezing cave. The cave grew quieter with every passing minute. The wind howled outside, slipping through the cracks in the stone like whispering ghosts. Jeonghan hugged his knees to his chest, his small body trembling—not because of the cold, but from fear.
Lee Yeon said he’d be right back.
An hour passed. Then another.
The cave swallowed the night whole.
Jeonghan waited long after the wind died down, long after his legs went numb and his stomach ached with hunger. He whispered Yeon’s name until his voice cracked, but no one answered.
He told himself his brother would return.
He always did.
But dawn came—and there were no signs of Yeon.
Days passed. Weeks.
Jeonghan learned quickly that waiting was useless. The mountain spirits avoided him. Hunger consumed him. The coldness of the wind carved itself to his bones. More than once, he nearly died.
But, he still waited.
Not until one day, he heard a rumor carried by wandering spirits.
The Nine-Tailed Fox has chosen humans.
The guardian of Baekdu-daegan has abandoned the mountains.
And it hit him. His brother left him.
That was the moment something inside him shattered. He stopped calling Yeon his “brother”. He stopped believing promises.
Geumdung—his dog—was the only one who stayed.
“You’re all I’ve got,” Jeonghan once murmured, fingers running through Geumdung’s fur.
The trap was meant for Jeonghan.
A hunter’s talisman, soaked in fox blood and greed, glowed beneath the ground. Jeonghan fell to his knees, hands shaking as he gathered Geumdung into his arms. Its breathing became shallow, each rise of its chest was weaker than the last.
“Hey… stay with me,” He whispered, voice trembling. “I didn’t give you permission to leave.”
Geumdung whimpered softly, pressing its head against Jeonghan’s chest one last time—just like it always did.
And then, the dog went still. Jeonghan didn’t move.
The forest watched in silence as he buried Geumdung beneath an old pine tree, marking the ground with a sign only he would recognize.
No prayers. No tears. He had learned long ago that the world took everything you loved if you showed it where it hurt.
That night, something in Jeonghan went cold.
After Yeon, after the mountains, after Geumdung—there was nothing left to protect.
Decades later…
The night was calm, almost too calm.
Jeonghan was walking without direction, hands shoved into his pockets, when a familiar scent drifted through the air—faint, unsteady, like a flame about to go out.
Fox.
He stopped.
Jisoo stumbled over a tree root and fell hard onto the damp earth, his breath tearing from his chest. The hunters’ shouts echoed somewhere near hid—human voices twisted in greed. His fox bead burned beneath his ribs, unstable, betraying his presence with every frightened heartbeat.
“I can’t… I can’t run anymore,” Jisoo whispered, tears blurring his vision.
A trap snapped shut around his ankle.
He gasped, collapsing to his knees as the metal bit into his flesh. He panicked, and his fox tail flickered into view—beautiful and fearful.
“Found him!” a voice yelled. Jisoo squeezed his eyes shut.
Silence.
The wind passed through.
A low, unfamiliar presence pressed against the air, heavy and cold, like a cold wind settling on his insides. The hunters’ torches flew out one by one.
Footsteps approached—slow, deliberate.
Jisoo opened his eyes.
“You’re making a mess,” he said calmly, gaze dropping to the trap around his ankle.
With a flick of his wrist, the snare shattered like glass.
The hunters never even screamed.
Jisoo barely noticed them fall. He was too busy staring at him.
“T-thank you,” he breathed, trying to bow but nearly collapsing instead.
Before he could hit the ground, his arms caught him.
His grip was firm, steady—warm.
Jisoo froze. Jeonghan stiffened too, as if surprised by himself. He hadn’t meant to touch him. Hadn’t meant to do anything except remove a nuisance and disappear back into the mountains.
Yet there he was—soft, trembling in a stranger’s arms.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
“I thought… I thought you’d kill me,” Jisoo said quietly, eyes shining as he looked up at the stranger.
Jeonghan scoffed. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here whimpering around my arms.”
Jisoo lowered his head.
“You shouldn’t be wandering alone.” Jeonghan said.
Jisoo nodded, fingers clutching his sleeve. “Will you leave me too?”
The question struck deeper than it should have. Jeonghan looked away, jaw tightening. For a moment, he saw another cave, another night, another promise never kept.
“No,” he said at last. “Not tonight.”
He removed his outer robe and wrapped it around his shoulders, shielding him from the cold—and from the world. Jisoo inhaled, catching his scent: forest, smoke, something lonely.
As he helped him walk, his steps uneven, he glanced at him up again. “May I… know your name?”
Jeonghan looked at him for a moment, hesitant.
“Han,” he said.
Jisoo smiled, gentle and grateful, like someone handed him a piece of bread.
“Then, Han, “ he paused, voice barely louder than the wind, “please don’t disappear.”
Jeonghan didn’t answer. Instead, he slowed down his steps so he could keep up.
And in the quiet forest, beneath the bright moonlight, fate quietly took hold of them both.
Time passed the way it always did for immortals—quiet, cruel.
Centuries after that moonlit night, both of them lived in the busy city of Seoul.
The apartment was small, huddled between buildings that made them feel more human. Jeonghan liked it that way. Less attention, less interference. Jisoo liked it because it felt… safe.
Mornings were quiet. Jeonghan sat by the window with his warm cup of milk. Jisoo moved around the kitchen barefoot, hair still damp from the shower. He hums softly as he cooks, glancing softly at him, smiling when Jeonghan catches his eye.
“You’re staring,” Jeonghan said.
“You’re brooding,” he replied. “It’s comforting.”
Jeonghan scoffed, but didn’t look away.
They didn’t talk about the past much. There were too many ghosts. Too many names that still hurt to say out loud. But Jisoo remembered everything—how Jeonghan taught him to hide his tail, how he held him when nightmares tore his sleep apart, how he stayed every time he asked him not to disappear.
Jisoo squeezed his hand. They already know this. This time, Jeonghan wasn’t alone, and he would never be again.
The night is quiet, the kind that makes memories louder. Jeonghan sits on the stairs outside their home, knees drawn up, staring at nothing in particular. Jisoo approaches him without a sound, holding a cup of warm milk in his hands. He sits beside the other, leaving just enough space.
“You’ve been thinking about him again,” Jisoo muttered. Jeonghan laughed dryly, eyes still fixed ahead. “Geumdung always knew when I was upset. Even before I did.” He said.
Jisoo did not say anything. He knows better than to rush grief. “He was ugly. One eye always half-closed, tail bent the wrong way, but he followed me everywhere. Like I was his whole world.” Jeonghan continued, his voice wavers, just slightly—something he hates.
“I told him to stay. I always told him to stay.” he lowered his head. Jisoo tightens his grip on the cup. “He didn’t listen because he loved you, and that wasn’t your fault.” Jeonghan looked up at him, bitterness evident on his face. “Love gets you killed in this world.”
A beat, the wind moves through the trees. “Then why do you still remember him so clearly?” Jisoo asked, leaving him in a blank expression. Jeonghan swallows.
“Because…for a while, I wasn’t alone.” His hands clench, nails digging into his palms. “I survived but he didn’t.” Jisoo reaches out—not to comfort, but to ground him—and rests his hand over his. “I hope… wherever he is, he’s not waiting for me anymore.” Jeonghan said.
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s heavy—but shared.
The grocery store was warmer than Jeonghan had expected. Christmas lights were draped along the aisles–cheap plastic garlands blinking red and green, carols playing faintly from old speakers. He pushed the cart lazily, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching Jisoo inspect every ingredient like it was a matter of life and death.
“Do we really need three kinds of tangerines?” Jeonghan asked, eyebrows raised.
Jisoo didn’t even look at him. “Yes. One for offerings, one for guests and one for you. You eat like you’re preparing for hibernation.”
Jeonghan scoffed. “I don’t–”
Jisoo cut him off. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Now, get some milk and cheese. I’ll go get us a loaf of bread for toast.”
Jeonghan scratched his head and went to the dairy section.
Near the end of the bread aisle, a small child sat crossed-legged on the floor. He was bundled in a brown coat, hair sticking up, cheeks flushed from the cold. Jisoo felt his chest drop.
…It couldn’t be.
The child looked up.
Their eyes met, and the kid’s face lit up instantly, like he’d been waiting.
Jisoo’s breath hitched. He hadn’t met Geumdung yet, but he was more than sure that he had reincarnated into the child in front of him.
That smile. That gentle, loyal presence.
A soul that once padded after Jeonghan’s heels through forests and lifetimes.
“Geumdung…” Jisoo whispered.
The child tilted his head, blinking, then went closer, stopping just in front of him. He sniffed the air once, twice—exactly like a dog would.
“You smell like home,” the kid said happily.
Jisoo knelt without thinking, heart pounding. “Where’s your family?” he asked, keeping his voice calm as his hands trembled.
The child pointed toward the front of the store. “Dunno, but you’re nice.”
Behind them, Jeonghan called out, “Jisoo, did you grab the bread or not? I want whole wheat.”
Jisoo flinched. He glanced over his shoulder—Jeonghan was still distracted arguing with himself over the two brands of milk. He hadn’t noticed anything.
Yet.
Jisoo turned back to the kid and gently fixed his coat. “Listen,” he said softly as the kid looked at him. “I need you to stay right here, okay?”
The child nodded immediately, trusting Jisoo with all his heart.
Jisoo stood, forcing his expression back into something normal as he walked back to Jeonghan.
“Found something?” Jeonghan asked lazily.
Jisoo smiled—small, secret, and aching.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Just… something important.”
And from the end of the aisle, unseen by Jeonghan, the child watched them both—eyes warm, waiting patiently, like he always had.
Christmas morning went by so fast, wrapped in snow and silence. The house was warm—paper windows glowing softly, the faint scent of pine simmering and lingering in the air. Jeonghan sat on the floor, back against the couch, unwrapping a box of snacks Jisoo had insisted on giving him “properly”.
“You know this is pointless,” Jeonghan said. “You’re the only one who eats all of these.”
Jisoo smiled. He was standing near the door to the inner room, hands folded behind his back, expression unusually calm.
Jeonghan glanced up, “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to do something stupid.”
Jisoo laughed quietly. “Just… close your eyes for a moment.”
Jeonghan scoffed but did it anyway. “If this is another prank—”
“It’s not,” Jisoo said, voice gentle. “I promise.”
There was a pause.
Soft footsteps padded across the wooden floor. Something warm tugged Jeonghan’s sleeve. “Okay, you may open them now.” Jisoo said.
Jeonghan opened his eyes.
A child stood in front of him. Small, bundled in a familiar warm brown coat. His cheeks flushed pink from the cold, hair sticking up messily like it had never been touched before. The kid looked up at Jeonghan with wide, shining eyes–and smiled.
The room blurred.
Jeonghan’s breath caught so sharply it hurt.
The child tilted his head, tail-less but unmistakable in every other way, and said brightly,
“I found you.”
Jeonghan’s hands began to shake.
No—
It couldn’t be.
He dropped to his knees without realizing it, staring as if afraid the child would vanish if he blinked.
“…Geumdung?” The name slipped out, broken.
The kid’s eyes sparkled. He nodded eagerly and stepped forward, wrapping his small arms around Jeonghan’s neck with absolute trust.
Warm. Real. Alive.
Jeonghan let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh as he clutched the child to his chest, forehead pressed into messy hair.
“You fool,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face.. “You were supposed to rest. You already did enough.”
Behind them, Jisoo watched quietly.
“You kept calling his soul back,” Jisoo said softly. “Lifetime after lifetime. Even when you forgot everything else… you never forgot him.”
Jeonghan looked up, eyes red. “You knew…”
“I met him first,” Jisoo admitted. “At the grocery store. He recognized me. I don’t know how but I knew that… this wasn’t something I could keep from you.”
The child squirmed slightly, looking between them. “Are you crying?”
Jeonghan huffed out a weak laugh. “No. Foxes don’t cry.”
Jisoo smiled. “He waited for today,” he said. “Consider it your Christmas gift.”
Jeonghan pulled Geumdung closer, one hand protectively cradling the back of his head.
“This is the cruelest gift you could give,” Jeonghan said, voice trembling. “How… am I supposed to let him go again?”
Jisoo stepped closer and rested a hand over Jeonghan’s.
“Then don’t,” he replied. “Some bonds aren’t meant to be severed. Even by death.”
Outside, snow continued to fall—soft, unending.
And for the first time in centuries, Jeonghan held onto something the world hadn’t taken from him.
Years passed—quietly, kindly. The sharp edges of fate dulled, the past loosening its grip little by little. Jeonghan stopped waking up angry. Jisoo stopped watching the door like he expected Jeonghan to disappear.
Geumdung grew—steady, bright, loved.
One evening, long after Geumdung had fallen asleep sprawled across the couch, Jeonghan sat beside Jisoo on the porch. The air smelled like summer rain.
“You know,” Jeonghan said, staring out into the dark, “I always thought happy endings were a lie.”
Jisoo hummed. “Still do?”
Jeonghan shook his head. “I think… I just didn’t know what one looked like.”
Jisoo turned to him then, really looked. “And now?”
Jeonghan met his gaze. “Now I’m living in it.”
They made it official without ceremony. No gods watching. No grand celebrations.
Just Jisoo threading a simple ring onto Jeonghan’s finger one quiet morning while Geumdung ate cereal at the table.
“Is this marriage?” Geumdung asked, mouth full. Jeonghan snorted. “More like a hostage situation.” Jisoo smiled. “He said yes.” Geumdung nodded solemnly. “Okay. I’ll allow it.”
Jeonghan laughed—full and unguarded.
They grew older in the way immortals rarely allowed themselves to.
Jeonghan learned to cook—badly, enthusiastically. Jisoo learned to let go—trusting Jeonghan would come back every time he left. They argued, they laughed, they healed.
Some nights, Jeonghan still dreamed of blood and fire.
Some mornings, Jisoo still reached out to make sure Jeonghan was real.
But they always woke up together.
Years later, on a winter night heavy with snow, Jeonghan and Jisoo sat by the window—hands intertwined, silver beginning to thread through Jisoo’s hair.
“Do you regret it?” Jisoo asked suddenly. “Choosing this life?”
Jeonghan squeezed his hand. “Not for a second.”
He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Jisoo’s temple. “I chose you. I’d choose you again. Every lifetime.”
Outside, the snow kept falling.
Inside, nothing was broken anymore.
They had survived the story.
And this time—
They lived happily ever after.
🤍🦊