Archive of Our Own ^beta

the curse we chose

wooyoung dreams of warmth first.

it wraps around him gently, like a low-burning fire, like hands that know exactly where to rest. the air is thick with the scent of earth and woodsmoke, of something simmering just out of sight.

when he opens his eyes, he’s not in his room. he’s sitting on the floor of a small house tucked somewhere high and quiet, the kind of place that feels removed from time itself.

across from him, a man sits close enough that their knees brush.

his hair is dark, loose, falling into his eyes when he moves.

his sleeves are rolled up, skin warm and real beneath wooyoung’s fingers—because somehow, without remembering when, wooyoung is holding his hand.

the touch sends heat rushing up his arm, settling deep in his chest, sudden and overwhelming.

wooyoung laughs softly, surprised by himself. his cheeks burn. he doesn’t know why this feels so intimate, so familiar, like a memory he’s forgotten how to name.

“you’re staring,” the man says, smiling.

his voice is gentle. fond. the kind of voice that has said wooyoung’s name a thousand times before.

“sorry,” wooyoung murmurs, squeezing his hand without thinking. “i just—”

he trails off, because something about the man’s eyes makes his chest ache.

they’re eating together. bowls between them, steam curling up into the air.

the food tastes rich and comforting, like it was made to be shared. wooyoung doesn’t remember sitting down, doesn’t remember starting the meal—but it feels right.

like this is how evenings are supposed to be spent.

the man reaches out, thumb brushing over wooyoung’s knuckles.

“don’t wake up tonight,” he says.

the words land wrong. too sharp. wooyoung blinks, the warmth faltering.

“w-what?” he asks, heart stuttering.

the man’s smile softens into something almost desperate. his grip tightens, just slightly, like he’s afraid wooyoung might slip through his fingers.

“please,” he says quietly. “stay here.”

wooyoung swallows. something cold creeps into his spine. “i can’t just… stay asleep forever. and who are you?”

for a moment, the man looks like he’s going to answer. his lips part, eyes shining with something that feels like grief.

but he doesn’t say his name.

instead, he leans forward and kisses him.

it’s slow. reverent. devastating.

the world tilts. the warmth swallows wooyoung whole, pressing him down, deeper and deeper, like sinking into a lake that refuses to let him surface.

he realizes, distantly, that he can’t pull away—even if he wants to.

and the terrifying thing is… he doesn’t want to.

wooyoung wakes up with a sharp gasp.

his room is dark, quiet except for the hum of his fan. his chest aches like something’s been ripped out of it.

he brings a hand to his head, fingers trembling, and when he sits up, tears spill down his face before he can stop them.

he wipes them away angrily.

this keeps happening.

every time he sees that man—san, he’d said his name was san—he wakes up like this. crying. hollow. like he’s lost something he can’t remember owning.

he stares at the ceiling, breathing hard, trying to ground himself.

it has to be something stupid. something explainable.

it started after that day at the internet café with yeosang, mingi, and jongho. hours of gaming, laughter too loud, fingers greasy from snacks. his first time eating tteokbokki that spicy—maybe his stomach was just punishing him.

maybe his gut had decided to make him hallucinate.

but he doesn’t believe that. not really.

something shifted that day.

wooyoung isn’t sad. not exactly. his life is fine. good, even. school, friends, routines that keep him moving.

but sometimes—on random afternoons, in the quiet between moments—his heart squeezes painfully, and he thinks, is this really all there is?

usually, that feeling disappears when he’s with his best friends. laughter drowns it out. noise makes it small.

this time, it didn’t.

no matter how loud he laughed, no matter how alive he tried to be, the sadness stayed.

and now, when he closes his eyes, there is a man in his dreams who looks at him like he’s been waiting forever.

~

the day passes strangely.

wooyoung goes through the motions the way he always does—classes, snacks, music in one ear while he walks—but everything feels dulled, like someone turned the saturation down on his life. the things that usually spark something in him don’t quite reach. jokes land, games distract, but the joy doesn’t linger. it slips through his fingers before he can hold onto it.

in a way, he finds himself waiting.

waiting for night.

the thought unsettles him. he shouldn’t want sleep like this. and yet, when he thinks about those dreams, about san’s voice and the warmth of his touch, his chest loosens just a little. in those moments, he feels light. happy. alive in a way that feels… complete.

it scares him.

he laughs at dinner with his family, loud enough that no one asks if he’s okay. he nods along, eats, smiles when he’s supposed to. later, he facetimes yeosang while they do homework together, lets him ramble, hums in agreement. he even laughs when yeosang makes a stupid joke.

but the heaviness doesn’t leave.

it sits in his chest, pressing down, a quiet ache that won’t go away no matter how full the room is.

by the time he’s getting ready for bed, it’s worse.

his hands linger on the sink. he stares at his reflection longer than necessary. something about the idea of closing his eyes makes his stomach twist. he knows he’ll see san again. and san is comforting—too comforting. the kind of comfort that seeps into your bones and makes the waking world feel unbearable by comparison.

every time he sleeps, it feels like san pulls him deeper. further away from himself. further into something he doesn’t understand.

and every morning, when he wakes up alone, the emptiness feels heavier.

he crawls into bed and grabs a manga, telling himself he’ll just read until he’s exhausted. maybe if he falls asleep distracted enough, the dream won’t come. maybe his mind will finally give him a break.

his eyes burn. the words blur. his grip loosens.

and then—

he’s warm again.

wooyoung wakes to the gentle sway of something beneath him.

he sucks in a breath, heart racing, and realizes he’s lying on a hammock, the fabric cradling his body as it moves lazily back and forth. above him, the sky is open and pale, clouds drifting slowly, unbothered. grass stretches out beneath the hammock, thick and green, and the air smells clean—like earth and summer and fruit ripening on branches.

he sits up abruptly.

“what the—”

this isn’t the house.

behind him stands a small home, wooden and worn, its structure unfamiliar yet undeniably old. the roof curves in a way he’s only ever seen in history books, the beams darkened with age. there’s no electricity, no noise, no sign of anything modern. just the quiet hum of life moving slowly.

wooyoung’s heart pounds.

he’s had this dream before. more than once. ten times, maybe. always inside the house. always warmth and laughter and san’s hands on him, gentle and certain.

but never this.

“okay,” he mutters to himself, looking around. “where am i?”

a soft rustle catches his attention.

he turns his head.

san stands a few steps away, reaching up into a tree heavy with fruit. his sleeves are pushed up, sunlight catching on his skin as he plucks something from the branches and drops it into a basket at his feet. he looks peaceful. real.

too real.

san glances over, eyes finding wooyoung instantly, like he always knew where to look.

wooyoung blinks at him.

san smiles and walks over.

“i picked some fruit for you,” he says gently. “your favorite.”

he sets the basket into wooyoung’s hands.

wooyoung looks down.

peaches.

his throat tightens.

“…how did you know?” he whispers.

he doesn’t remember ever telling san that. doesn’t remember even thinking about it here. a sharp, dizzying sadness washes over him, and he laughs weakly, shaking his head.

this has to be his mind messing with him. creating a man too beautiful, too kind. someone who knows him better than anyone in his waking life ever has.

it makes his chest ache.

he never minded being single. never felt like he was missing something.

until now.

until sleep gives him a perfect example of how someone can warm his heart with their bare hands—only to take it all away when he wakes up, leaving him in the cold.

wooyoung tightens his grip on the basket and looks up at san, eyes stinging.

and for the first time, he wonders if loving a dream can hurt this much… what would happen if he ever had to lose it?

~

wooyoung exhales slowly, fingers tightening around the basket before he sets it aside.

he looks up at san again, really looks at him this time.

“this isn’t normal,” he says quietly.

san only smiles.

it’s calm. fond. like wooyoung has said something endearing instead of terrified.

“don’t you like it here?” san asks, voice warm as the sunlight soaking into the grass. “you always seem lighter.”

that’s when wooyoung realizes it.

he’s not drifting. not being carried along the way he usually is in dreams. his thoughts are clear. sharp. his body feels solid, grounded in a way dreams never do. he shifts his weight—and the hammock sways again, exactly how it should.

his breath catches.

he swings his legs over the side and stands.

the ground is warm beneath his bare feet. he can feel the blades of grass bend under his weight, feel the breeze brush against his skin. he takes a step forward. then another.

san watches him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

wooyoung reaches out before he can overthink it.

he takes san’s hand.

it’s warm. real. san’s fingers curl around his automatically, like muscle memory. san smiles again and lets himself be pulled along as wooyoung walks a few steps away, toward the open field.

they sit together in the grass.

close. knees touching. wooyoung turns fully toward him and takes both of san’s hands in his own. his heart is pounding so hard he’s sure san can feel it through their palms.

this isn’t supposed to be possible.

and yet.

“san,” wooyoung says.

just saying his name out loud makes his chest tighten. it feels heavy with meaning, like it’s been waiting to be spoken.

he swallows.

“what is this?” he asks. “who are you?”

for a moment, san doesn’t answer.

the smile never leaves his face, but it softens at the edges, like it’s holding something back. his thumbs brush gently over wooyoung’s knuckles, grounding him, soothing him in a way that makes wooyoung’s throat ache.

“you don’t have to think about that,” san says softly. “not yet.”

wooyoung shakes his head. “no. i do.” his voice trembles despite himself. “this feels too real. you feel too real. i can choose what i say. what i do. that’s not how dreams work.”

san’s gaze darkens, just slightly.

“does it scare you?” he asks.

“…yes,” wooyoung admits. “but it also—” he cuts himself off, breath hitching. “it also feels like home. and that’s what is freaking me out.”

san’s grip tightens.

for a second, wooyoung thinks he sees something old and broken flash across san’s face—grief, longing, something so deep it hurts to look at.

but then san leans forward, resting his forehead against wooyoung’s.

“stay,” he whispers.

the word sinks into wooyoung’s chest, heavy and dangerous.

and wooyoung realizes, with a sudden chill, that san isn’t just asking him to stay in the dream. he has the option to. he has the will to stay or wake up. the realization is bone-chilling, deeply unsettling.

but then he looks into san’s eyes—deep with admiration, smile so wide his eyes curve into soft crescents—and something in wooyoung loosens. the fear fades at the edges. his shoulders relax. the heaviness lifts, just a little.

for the first time all day, he feels light.

“okay,” he whispers back.

~

wooyoung wakes up the next morning not just empty—

but panicked.

his eyes fly open and his heart is already racing before he understands why. the room feels wrong. too bright. too quiet. he grabs his phone off the nightstand with shaking hands.

9:58 am.

his stomach drops.

no—no, no.

he’s slept through his alarm. not by a few minutes. not even by one hour.

by three.

his screen is flooded with missed calls. his parents. over and over. messages stacked on top of each other. they usually leave early, but they always check his location by eight. always make sure he’s at school.

“fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he mutters, scrambling out of bed.

his head spins as he rushes to the bathroom. he barely registers the cold tile beneath his feet. he shoves his toothbrush into his mouth, moving on pure muscle memory, and then—

he catches his reflection.

his face is blotchy. eyes red. tear tracks faint but unmistakable against his skin.

wooyoung freezes.

“…what the hell?” he whispers around the toothbrush.

he doesn’t remember crying.

he spits, splashes water on his face, doesn’t give himself time to think. thinking feels dangerous right now. he pulls on his uniform, fingers clumsy, movements rushed and wrong. the toaster pops while he’s still tying his shoes. he grabs a slice of toast, barely bites it, and sprints down the hall.

kyungmin’s door is half open.

of course he’s still asleep.

wooyoung exhales sharply and steps inside, shaking his little brother’s shoulder.

“kyungmin-ah,” he says, forcing urgency into his voice. “wake up. hyung slept in. we’re late.”

kyungmin groans, rolling over, eyes blinking open slowly.

and for just a second—just one—

wooyoung stares at his face.

soft. peaceful. untouched by whatever has been clawing at wooyoung’s chest.

did he dream too?

and if he did… what did he see?

the thought unsettles him more than he expects.

wooyoung turns away quickly, shaking the feeling off. this is stupid. it has to be. dreams don’t mean anything. even if they come every night. even if they feel real.

his imagination is just cruel.

he needs to stop letting it do this to him—building something beautiful only to rip it away every morning. it hurts too much. it isn’t real.

it can’t be.

he helps kyungmin get dressed, moving on autopilot. his little brother whines and babbles like always, tugging at wooyoung’s sleeve, complaining about socks and shoes. wooyoung nods, hums, responds when he’s supposed to, but his mind keeps drifting.

back to warmth.

back to grass beneath his fingers.

back to a smile that felt like home.

“hyung?”

wooyoung blinks.

they’re outside now, the door locked behind them, morning air cool against his skin. kyungmin is looking up at him, brows knit together.

“are you okay?” he asks.

wooyoung forces a smile. he pats kyungmin’s cheek gently, thumb brushing over warm skin.

“don’t worry,” he says. “i’m okay.”

the words feel strange in his mouth.

because as they start walking, toast untouched in his bag, phone buzzing again in his pocket—

wooyoung realizes he doesn’t actually know if that’s true anymore.

~

wooyoung gets home like he always does.

his bag hits the floor by the door. he talks as he moves through the house, filling the space the way he usually does—about school, about nothing in particular, about how annoying the bus was. his voice is light out of habit, automatic.

his mom listens while standing at the counter, shoulders slumped, hands moving slowly as she packs things away. she nods, hums, but she’s tired. not angry. never cruel.

just exhausted.

“you scared me this morning,” she says gently. “when you didn’t wake up. you know i check because i worry.”

wooyoung opens his mouth to joke. to laugh it off.

but she continues, voice quiet, careful. “you’re getting older. you have to be more responsible. it’s not just about you waking up late. kyungmin depends on you. your future does too.”

the words aren’t sharp. they’re measured. honest.

and for some reason, they hit like a punch to the chest.

wooyoung hadn’t realized how fragile he felt until now. how thin his skin had become. the sadness he’s been carrying all day swells suddenly, pressing up against his throat, making it hard to breathe.

he stares down at his plate.

he doesn’t finish eating.

he stands up instead, picks up his dish, and moves toward the sink.

“wooyoung—!” his dad’s voice cuts in, startled. “we’re still eating. where are you going?”

his vision blurs.

it’s not like him. he knows that. usually he’d grin, crack a joke, promise he’ll do better next time. usually he can take things like this. usually he understands.

but right now, it feels like too much.

he bows his head politely, forcing the words out around the tightness in his chest.

“i’m sorry,” he says softly. “i’m not feeling very good.”

and before his voice can break, he turns and retreats to his room.

the door closes behind him with a quiet click.

he leans against it for a moment, breathing shallowly.

from the other side, he hears his mom’s voice crack.

“i shouldn’t have said anything,” she says. “work is so exhausting… i can’t expect him to parent while i’m gone. i can’t believe i made him cry…”

wooyoung presses his forehead to the door.

his heart hurts.

his mom is the best person he knows. she tries so hard. always for him. the thought of her blaming herself makes his chest ache even more.

his dad answers gently. “he’s a good boy. he knows what you mean. he’s not going to take it the wrong way.”

wooyoung closes his eyes.

he wishes that were true.

he drags himself to his bed and sits down heavily. his backpack slumps to the floor. his homework stays untouched. his phone buzzes with messages—plans to game later, jokes he usually would’ve jumped right into.

tonight, he can’t.

even though it’s only seven, exhaustion settles over him like a weight. not the kind sleep fixes. the kind that just wants everything to stop.

he doesn’t bother changing. he crawls under the covers, blanket heavy against his body, grounding and suffocating all at once.

his chest tightens.

tears slip out before he can stop them.

and as he cries himself to sleep, one thought repeats in his mind, quiet and aching—

he just wants to see san.

just for a little while.

~

wooyoung wakes up in a dream.

except this time—he doesn’t.

he’s still in his bed. still tangled in his covers. still in the clothes he fell asleep in, chest tight, face damp with tears. his breathing stutters as he wipes at his cheeks, nose congested, head heavy.

“…what?” he murmurs.

he looks around slowly.

his room is exactly the same. the faint glow from the streetlight slipping through the curtains. his desk chair half pulled out. his phone on the nightstand.

confusion curls into dread.

where was he?

why was he still here?

his heart caves in on itself.

“no,” he whispers, panic rising. “no, no—”

he scrambles out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor as he looks around frantically. his hands shake as he opens his closet, pulls open drawers, checks behind his door like something impossible might be waiting for him there.

“how do i get there?” he mutters desperately. “how do i see him—”

his chest tightens painfully.

he searches like there might be a mistake in the world. a door where there shouldn’t be one. a crack in the air. something. anything.

there’s nothing.

wooyoung sinks back onto his bed, shoulders curling inward as tears well up again. his vision blurs.

this isn’t fair.

every night. every single night. why was today different?

he squeezes his eyes shut and lets the tears fall, silent and helpless—

and then—

warm hands cup his face.

wooyoung gasps.

his eyes fly open.

san is there.

right in front of him.

his hands are solid against wooyoung’s cheeks, thumbs brushing gently under his eyes, wiping away tears like it’s the most natural thing in the world. wooyoung freezes, breath caught painfully in his throat.

san looks… different.

no robes. no old-world fabrics. he’s dressed simply—in a t-shirt, loose black jeans. his hair falls naturally around his face, an eyebrow slit cutting through one brow like he belongs here. like he exists in this time.

like he’s been reborn into wooyoung’s world.

oh.

that’s cruel.

the realization hurts almost immediately. for san to appear like this, in his room, in his life—it only means the ache will be worse when wooyoung wakes up. the emptiness deeper.

he can deal with that later.

right now, he can’t think.

he surges forward instead, arms looping around san’s neck as he pulls him down onto the bed. he buries his face into san’s chest and breaks, sobs shaking through him as he clings tight.

“i thought—” his voice cracks. “i thought you were gone.”

san wraps his arms around him instantly, one hand rubbing slow circles into wooyoung’s back, the other threading gently through his hair.

“i’m right here,” san murmurs. “i thought coming to your room might help comfort you better this time.”

wooyoung sniffles, pulling back just enough to look at him. his eyes are red, lashes wet.

“you can control the setting?” he asks quietly. “of my dreams?”

san hesitates.

then he nods. “yeah.”

wooyoung’s brows knit together, confusion turning sharper, heavier.

“san,” he says softly, but firmly. “what is this?”

san stays quiet, attentive, as wooyoung gathers the courage to continue.

“ever since that day at the internet café, i’ve seen you in my dreams every night,” wooyoung says. “you make me so happy that my real life doesn’t even compare anymore.”

his voice trembles.

“what’s going on? are you really just someone i imagined?”

san sighs, fingers sliding soothingly through wooyoung’s hair like he’s trying to calm a frightened animal.

“why are you so worried about that?” san asks gently. “we can just enjoy ourselves here instead.”

wooyoung shakes his head, pulling back despite how badly he wants to stay close.

“no,” he says. “i need to know.”

his chest tightens as he speaks the truth out loud.

“i’ve never had a dream like this. one that keeps coming back. one that makes me feel so much that reality feels… mundane in comparison.”

he looks at san, eyes searching, almost pleading.

“that can’t be normal.”

and for the first time since wooyoung met him, san’s smile falters.

san watches him…. waiting for wooyoung to speak again.

“you keep looking at me like that” wooyoung says softly.

he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed now, back against the headboard, fingers twisting together in his lap. “like you’re surprised to see me.”

san hums. “i am.”

“but you see me every night”

“you’re right. i do.”

wooyoung tilts his head. “why are we in modern day now?”

san smiles, small and amused, like wooyoung has asked something cute instead of unsettling.

he reaches out, slow enough that wooyoung has time to pull away if he wants to. his fingers stop just short of wooyoung’s cheek.

“can i?”

wooyoung swallows. nods.

san’s thumb brushes his skin, light as a thought.

“i’ve seen a lot of time periods,” san says. “this one’s loud. fast. you all pretend you’re not lonely by staying busy.”

wooyoung lets out a quiet laugh. “that sounds… depressing. it’s not all bad.”

san’s eyes soften. “you’re right. but you agree, don’t you?”

wooyoung frowns. “you don’t even know me.”

san’s thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone. “i know you laugh when you’re scared. i know you pretend you’re fine because you don’t want to worry anyone. i know you feel a strong sense of responsibility and don’t let anyone shoulder it with you. i know you feel like something’s missing and you don’t know what.”

wooyoung’s breath catches.

“that could be anyone,” he whispers.

san leans closer, forehead almost touching his. “but it’s you.”

silence stretches between them.  heavy.

“why do i feel so safe with you?” wooyoung asks again, quieter this time, like he’s afraid of the answer.

san doesn’t look away.

“because you’re mine.”

the words settle slowly, like dust in still air.

wooyoung should be scared.

he knows that, distantly.

instead, his shoulders loosen. his breathing evens out. the ache in his chest dulls into something warm and low.

“that sounds…” he trails off, searching. “…kind of scary.”

san smiles, but there’s something sad in it. “only if you think about it too hard.”

wooyoung lets out a shaky breath. “you always do that.”

“do what?”

“answer without really answering.”

san chuckles. “yet, you don’t mind it.”

“yeah,” wooyoung says. “i don’t.”

another pause.

wooyoung’s gaze drops to san’s mouth. just for a second. like checking the edge of something dangerous.

san notices. of course he does.

he doesn’t move.

doesn’t close the distance.

he just waits.

wooyoung’s heart is loud in his ears. his fingers curl into the blanket. his instincts scream at him to stop — to think — to pull back.

instead, he leans forward.

just a little.

their noses brush.

san exhales, slow and steady, like he’s grounding himself.

“are you going to-?,” san murmurs.

wooyoung nods. “i think so.”

wooyoung had never initiated a kiss before between the two of them. besides, every time they did kiss, wooyoung would wake up not even a second later.

he hesitates again. long enough to rethink his decision.

then he presses his lips to san’s.

it’s soft. barely there. a question more than a kiss.

san doesn’t deepen it. doesn’t chase.

he stays exactly where he is.

wooyoung pulls back, searching his face. “you’re not kissing back—”

“is that what you want?” san asks gently. “i just want you to feel comfortable.”

something in wooyoung’s chest tightens painfully at that.

he kisses him again.

this time, a little surer. still slow. still careful.

his hand comes up, fingers sliding into san’s hair, and san makes a quiet sound — not a moan, just a breath that slips.

it sends a shiver through wooyoung.

this is wrong.

this is real.

too real.

san’s hand settles at wooyoung’s waist, warm and steady, holding him there without pulling him closer.

the room feels smaller. warmer. wooyoung’s thoughts blur at the edges, sensation bleeding into everything else — the press of lips against san’s, the heat under his skin, the way san feels solid.

his body reacts before his mind can catch up, he moves his body flush against san’s his hands tangle into san’s hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. his chest pounds as he feels san kiss him back.

and that’s when panic spikes.

the warmth surges too fast, too intense, his breath hitching as something inside him builds up sharply—

wooyoung jolts awake with a gasp.

he’s alone.

his room is dark. silent. painfully ordinary.

his heart is racing. his skin feels wrong, hypersensitive, like san’s hands are still there. he sits up, chest heaving, fingers digging into the sheets.

“no,” he whispers. “no, no—”

that wasn’t a normal dream.

he knows it with absolute certainty.

his legs swing off the bed. he stands, pacing, rubbing his arms like he can scrub the feeling off. the echo of san’s breath still rings in his ears.

if it felt that real…

if his body responded like that…

his stomach twists.

“i’m not sleeping again,” he says out loud, voice shaking. “i’m not.”

he flips on the lights. all of them. brightness floods the room, harsh and grounding. he grabs his phone, scrolls mindlessly, plays music too loud, drinks water he doesn’t want.

anything to stay awake.

anything to stay here.

but as the night drags on, eyelids heavy, head aching, one terrifying truth settles in—

he isn’t just afraid of sleeping.

he’s afraid of how badly he wants to go back.

~

wooyoung had stayed up all night.

it wasn’t even dramatic. no pacing, no spiraling. just… stubbornness.

he drank one coffee around midnight, the bitter heat grounding him as he worked through his homework. math problems blurred together. essays took twice as long to write. every few minutes, his eyes would close for just a second—and he’d jerk himself awake again, heart racing.

no.

he wasn’t letting it happen.

by the time the sky outside his window started to pale, his head felt heavy, cottony. it was nearing six in the morning when he poured himself another cup of coffee, hands steady despite the exhaustion buzzing through his veins.

his mom noticed immediately.

“wooyoung-ah,” she said softly from the kitchen, eyebrows lifting. “since when do you drink coffee?”

he froze for half a second—then smiled, easy, practiced.

“i’m a grown up now, eomma,” he said lightly, lifting the mug in mock pride.

she laughed, unconvinced, and reached over to pinch his cheek the way she

always did. “grown ups still need sleep.”

“i know,” he said quickly. “just tired from homework.”

she studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, letting it go. she always did. she trusted him.

the guilt sat heavy in his chest.

he pushed through the day on autopilot. classes came and went. notes half-written. teachers’ voices fading in and out like static. his eyelids drooped no matter how hard he fought it, lashes heavy, head tilting forward only for him to snap upright again.

he drank water. chewed gum. dug his nails into his palm under the desk.

he could do this.

he could just stay awake.

he told himself that over and over, like a mantra.

anything was better than closing his eyes.

because the truth was—he felt insane.

he had dreamt up a man. a beautiful one. gentle, attentive, devastatingly kind. someone who looked at him like he was the only thing worth seeing.

and wooyoung—idiot that he was—had already started missing him.

the realization made his stomach twist.

it had only been three weeks of these dreams. he didn’t know san. san wasn’t real. and yet the feelings had come fast and sharp, crashing into him without warning.

what kind of person falls for someone who doesn’t exist?

what was wrong with him?

by lunchtime, his body felt like it was being held together with string.

the cafeteria buzzed with noise—voices overlapping, trays clattering, chairs scraping against the floor.

wooyoung dropped into his usual seat with a groan, sandwich untouched in front of him.

“holy shit,” mingi said immediately, squinting at him. “did you get hit by a truck?”

wooyoung let his forehead fall onto the table with a dull thump.

“ow,” jongho deadpanned. “there goes what little brain function you had left.”

yeosang leaned over, concern peeking through his usual calm. “you look really bad.”

“wow,” wooyoung mumbled into the table. “thank you. i feel so supported.”

mingi laughed, loud and unrestrained. “no, seriously—did you not sleep?”

wooyoung lifted his head just enough to glare at him. “i slept.”

jongho raised an eyebrow. “you’re lying.”

“badly,” yeosang added.

wooyoung sighed and slumped back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. “okay, maybe i didn’t sleep much.”

“how much is ‘much’?” mingi asked.

“…none,” wooyoung admitted.

mingi nearly choked on his drink. “NONE?”

jongho frowned. “why would you do that?”

wooyoung waved a hand vaguely. “i just—had stuff to do.”

“you always have stuff to do,” mingi said. “that’s not new.”

yeosang tilted his head. “you’re not sick, are you?”

“no,” wooyoung said quickly. “i’m fine.”

that was becoming his favorite lie.

jongho studied him for a moment, then snorted. “you look like a haunted victorian child.”

mingi burst out laughing. “oh my god, he does. like he’s been seeing ghosts.”

wooyoung groaned and dropped his head back. “you guys have no idea what i’ve been going through.”

“okay emo boy.” yeosang teases.

mingi leaned closer, eyes lighting up. “is this about a crush?”

wooyoung’s heart skipped.

“…what? no.”

yeosang blinked. “that was way too fast.”

jongho smirked. “definitely a crush.”

wooyoung shoved a fry into his mouth, chewing aggressively. “it’s not a crush.”

“then what is it?” mingi pressed.

wooyoung hesitated.

how was he supposed to explain that he was afraid of falling asleep because the man in his dreams made him feel too much? that he was scared of how warm it felt to be wanted like that?

he swallowed.

“…it’s complicated.”

mingi grinned. “wow. that’s worse.”

jongho shook his head. “you need sleep, hyung.”

“i’m not sleeping,” wooyoung said immediately.

all three of them looked at him.

yeosang frowned. “that’s not healthy.”

“you’ll crash,” jongho added.

mingi shrugged. “or hallucinate.”

wooyoung stiffened.

“…i’ll be fine,” he said, forcing a laugh. “i can handle a little no sleep.”

he picked at his food, appetite gone, exhaustion settling deeper into his bones.

across the table, his friends went back to talking—about games, homework, nothing important.

wooyoung listened, nodded when he was supposed to.

but beneath the cafeteria noise, beneath the teasing and the normalcy, one thought kept circling in his head, quiet and relentless—

he was running.

and he didn’t know how long he could keep it up.

~

they don’t even give him a choice.

“internet café,” mingi announces after school, slinging an arm around

wooyoung’s shoulders like he weighs nothing. “my treat.”

wooyoung sways slightly, exhaustion dragging at his bones. going home means his bed. his bed means sleep. sleep means—

him.

“…fine,” wooyoung mutters. “but if i pass out on the keyboard, it’s your fault.”

“worth it,” jongho says immediately.

the familiar glow of the café hits them as soon as they step inside. rows of computers. the low hum of fans. the smell of instant ramen and fried snacks

clinging to the air. it’s comforting. loud. alive.

better than being alone.

they grab their usual spots. order their usual food. mingi and jongho immediately start arguing over whose aim was worse last time while yeosang calmly logs everyone in.

wooyoung slumps into his chair, rubbing his eyes.

“damn,” mingi says, glancing at him. “you look like you got dumped.”

wooyoung snaps without thinking. “can you not?”

the table goes quiet.

mingi blinks. “…woah. okay. chill.”

yeosang frowns. “mingi, he didn’t sleep. take it easy.”

wooyoung exhales sharply and drops his face into his hands. “i’m sorry,” he mumbles. “i didn’t mean—i’m just tired.”

mingi shrugs, forgiving instantly. “it’s cool. you just need a nap.”

yeosang gestures toward the desk. “you can sleep for a bit. i’ll wake you up.”

wooyoung’s head snaps up. “no.”

all three of them look at him.

“…no?” jongho repeats.

wooyoung swallows. “i can’t.”

“why not?” mingi asks.

he doesn’t answer. just turns back to his screen, jaw tight.

they exchange looks but let it go.

the game starts. noise floods back in. wooyoung shoves food into his mouth between rounds, barely tasting it.

if he can’t sleep, at least he can eat. the grease helps. the salt. something grounding.

the adrenaline kicks in soon enough. fingers flying. yelling. mingi screaming when he dies. jongho trash-talking. yeosang quietly carrying the team.

wooyoung laughs when he wins a round, a real laugh this time.

“LETS GO,” mingi yells, throwing him into a fake headlock.

“get off me,” wooyoung laughs, shoving him away.

and then—

his eyes catch.

just for a second.

jet black hair. messy. familiar in a way that makes his stomach drop.

on the other side of the café.

wooyoung freezes.

no.

no, he’s just tired. this is what happens when you don’t sleep. your brain fills in gaps. he blinks hard, shakes his head.

“you good?” jongho asks.

“yeah,” wooyoung says too quickly. “i’m—i’ll be right back.”

“bathroom?” mingi calls.

wooyoung nods, already standing.

but he doesn’t go toward the back.

he goes the opposite way.

he walks slowly at first, pretending to look at his phone, heart pounding harder with every step. his palms are slick. his breath feels wrong.

this is stupid. this is insane.

as he gets closer, he sees the guy more clearly.

black hoodie. mask pulled up over his nose. hunched over a computer like he’s trying to disappear.

wooyoung exhales shakily.

okay. hallucination. he’s projecting. of course he is.

he turns to leave—

and then he sees it.

the eyebrow slit.

his breath catches sharply.

“—oh.”

the sound is loud enough.

the guy’s head snaps up.

their eyes meet.

it’s san.

the same eyes. the same face, sharper in real life, but unmistakable. real. solid. here.

wooyoung gasps.

“what the fuck— san???”

san’s eyes widen in pure, unfiltered panic.

for one frozen second, neither of them moves.

then san bolts.

“HEY—WAIT—WHAT—” wooyoung shouts, spinning around as san sprints

toward the exit.

he doesn’t think.

doesn’t explain.

doesn’t care who’s watching.

wooyoung takes off after him.

“SAN WHY ARE YOU RUNNING WHAT THE HELL—”

san looks back once, eyes wild—

and runs faster.

they burst out into the street, the noise of the market swallowing them whole.

wooyoung weaves through people, nearly slamming into a fruit cart.

“sorry—sorry—” he pants, ducking past a woman yelling at him.

san knocks over a stack of boxes. someone curses. wooyoung vaults around them, heart in his throat.

“GET BACK HERE,” wooyoung yells.

they tear through narrow paths between stalls. steam from food carts clouds the air. a kid darts out in front of them and wooyoung skids to a stop just in time, grabbing the child by the sleeve and shoving him gently back.

“be careful—!” he gasps, then takes off again.

his lungs burn. his legs scream. but san is right there.

always just ahead.

“SAN!” wooyoung shouts again, voice breaking. “PLEASE—”

san glances back once more—

and this time, wooyoung sees it.

fear.

raw. unguarded. nothing like the calm warmth from his dreams.

it makes no sense.

what could san possibly be scared of?

san turns a sharp corner.

wooyoung follows without thinking—

and slams straight into someone.

the impact knocks the air from his lungs. pain explodes behind his eyes as his head snaps back, stars bursting across his vision. he stumbles, loses his footing, and goes down hard, the other man tumbling with him.

“hey—hey!” the man shouts, scrambling up. “kid, what are you doing running through streets like this? are you okay?!”

the noise is too loud. everything is too bright.

wooyoung clutches his head, fingers digging into his hair as dizziness washes over him in sickening waves. the world tilts, spins. voices blur together, stretched and distorted.

he looks up desperately.

san.

san, where are you?

his chest tightens painfully.

please don’t run.

i have so much to ask you.

his vision starts to spot at the edges, black bleeding in like ink in water. the man’s voice rises, frantic now.

“someone help—this kid needs help!”

wooyoung tries to answer. to move. to stand.

but his legs won’t listen.

the last thing he feels is the cold pavement against his palms—

and then everything goes dark.

~

wooyoung wakes up to the familiar dip of the couch beneath him.

for a second, he thinks he’s still dreaming. the ceiling swims slightly above him, edges soft and unfocused. then a cool pressure settles against his forehead, and he flinches.

his mom’s face swims into view, worry written deep between her brows.

“ah—” he sighs, voice rough. “eomma, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to worry you.”

he tries to sit up.

“hey—no,” she hisses immediately, pressing him back down. “stop that. lie still.”

she adjusts the ice pack, her hand warm against his temple. “what happened? are you okay? you’ve been acting strange for weeks now, wooyoungie.”

the nickname makes his chest ache.

he exhales and carefully takes the ice pack from her, holding it there himself.

“i’m fine,” he murmurs. “really.”

she doesn’t look convinced.

“running like that,” she continues, voice tight with fear she’s trying to keep under control. “collapsing in the street—do you know how dangerous that is? a young boy like you, passing out like that?”

he nods immediately, guilt settling heavy in his stomach. “i know. i’m sorry.”

her shoulders slump a little, tension easing. “if it weren’t for your friend, you wouldn’t even be home right now.”

wooyoung freezes.

“…friend?”

his head throbs as the word sinks in. jongho? mingi? yeosang? any of them would’ve called first. any of them would’ve been loud about it.

“where is he?” wooyoung asks slowly.

she gestures toward the kitchen. “i told him to stay for dinner. go to your room and get comfortable. i’ll tell him you woke up.”

wooyoung nods numbly.

he stands carefully, the world tilting just a little, and makes his way down the hall. his room feels strangely quiet when he steps inside. too familiar. too loaded.

he sits on his bed, then sinks back onto the mattress, heat creeping up his cheeks as memory hits him all at once—

san’s breath. san’s mouth. right here.

“fuck,” he groans softly.

his head pounds. his body feels heavy in a way that isn’t just physical. one thought keeps circling, frantic and loud.

he didn’t dream.

when he was knocked out, there was nothing. no warmth. no grass. no san.

maybe it was because he was too tired.

the idea clicks into place, sharp and desperate.

maybe that’s the answer.

maybe if he only sleeps when he’s completely exhausted—when his body can’t

even form dreams—he can avoid him.

avoid san.

the thought barely settles before another slams into him harder.

san was real.

he squeezes his eyes shut, ice pack pressed to his forehead as his mind spirals.

maybe it was a lookalike. it had to be. but—

why was he running?

why did he look scared?

wooyoung groans and rolls onto his side.

the door opens quietly.

“my head hurts like a bitch, dude,” he mutters, assuming without thinking. “if you’re here to tell me ‘i told you so,’ don’t.”

the door clicks shut behind them.

something about the silence feels… wrong.

wooyoung opens his eyes and turns.

his heart lurches violently.

san is sitting on the edge of his bed.

not a dream. not blurred. not warm haze and soft light.

real.

black hoodie. mask gone. eyebrow slit exactly where it should be. eyes dark, sharp, fixed on wooyoung like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

for a split second, neither of them moves.

then san smiles—small, crooked, taunting at the edges.

“you okay, bro?” he asks lightly.

wooyoung sucks in a sharp breath.

“WHAT THE HELL—”

he scrambles upright, ice pack slipping from his hand and thudding uselessly onto the floor. his heart slams against his ribs, loud enough he’s sure san can hear it. his skin buzzes, every nerve screaming.

“you—” his voice cracks. “you’re real?”

san’s smile falters.

just a little.

“that was a pretty hard fall,” san says instead, glancing briefly at wooyoung’s forehead. “you hit your head?”

something in wooyoung snaps.

he lunges forward and grabs san by the collar, fingers fisting into the fabric as he shoves him back against the mattress.

“i wouldn’t have fallen,” wooyoung snarls, breath shaking, “if someone wasn’t running.”

san blinks—then laughs.

it’s quiet. surprised. almost impressed.

“wow,” he says. “you’re pretty funny.”

wooyoung’s grip tightens. “why were you running?”

san tilts his head, studying him like this is a game he’s trying to figure out. “why were you chasing me?”

wooyoung freezes.

“…what?”

“anyone would run if they were getting chased like that,” san shrugs easily. “you were yelling my name in the middle of the street.”

wooyoung’s brows knit together.

“wait,” he says slowly. “so you don’t know who i am?”

san shrugs again. “should i?”

the words hit wrong.

cold spreads through wooyoung’s chest.

“…what’s your name?” he asks, voice low.

“san.”

the room tilts.

wooyoung stares at him. “don’t bullshit me.”

san frowns, genuine this time. “i’m not.”

“then how did you know i was talking to you at the café?” wooyoung demands. “why did you look at me like that?”

san hesitates—just barely.

“…i was curious,” he says. “mostly about how you knew my name.”

wooyoung’s hands fall from san’s collar.

no way.

his head spins. his thoughts tangle over each other, frantic and disjointed. the same face. the same name. the same eyes—

but not the same person?

that’s impossible.

“bullshit,” wooyoung whispers.

san watches him closely now, smile gone. “you looked shocked to see me,” he says carefully. “like you’d seen a ghost.”

wooyoung shakes his head. “you’re lying. you know who i am.”

san doesn’t answer right away.

he just looks at him.

then—slowly—his mouth curves upward.

not gentle this time.

not fond.

knowing.

“i guess you’re harder to fool than i thought,” san says softly.

wooyoung’s breath catches.

“…wooyoung.”

his eyes widen.

there it is.

the confirmation slams into him like a wave, knocking the air from his lungs.

it is him.

and suddenly, every unanswered question feels too scary to ask outlaid.

wooyoung goes very still.

the room feels too quiet. like the air itself is holding its breath.

“…how?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

san doesn’t move.

“you—” wooyoung swallows. “how were you in my dreams? and now you’re here?”

his eyes search san’s face, tracing familiar lines that shouldn’t exist outside his sleep. without fully realizing it, his hand lifts. his fingers brush san’s cheekbone, gentle, almost reverent.

real.

warm.

“and how do you know,” wooyoung continues, breath uneven, “that you were in my dream? what—” his voice trembles despite himself. “who are you, san?”

san exhales softly into the touch.

he doesn’t pull away.

if anything, he leans into it, eyes slipping closed as if the contact steadies him.

“it feels so good,” san murmurs, almost to himself, “for you to touch me again.”

wooyoung’s heart stutters.

“…again?” he repeats.

his hand falters but doesn’t fall away.

“san,” he says sharply, fear creeping in around the edges now. “answer me.”

san’s eyes flutter open.

there’s something ancient in them. tired. careful.

“I will,” he says quietly. “but you’re not going to believe me.”

wooyoung lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “try me,” he says, voice strained.

“you’re already driving me insane.”

san watches him for a long moment.

then he shifts, sitting back just enough to create space—like he’s bracing himself.

“you asked me before,” san says softly, “why you feel safe with me.”

wooyoung’s throat tightens. “yeah.”

san’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile.

“it’s not because i’m new to you,” he says. “it’s because i never was.”

the words sink slowly.

dangerously.

and wooyoung realizes—too late—that whatever san is about to tell him will change everything.

san doesn’t answer right away.

he watches wooyoung like he’s measuring something—time, maybe. or damage already done.

“you remember things that aren’t yours,” san says finally. “feel things that you’ve felt before. just not you. an older version of you.”

“older version?” wooyoung repeats immediately. “what does that mean?”

san’s jaw tightens. “it means this isn’t the first time we’ve found each other.”

“found each other how?” wooyoung presses. “in dreams? in— in lives?” his voice drops. “are you saying i’m supposed to know you? or that, i’ve know you before?”

san opens his mouth—

and then—

“wooyoung!”

his mom’s voice carries down the hallway, bright and warm.

“bring san out for dinner!”

wooyoung freezes.

his heart flips violently in his chest.

she said his name.

san.

not a hallucination. not a dream glitch. not something only wooyoung could see.

real enough to sit at their table.

real enough to be invited to eat.

something in wooyoung’s chest loosens just a little. relief, strange and dizzying. maybe he wasn’t losing his mind completely. maybe his brain hadn’t invented a whole person out of loneliness.

san existed.

even if everything else made no sense.

wooyoung exhales and looks at him, suddenly shy. he scoots back on the bed, legs dangling off the edge.

“we should—” he clears his throat. “let’s go eat.”

san doesn’t move.

he just stares at wooyoung.

intensely.

the air thickens.

“…san?” wooyoung asks, shifting under the weight of his gaze.

san reaches out suddenly and cups wooyoung’s jaw.

wooyoung gasps, breath catching as san’s thumb presses lightly beneath his chin, tilting his face up. san’s eyes drop—to his mouth.

“san—wait,” wooyoung blurts, panic and heat colliding in his chest.

“wooyoung,” san murmurs.

his voice is low. full of something wooyoung can’t name. longing, maybe. grief. hunger restrained too long.

“please,” san says quietly. “let me kiss you.”

wooyoung’s heart slams so hard it hurts.

his first kiss.

like this?

with a man he met in his dreams. a man who shouldn’t exist. a man whose touch already feels familiar in ways that scare him.

“but san—” wooyoung hesitates, breath shallow.

san stops.

just short of his lips.

their noses brush. wooyoung can see every detail of his face, feel san’s breath ghosting over his mouth.

san meets his eyes.

“…not yet,” he says softly. “i’m sorry.”

his thumb drags once across wooyoung’s bottom lip—slow, deliberate—

then he pulls away.

the loss of contact is immediate and dizzying.

“okay,” san says lightly, like nothing just happened.

he stands, stretches his arms overhead like this is any normal afternoon, then looks back at wooyoung with that crooked smirk that makes his stomach flip.

“let’s go eat.”

wooyoung just sits there for a second, heart racing, face burning.

he presses his palms to his cheeks, groaning under his breath.

breathe. calm down. stop blushing.

he drags himself to his feet, follows san toward the door, desperately willing his heart to slow before his mom sees him—

because if she notices the red on his face, he has no idea how he’s going to explain it.

~

dinner feels unreal.

san sits at their table like he’s always belonged there.

he’s polite in the way wooyoung’s parents immediately clock as good kid. shoulders straight, voice respectful, hands folded loosely in his lap when he listens. he answers questions easily—what school he goes to, what grade he’s in, what he likes to do after class.

“nearby,” he says with an easy smile. “i transferred recently.”

it sounds rehearsed.

it sounds real.

wooyoung watches him closely, searching for cracks. anything. a stumble. a wrong detail.

there’s nothing.

san talks about teachers. about homework. about a brother who’s “annoying but kind of cool.” parents who “worry too much.” it all fits together too neatly, like pieces from a puzzle wooyoung didn’t know existed.

his mom beams. his dad nods approvingly.

“you can stay for dinner anytime,” his mom says warmly. “wooyoung’s friends are always welcome. you should meet the other boys too, they are all lovely.”

san smiles at her. genuine. grateful. “thank you, ma’am.”

wooyoung nearly chokes.

across the table, kyungmin is vibrating in his seat, barely contained excitement written all over his face.

“hyung!” he blurts suddenly, sliding his chair back and hopping up. “look!”

he runs off and returns with his favorite plastic train, bright and well-loved, placing it proudly on the table between the dishes.

san’s eyes light up.

“wow,” he says softly, leaning forward. “is that the blue line?”

kyungmin’s mouth falls open. “you know trains?”

san nods. “i used to like them a lot.”

used to.

kyungmin pushes the train toward him eagerly, explaining every detail with wide gestures and rapid words.

san listens like it’s the most important thing in the world, nodding along, asking questions, smiling when kyungmin gets too excited and trips over his sentences.

wooyoung’s chest aches.

the way san laughs—quiet, warm. the way he lets kyungmin talk without interrupting. the way kyungmin absolutely adores him within minutes.

this is doing absolutely nothing for wooyoung’s already fragile self-control.

this man is—literally—the man of his dreams.

and now he’s here. real. kind. beautiful. fitting into wooyoung’s life with terrifying ease.

wooyoung stares at his plate, food untouched. his appetite is gone, replaced by a swarm of butterflies fluttering violently in his stomach. every time san looks at him, his heart stutters.

san catches his eye once.

just once.

his smile softens, just for wooyoung. something private flickering there.

wooyoung has to look away.

he can barely breathe.

how is this happening?

how can someone he dreamed of—someone who shouldn’t exist—sit at his

family’s table and make everything feel… right?

the thought scares him more than anything else so far.

because if san belongs here—

then losing him would hurt in ways wooyoung doesn’t think he could survive.

and as the conversation carries on around him, laughter filling the room,

wooyoung realizes his plate is still full—

but his heart has never felt heavier.

~

san leaves after dinner.

he stands by the door and bows politely, thanking wooyoung’s parents again, promising to come by sometime if they’ll have him. his mom smiles so brightly it makes wooyoung’s chest ache.

“walk him out,” she says, nudging wooyoung gently. “it’s dark.”

wooyoung nods too quickly. “yeah. yeah, okay.”

the night air is cool when they step outside. the street is quiet, lamps casting warm pools of light onto the pavement. wooyoung walks beside san in silence, hands shoved deep into his pockets, heart still beating too fast from everything that just happened.

they reach the bus stop.

san stops.

“do you—” wooyoung starts, then cuts himself off, suddenly shy. he pulls out his phone and holds it out awkwardly. “um. you should—if you want—put your number in.”

san smiles. “sure.”

wooyoung hands it over.

their fingers brush.

it’s barely a second. barely anything at all.

but wooyoung feels it everywhere.

heat floods his face, his chest, his ears. he looks away immediately, staring at the cracked concrete like it might save him. san types his number in calmly, like

he’s not aware of the absolute internal disaster he’s causing.

he hands the phone back.

“there,” san says. “now you can text me.”

“yeah,” wooyoung croaks. “cool.”

the bus pulls up with a hiss.

san steps forward, then hesitates. he turns back and opens his arms.

wooyoung’s brain short-circuits.

“…oh,” he says stupidly.

san doesn’t tease him. doesn’t rush him. he just waits.

wooyoung steps into the hug.

san’s arms wrap around him easily, warm and solid, and wooyoung nearly collapses on the spot. he clutches at san’s hoodie without meaning to, face burning, heart racing so hard it hurts.

this is real.

san smells like soap and something faintly sweet. he holds wooyoung just a

second longer than necessary.

then san leans in.

his lips brush wooyoung’s ear as he whispers, low and intimate—

“see you later tonight.”

wooyoung gasps.

his grip tightens instinctively—

but san is already pulling away.

before wooyoung can say anything, before he can think, san is stepping onto the bus. the doors close. the bus pulls away, carrying him down the street and out of sight.

wooyoung stands there, frozen, phone clenched in his hand, heart pounding violently.

there’s no denying it now.

the same smile. the same voice. the same presence.

it’s him.

he doesn’t understand how. or why. or what any of it means.

but as he walks back toward his house, exhaustion finally catching up to him, something dangerous settles into his chest.

anticipation.

for the first time in a while, he doesn’t dread sleep.

he welcomes it.

because now the man of his dreams exists.

and wooyoung doesn’t have to feel crazy anymore for wanting him.

~

wooyoung dreams—

and this time, there is no warmth waiting to greet him.

he’s lying on a thin cot, straw mattress pressing into his back, every uneven reed familiar against his spine. the room is small, barely big enough for the two of them. moonlight spills through a narrow window, pale and silver, dust drifting lazily through the air.

it’s quiet.

peaceful.

san sleeps beside him, turned away, dark hair fanned across the pillow. his breathing is slow. even. safe.

wooyoung smiles.

he shifts carefully, mindful not to wake him. his fingers trace gentle lines along san’s back, following scars he knows by heart, the curve of muscle beneath skin still warm from sleep.

“san,” he whispers, barely a breath.

san doesn’t wake, but his lips curve faintly, like he heard it anyway.

wooyoung’s chest aches with affection. with love so full it almost hurts to hold.

this is home.

the tiny house tucked into the mountains. the one they built with their own hands. mornings filled with quiet laughter. evenings spent sharing meals by candlelight. nights like this—soft, unguarded, theirs.

wooyoung leans in and presses a kiss between san’s shoulder blades.

he’s so happy it scares him.

then—

the door explodes inward.

wood splinters violently, shards flying across the room. shouting floods the space, harsh and cruel, tearing through the peace like a blade.

wooyoung jolts upright.

“don’t touch me—!”

hands grab him.

rough. unforgiving. fingers digging into his arms, his waist, his throat. he screams, thrashes, nails scraping uselessly against strangers’ skin as he’s dragged off the cot.

san wakes with a shout.

“wooyoung!”

san lunges for him—

someone slams him back.

wooyoung reaches desperately, fingers stretching toward san—

they miss.

the sound of san screaming his name is worse than the pain. it rips straight through his chest.

they haul wooyoung toward the door. the cold night air crashes into him, burning his lungs. torches flicker wildly outside, flames throwing twisted shadows across faces contorted with fury and disgust.

“stop—please—” wooyoung sobs, voice breaking as he fights until his strength gives out. “we didn’t do anything—”

san breaks free for just a moment.

wooyoung sees it—san running toward him, blood smeared at the corner of his mouth, eyes wild with terror and desperation.

someone strikes san down.

the sound is sickening.

the world fractures.

wooyoung is thrown to the ground. ropes bite into his wrists, rough and tight. he fights back but it’s no use.

someone laughs. someone spits near his face.

“sell him, he’s got a pretty face” a voice sneers. “someone will pay for him.”

“san!” wooyoung screams, tears blinding him. “let me go, please—”

san drags himself forward on his hands and knees, ignoring the blows raining down on him.

his eyes lock onto wooyoung’s, frantic, fierce, full of a love that hurts to look at.

“wooyoung!” san shouts hoarsely. “youngie—look at me.”

wooyoung sobs harder, choking on his breath.

“just wait,” san pleads, voice breaking. “stay strong. don’t give up. i’ll find you. i swear—i’ll save you.”

they yank wooyoung away.

san’s fingers brush his—just for a second—

and then they’re torn apart.

“san, i’m scared—”

san’s voice echoes after him, raw and shattered—

“wooyoung—! i’ll save you, i swear—!”

the sound cuts off.

everything goes dark—

wooyoung wakes up choking on air.

his heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might tear out of his chest. his sheets are twisted around his legs, damp with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead.

tears streak down his face unchecked, blurring everything.

he can’t remember the last time a dream did this to him.

his hands shake as he drags in breath after breath, each one shallow and wrong.

his wrists burn—phantom pain, sharp and insistent—and he curls his fingers reflexively like he can still feel the rope biting into his skin.

it felt too real.

the cold. the shouting. the way san’s face looked split open with blood and terror.

his chest hurts.

wooyoung lets out a broken sound, half-sob, half-gasp, and presses his palm flat against his sternum like he can physically hold his heart in place.

“it was just a dream,” he whispers hoarsely.

but his body doesn’t believe him.

his breathing won’t slow. his throat tightens, panic clawing higher as the images replay without mercy—san being struck down, san screaming his name, san promising he’d come back.

just wait. stay strong. i’ll save you.

wooyoung squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the bedsheets until his knuckles ache.

why did it feel like that?

why did it feel like something that already happened?

his gaze drifts to his nightstand. the glow of his phone cuts softly through the

darkness.

2:35 am.

his stomach twists.

he thinks of san. of san sitting at his dinner table. of san smiling at kyungmin. of san whispering see you later tonight like he knew this would happen.

his breath stutters.

he remembers san’s words from earlier, low and careful—

it means this isn’t the first time we’ve found each other.

wooyoung’s vision blurs again.

“…did that happen to me?” he whispers into the empty room. “before?”

was it a past life?

or just his mind unraveling?

he can’t tell. he can’t breathe.

his fingers dig into the mattress as another wave of panic rolls through him, sharp and disorienting, like he’s just been dragged out of something violent and dark.

fuck it.

his hands are shaking as he grabs his phone, fumbling with the lock screen, nearly dropping it. he doesn’t give himself time to think—thinking will only stop him.

he hits call.

san’s name lights up the screen.

the phone shakes in his hands against his ear as it rings.

once.

twice.

wooyoung squeezes his eyes shut, chest tight, heart still racing—

waiting.

the call clicks.

“youngie?” san answers immediately, voice low and warm, like he never really went to sleep. “hey. what’s up.”

wooyoung’s breath shatters.

“san,” he chokes, words tumbling out all at once. “i—i saw this dream. it was awful. it was—it was so real, i thought i was going to die.”

he drags in a shaky breath. “i thought you could control my dreams. why would you show me that? why would you—”

“hey,” san says softly, cutting in. “slow down. breathe for me.”

wooyoung tries. fails. cries harder.

“youngie,” san murmurs. “listen to me. i can’t control all of them. i tried to enter you dream today but when i got there, you were already having one.”

wooyoung hiccups. “what?”

“i can choose to show you some,” san says carefully. “i can guide you into things i want you to see. but others…” he exhales. “others come on their own. especially when you’re exhausted. when your mind is open.”

wooyoung curls in on himself, phone pressed tight to his ear. “it felt so real,” he sobs. “they tied me up. they were hurting you too. some guy made some comment, it was awful. about selling me? i could feel it. the ropes. i could see your face. i thought—”

“i know,” san says quietly. “i’m so sorry you had to see that.”

wooyoung swipes at his face uselessly. “what was that? why does it feel like it already happened?”

silence hums on the line.

“san?” he whispers, fear creeping back in. “san, please don’t go quiet.”

“…hold on,” san says suddenly. “i’ll be right there.”

wooyoung’s head snaps up. “what? are you crazy? it’s three in the morning. you can’t just come over—”

“they won’t even notice me,” san replies calmly.

wooyoung lets out a broken laugh. “bullshit.”

and then—

a light breeze brushes the back of his neck.

wooyoung freezes.

his breath catches painfully as he turns his head.

the window is open.

curtains stir gently in the night air.

and standing there, framed by moonlight—

is san.

if wooyoung wasn’t falling apart, he would stop to think.

how the hell did san teleport here?

san’s phone is still in his hand.

wooyoung’s call disconnects.

san lowers the phone slowly and slips it into his pocket, eyes never leaving wooyoung’s face.

“…told you,” he says softly.

wooyoung’s lip wobbles.

san crosses the room in two quiet steps and sits on the edge of the bed, arms opening without hesitation.

wooyoung breaks.

he collapses into san’s chest, fists clutching his shirt as sobs tear out of him, messy and uncontrolled.

“san,” he cries. “it felt so real—what the hell—oh my god—”

san wraps his arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressing firmly between his shoulder blades, grounding him.

“you’re safe,” san murmurs over and over. “you’re here. i’ve got you. i’m so sorry you had to see that.”

wooyoung’s tears soak into his shirt as he shakes.

after a moment, wooyoung pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes red and glassy.

“…is it real?” he whispers. “did that happen?”

san goes very still.

his arms tighten around wooyoung just slightly, like his body reacts before he can stop it.

“san?” wooyoung asks, voice trembling. “is it?”

san doesn’t look at him.

his jaw clenches. his throat works like he’s forcing something back down.

“…sannie,” wooyoung whispers.

the word lands between them like a ghost.

san freezes completely.

sannie.

that’s what wooyoung used to call him.

not in this life. not here. but his mouth knows it anyway. remembers before his mind can.

san exhales, long and shuddering.

he pulls back just enough to slip his shoes off, movements slow, careful, like if he goes too fast he’ll break apart. then he gently guides wooyoung down onto the bed, urging him to lie back.

wooyoung does, confused and breathless, heart still racing.

then san follows.

but instead of pulling wooyoung into his chest like before, san turns inward—curling toward him, burying his face against wooyoung’s sternum, hiding there like he can disappear if he presses close enough.

wooyoung gasps softly.

his hands move on instinct, fingers sliding into san’s hair, cradling the back of his head. san’s body trembles once. just once.

“…yeah,” san chokes out.

the sound is wrecked. raw.

wooyoung’s chest tightens painfully.

“yeah,” san repeats, quieter now. “it was real.”

something inside wooyoung shatters.

his arms tighten around san, holding him there as san’s breath stutters against his chest, warm and uneven. wooyoung stares up at the ceiling, tears spilling silently into his hair.

the dream wasn’t just a dream.

it was a memory.

and somehow—impossibly—

it was theirs.

wooyoung can’t move.

his mind feels frozen somewhere between then and now.

“…how—?” his voice breaks. “when?”

tears spill over before he can stop them. they drip into san’s hair, onto his forehead.

“san, please,” he whispers. “explain. i’m so confused.”

his chest tightens painfully as the questions tumble out.

“who was that?”
“was that me?”
“why were you there?”
“how are you here now?”

san exhales shakily against him.

the sound is small. wrecked.

for a long moment, he doesn’t lift his head. his fingers curl into wooyoung’s shirt like he needs something solid to keep himself together.

“…i’ll explain,” san says quietly.

wooyoung’s throat tightens. “okay.”

“but you’re not going to believe me.”

wooyoung lets out a weak, breathless huff. “try me.”

san goes still again.

then—slowly—he lifts his head just enough to look at wooyoung’s face.

his eyes are wet and tired in a way that feels ancient.

wooyoung just stares at him.

his hands are still buried in san’s hair, fingers trembling, chest rising and falling too fast.

san doesn’t rush.

“that was you,” he repeats quietly. “before.”

wooyoung’s breath stutters.

wooyoung just stares at him.

his hands are still buried in san’s hair, fingers trembling, chest rising and falling too fast.

“…what?” he whispers.

the word comes out wrong. thin. like it might snap. san doesn’t rush.

“that was you,” he repeats quietly. “before this life. a past life.”

wooyoung’s breath stutters.

“no,” he says immediately. “no—no, that doesn’t make sense.” his head shakes even as tears spill faster. “that felt like a movie. like something my brain made up. that wasn’t—”

“youngie,” san murmurs.

“don’t,” wooyoung snaps suddenly, panic flaring hot and sharp. “don’t call me that like you know me. you can’t just say that was me and expect me to—” his voice cracks violently. “that i died?”

san flinches.

wooyoung laughs, hysterical and broken. “this is insane. you’re saying i lived in the mountains? in—what, the past? with you?” he gestures wildly between them. “i’m seventeen. i play video games. i forget my homework. i’ve never even—”

he chokes.

“i’ve never been kidnapped.”

san’s face crumples.

“…i know,” he says softly. “this you hasn’t.”

wooyoung presses a hand to his chest like it physically hurts. “then why does it feel like i have?” he gasps. “why did my wrists burn? why could i smell the smoke? why could i hear you?”

his voice rises, shaking.

“why did it feel like i was there, san?”

san swallows hard.

“because you were,” he says. “just… not like this.”

“stop,” he whispers. “stop saying it like that. it sounds like you’re talking about me like i’m already gone.”

san flinches.

“i’m not,” he says quickly. “i just—” he exhales. “souls don’t stay the same forever. bodies change. time changes. but something carries through.”

wooyoung opens his eyes, red and wild. “souls,” he repeats flatly. “you’re telling me my soul remembers you.”

san nods once. careful. deliberate.

“some people believe we live once,” san says. “some believe we come back again and again. different names. different lives. sometimes different endings.”

wooyoung lets out a shaky, humorless laugh. “and let me guess. i’m one of the unlucky ones.”

san’s mouth tightens. “you came back,” he says softly.

wooyoung freezes.

“…really?”

san hesitates, then nods again. “it took you a long time to. maybe you reincarnated before and i just missed it, but this is the first time you’re back. as a human, at least in front of me.”

wooyoung presses a hand to his chest, like he can physically hold himself together. “so what, every time i die i just—start over? i forget everything?”

“…yes,” san says.

wooyoung’s breath comes out sharp. “that’s horrifying.”

san’s voice drops. “it’s mercy.”

wooyoung looks at him incredulously. “how is that mercy?”

“because you don’t remember dying like that,” san says. “you don’t remember the pain. or the fear. or watching me fail to save you.”

wooyoung’s throat tightens painfully.

“then what about you?” he demands suddenly. “what happened to you?”

san opens his mouth—

wooyoung cuts in, impatient and raw. “because you keep talking about me coming back like it’s normal, like it’s fine, but you’re still here. you didn’t forget. you didn’t move on.”

san exhales slowly.

“i’m getting there, young-ah.”

wooyoung huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “then get there faster.”

silence stretches.

heavy.

broken only by wooyoung’s uneven breathing as he tries—and fails—to calm himself.

“…explain,” he whispers finally. “slowly. please. because i feel like i’m losing my fucking mind.”

san nods.

he takes a breath like it hurts.

“we lived far away from everyone,” san begins. “high in the mountains. it was cold most of the year. thin air. quiet.”

wooyoung swallows. “why there?”

san’s mouth curves into something sad. “you liked the cold. you said it made your head feel clear.”

that shouldn’t mean anything. but it does. because wooyoung still felt that way.

“we didn’t live there just because of that,” san continues. “we lived there because we had to.”

wooyoung frowns. “had to?”

san sighs, eyes lowering. “times were different. loving someone of the same gender wasn’t just… frowned upon. it was a sin.”

wooyoung goes pale.

“…oh.”

“you didn’t really understand it,” san says softly. “you thought if we stayed quiet, if we didn’t hurt anyone, it would be fine.”

wooyoung’s chest aches.

“we were happy anyway,” san says. “we had dreams. plans. that house—” his  voice wavers. “we built it together. you kept saying it wasn’t much, but you smiled every time you said it.”

wooyoung shivers, the dream replaying in his mind.

“…then why did they take me?” he asks quietly.

san looks like he might throw up.

“…because you were a prince,” san says.

wooyoung blinks. “a what?”

“your family was powerful,” san continues. “wealthy. respected. you ran away

from them to be with me.”

wooyoung’s head spins. “and you?”

san smiles faintly. “just a regular guy.”

wooyoung frowns. “so my family kidnapped me?”

san shakes his head quickly. “no. not them. back then it was…” he shivers. “if someone found out you liked men—if they could get their hands on you—they would sell you. and the whole nation knew of you. the prince who had run away to go live with a man in the mountains.”

wooyoung’s breath stutters.

“…sell,” he repeats. “…me?”

san doesn’t answer.

he just pulls wooyoung into his arms, holding him tightly, like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go.

“i sold everything,” san whispers into his shoulder. “our house. everything we owned. all the jewelry you brought with you. i offered them enough money for anything they could have wanted. just so i could buy you back. just so i could bring you home.”

wooyoung shakes, the story crashing over him in sickening waves. the way san’s voice cracks. the way guilt bleeds through every word.

“but at the end of the day,” san continues, barely audible, “they took the money and then—”

he stops.

wooyoung gulps.

“…and then?” he asks quietly.

san breaks.

“…..they killed you,” he sobs. “right in front of me.”

wooyoung’s eyes fly open.

his arms tighten around san instinctively as san shakes, crying into his chest, breath coming apart.

wooyoung feels everything—grief that isn’t his, memories that don’t belong to this body but feel carved into his bones anyway.

he rubs san’s back, unsure, conflicted.

was he even that person?

and yet— how could he not be?

“…what about you, sannie?” wooyoung whispers after a moment. “what happened to you?”

san lets out a broken, humorless laugh and pulls back, trying to wipe his face.

wooyoung beats him to it, wiping san’s tears gently with his thumbs.

“seven days after you were killed,” san says in a hushed voice, “i was still in prison.”

wooyoung’s heart drops.

“…what?”

“every night,” san continues, staring past him, “i saw it again. you dying. over and over. in my dreams. it was too cruel. i couldn’t live like that.”

wooyoung squeezes his hand tighter.

“i took my own life,” san whispers.

wooyoung feels like the air has been knocked out of him.

“i thought i’d follow you,” san says. “wherever you went. i thought i’d finally be with you again.”

his eyes lift.

“but i didn’t die.”

wooyoung’s breath catches.

“i became something else,” san says quietly. “a cursed spirit. i don’t age. i don’t rest. i don’t reincarnate.”

wooyoung shakes his head. “but you’re here.”

“i can take over bodies,” san explains. “i can move through dreams. i can exist in between.”

his voice drops.

“but i can’t die.”

silence crashes down around them.

wooyoung holds san as the weight of it all settles—centuries of grief, of waiting, of searching for a soul that never came back.

and now—

somehow—

found.

this isn’t a dream.

it never was.

wooyoung swallows hard.

“you waited,” he says quietly. “for so long.”

san hums faintly, like it’s an understatement. “i did.”

wooyoung hesitates, then asks the question that’s been clawing at his chest.

“…what would you have done if i didn’t come around again?”

san doesn’t answer right away.

he stares at the wall past wooyoung’s shoulder, eyes distant, unfocused.

“honestly?” he murmurs. “i don’t know.”

that scares wooyoung more than anything else he’s heard tonight.

“…what if you found me,” wooyoung continues carefully, “and i was already with someone?”

san’s gaze snaps back to him.

there’s a sharpness there now. something cold. ancient.

“then i would’ve broken you two up,” san says simply.

a shiver runs straight down wooyoung’s spine.

“…oh,” he breathes.

san blinks, like he’s only just realized how that sounded. the edge softens, but it doesn’t disappear completely.

“i didn’t wait one hundred and forty-five years to watch you love someone else,” san says quietly. not angry. just factual.

wooyoung swallows.

“…why were you in my dreams, then?” he asks, changing direction, heart still pounding. “why not just—meet me? like a normal person?”

san exhales, rubbing a hand over his face.

“when i saw you at the internet café,” he says, “i panicked. i wasn’t sure it was you. but you sounded the same. laughed the same. your soul felt—”

he presses his fingers briefly into wooyoung’s chest.

“the same.”

wooyoung listens, breath caught.

“you were sad,” san continues softly. “even surrounded by friends. even

laughing. i could feel it.”

wooyoung pouts faintly despite himself. “so you decided to haunt my dreams?”

san smiles at that, small and guilty. “i thought i could make you happy. even if it was only there.”

wooyoung opens his mouth to argue—

but then san coughs.

it’s quiet, but it’s wrong. strained.

wooyoung’s brows knit together immediately. “are you sick?”

san shakes his head. “not exactly.”

he sighs, shoulders slumping just a little. “being in a body. existing in the real world instead of the dream space. it takes a toll on me.”

wooyoung’s chest tightens. “what do you mean?”

“i can’t stay too long,” san admits. “i have to switch back into spirit form eventually. if i don’t… this body gives up.”

wooyoung frowns deeply. “and then what?”

san answers calmly, like it’s routine.

“i wait for this san to reincarnate. wait for him to live. wait for him to die. then i take his body again.”

wooyoung’s stomach drops.

“…that would take forever.”

san nods. “it usually does.”

“can’t you just take anyone?,” wooyoung asks slowly.

“i could,” san agrees. “but i won’t.” his voice firms. “i only take bodies that have already died. i won’t steal someone’s life.”

wooyoung just stares at him.

“…i didn’t even know reincarnation or spirits were real,” he whispers.

san smiles gently and reaches up, pinching wooyoung’s cheek between his fingers.

“you do now.”

their eyes meet.

the weight of it hits wooyoung all at once—the love of a spirit who has been yearning for over a century, who has carried grief through eras and wars and quiet winters, just to find him again.

“…i can’t believe you’re here,” san says softly, voice full and sincere. “i’m so happy you’re alive, wooyoung.”

wooyoung’s heart twists.

“san,” he murmurs, frowning. “this isn’t fair to you.”

san tilts his head.

“you waited so long,” wooyoung continues. “just for what? i’ll age. i’ll die. and then what—you’re alone again? you wait for the next wooyoung?”

he exhales shakily and pulls san into a hug before he can stop himself, arms wrapping around him tight.

“you must have been so lonely,” wooyoung whispers. “all these years.”

san goes still.

then slowly—carefully—he relaxes into the hold, forehead pressing against wooyoung’s shoulder.

“…yeah,” he breathes.

a pause.

“i was,” he says, quieter.

and for the first time in a century and a half—

he isn’t alone anymore.

wooyoung pulls back just enough to look at him.

his hands stay firm on san’s shoulders, grounding them both.

“how do we break the curse?” he asks.

san blinks. “…what?”

wooyoung doesn’t waver. “you should be allowed to die too. you should be allowed to rest.”

for a moment, san just stares at him like the thought itself is dangerous.

then he exhales, slow and tired.

“i—” he shakes his head. “i honestly don’t know.”

wooyoung pouts, frustration flashing across his face, and before san can say anything else, wooyoung pulls him back into a hug, tight and stubborn.

“we’ll figure it out,” wooyoung mutters into his shoulder, like it’s a promise he’s already decided on.

san laughs softly, breath warm against wooyoung’s neck. “you’re still stubborn like that, huh.”

wooyoung hums. then something else occurs to him.

“what about your brother?” he asks quietly. “your family? your… high school?”

san sighs, the sound heavy.

“my parents and my brother are cursed spirits too,” he admits. “we stick together sometimes. we make families. move around. blend in.”

wooyoung frowns. “but?”

“…but it’s not real,” san says. “it’s not the same.”

wooyoung relaxes into his hold, cheek pressed to san’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath.

“…san,” he says softly.

san hums in response.

wooyoung pulls back again, glossy-eyed now, voice small but steady. “i don’t know if i’m the same as him.”

san looks down at him, fully focused.

“the wooyoung you loved,” wooyoung continues. “i don’t remember his life. his choices. his pain.”

he swallows.

“but i can be this wooyoung,” he says. “and i can make you happy in this life, if that’s what you want.”

san freezes.

his breath catches like he’s afraid to inhale.

“…you mean it?” he asks quietly.

wooyoung smiles, small and sincere, heart pounding painfully in his chest. he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to san’s forehead.

“yeah.”

san’s voice trembles. “but why?”

wooyoung hugs him again, tighter this time.

“because i’ve never felt as good as i do when i’m next to you like this,” he whispers. “it feels like…. the missing part of my life is finally coming back… i didn’t even know anything was missing until you showed up.”

san wraps his arms around him, holding him like something precious and fragile.

“…okay,” san murmurs.

and for the first time, the word doesn’t feel like surrender.

it feels like hope.

~

for a while, things are… good.

san doesn’t get sick.

days pass, then a week, and he doesn’t feel the strain he warned wooyoung about.

no coughing. no weakness. no need to slip back into spirit form.

he stays human, fully, like the world has decided to be kind for once.

they don’t question it.

they just enjoy it.

~

wooyoung is at the internet café with yeosang, mingi, and jongho when it happens.

he’s mid-game, yelling at the screen, fully locked in, when a shadow falls over his keyboard. he looks up—

and there’s san.

hoodie, familiar smile, eyes soft when they land on wooyoung.

san doesn’t say anything. he just sets down a small bag next to the monitor.

wooyoung’s usual snacks. the exact drink he always orders. he taps the table lightly, like a secret.

“have fun,” san says quietly.

wooyoung stares at him, stunned.

san ruffles his hair once and walks away like this is the most normal thing in the world.

there’s a beat of silence.

then—

“OH MY GOD.”

mingi practically launches himself out of his chair. “IS THAT YOUR BOYFRIEND?”

yeosang whips around. “THAT WAS SO CASUAL. DID YOU SEE THE HAIR RUFFLE?”

jongho squints at the snacks. “those are your favorites.”

wooyoung’s face goes red.

“shut up,” he groans, ducking his head. “just—play the game.”

“nah,” mingi grins. “you’re done. you’re never living that down.”

wooyoung tries to glare, but he can’t stop smiling.

~

another night, the house is quiet.

his parents have already gone to bed, reminding them gently that it’s late and san should just sleep over. wooyoung nearly combusts on the spot.

they end up on the living room couch, a movie playing softly in the background. wooyoung curls into san’s side without thinking, head resting against his shoulder.

san’s arm wraps around him naturally, fingers finding wooyoung’s hand beneath the blanket.

their fingers intertwine.

the movie becomes background noise.

this feels right. too right. like something missing has finally slotted back into place.

eventually, they retreat to wooyoung’s room.

the door clicks shut.

wooyoung stands there awkwardly, hands fidgeting at his sides, heart beating a mile a minute.

“…so um,” he says. “this is our first sleepover.”

san smiles, slow and fond. he reaches out and gently cups one side of wooyoung’s jaw. wooyoung’s face heats instantly and he turns away, embarrassed.

“are you nervous?” san asks softly.

wooyoung scoffs. “shouldn’t you switch back soon anyway?” he blurts. “you’ve been human all day.”

san snickers. “that’s the weird part.”

wooyoung looks back at him. “what?”

“i’ve been human for a few days now,” san says. “and i haven’t felt sick at all.”

wooyoung’s eyes widen. “really?”

“really.”

they stare at each other for a second.

they don’t understand it.

they don’t try to.

they just… accept it.

they crawl under the covers together, shoulders brushing, the blanket tented just enough to trap warmth between them.

it’s immediately too close.

wooyoung lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, half-nervous, half-giddy, and pulls the blanket higher like it might hide him from his own embarrassment. san follows easily, settling beside him, eyes bright in the dim light leaking in from the hallway.

they whisper like they’re doing something illegal.

wooyoung presses his face into the pillow, trying to calm his racing heart. “you’re being really calm about this,” he mutters.

san grins. “should i not be?”

“no—i mean—” wooyoung turns his head just enough to glare at him, cheeks already glowing pink. “you know i’m freaking out.”

san hums thoughtfully, then leans in just a little closer. close enough that wooyoung can feel his breath on his cheek.

“you’re cute when you’re flustered,” san says.

wooyoung makes a distressed noise and shoves his face back into the pillow.

“stop saying things like that.”

san laughs softly and reaches out, fingers brushing wooyoung’s wrist under the blanket. it’s light at first, barely there, like he’s testing the space between them.

when wooyoung doesn’t pull away, san’s fingers curl gently around his.

wooyoung’s breath stutters.

san notices.

“is this okay?” san asks quietly, thumb rubbing a slow circle into wooyoung’s skin.

wooyoung nods into the pillow, then realizes san can’t see him. “…yeah,” he mumbles.

san squeezes his hand once, pleased.

they lie there like that for a bit, whispering about nothing. about the movie they didn’t finish. about how creaky the house sounds at night. about how wooyoung’s bed is actually more comfortable than san expected.

every so often, san leans in and presses a quick kiss to wooyoung’s cheek.

then another.

then one to the bridge of his nose.

wooyoung squeaks softly each time, curling in tighter, face burning hotter with every stolen kiss.

“san,” he whispers urgently, peeking out at him. “you can’t just—do that.”

san raises an eyebrow. “why not?”

“because—because—” wooyoung flails weakly, words failing him. “because my heart is going to explode.”

san’s smile softens, fond and unmistakably smug. “i’ll try to be gentle, then.”

wooyoung groans and hides again, but this time he doesn’t pull his hand away

when san laces their fingers together under the blanket. instead, he squeezes back, shy and clumsy and very real.

his cheeks burn the entire time.

and san watches him like it’s the best thing he’s seen in over a century.

“wooyoungie,” he says softly.

wooyoung hums, still half-buried in the pillow. “yeah?”

san lifts a hand, hesitating just short of touching his cheek. the pause stretches, deliberate, like he’s giving wooyoung time to breathe.

“can i kiss you?”

the words hit harder than wooyoung expects.

his heart slams against his ribs, loud enough that he’s sure san can hear it. his mouth goes dry. for a second, his mind goes completely blank.

“…it’s my first kiss,” he blurts out instead.

san’s expression changes immediately.

his smile softens, gentle and careful, something almost reverent settling in his eyes.

“ever?” he asks quietly.

wooyoung nods, embarrassed, cheeks already burning. “yeah.”

san doesn’t laugh. doesn’t tease.

instead, he shifts back just a little, giving wooyoung space, like he’s physically handing him the choice.

“then we don’t have to,” san says softly. “we can wait.”

wooyoung blinks at him.

“…i never said that,” he mutters.

san smiles faintly. “what did you mean then?.”

wooyoung glances back at him, curious despite himself. “have you… ever kissed anyone?”

san’s expression stills for half a second.

“well yeah,” he says simply. “you.”

“anyone else?’

“no.”

wooyoung’s eyes widen. “you’re telling me you went, what—over a hundred years without kissing anyone?”

san shrugs, a little sheepish. “well.”

wooyoung huffs, trying to mask how flustered that makes him. “that’s actually insane.”

san tilts his head, amused. “you went seventeen.”

“shut up,” wooyoung mutters, face fully on fire now.

san’s smile is warm, fond, patient.

he looks at san’s face—at the warmth there, the patience, the way san looks at him like he’s something precious, not something to rush or claim.

his chest tightens.

“…i want to,” wooyoung says after a moment, voice barely above a whisper.

san’s breath catches.

“okay,” san murmurs. “you lead.”

wooyoung’s hands shake slightly as he lifts one, fingers brushing san’s jaw in the same place san touched him earlier.

the contact is light, unsure.

san stays perfectly still.

eyes on wooyoung. waiting.

wooyoung hesitates, heart pounding so hard it almost hurts.

then he leans in, slow and careful, giving himself time to stop if he wants to.

their lips brush.

it’s barely a kiss—soft, fleeting, more a promise than anything else—but it sends a rush of warmth straight through wooyoung’s chest, blooming outward until his fingers curl instinctively into san’s shirt.

he pulls back almost immediately, eyes wide, breath shaky.

san doesn’t chase him.

he just smiles.

“how was that?” san asks quietly.

wooyoung swallows, cheeks flaming. “…i think i forgot how to breathe.”

san laughs softly, low and fond, and leans in just enough to press a gentle kiss

to wooyoung’s forehead.

“we can practice,” he says lightly.

wooyoung groans, collapsing back into the pillow. “my heart is actually going to give out.”

san chuckles and pulls him in, wrapping an arm around him, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek.

“then i’ll go slow,” san murmurs.

wooyoung hides his face again, smiling so hard it hurts.

~

the park is loud with life.

kyungmin is running in uneven circles across the grass, plastic airplane clutched in his hands as he makes his own engine noises, laughing so hard he nearly trips over himself.

wooyoung’s parents sit on a nearby bench, smiling fondly, calling out gentle warnings he very clearly ignores.

san jogs alongside kyungmin for a bit, letting the kid tug him around by the sleeve, pretending to chase him, pretending to lose. wooyoung trails behind them, laughing, heart warm in a way that still feels unreal.

this—
this feels like something out of a dream.

then his chest tightens.

it’s subtle at first. just a little shortness of breath. wooyoung slows, presses a hand lightly to his sternum, telling himself it’s nothing. maybe he laughed too

hard.

maybe he’s just tired.

kyungmin squeals and takes off again.

wooyoung forces a smile. “you guys go ahead,” he calls. “i’ll catch up.”

san turns immediately.

the smile drops from his face like it never belonged there.

“you okay?” san asks, already walking back toward him.

wooyoung waves a hand dismissively. “yeah—yeah, i’m fine. just—give me a sec.”

san doesn’t listen.

he gently steers kyungmin back toward the bench, crouching to the kid’s level.

“go show eomma your airplane, yeah? i’ll be right back.”

kyungmin nods enthusiastically and bolts off.

the second san turns back, he’s moving faster.

wooyoung is bent slightly now, hands braced on his knees, breathing shallow. sweat beads along his hairline, his cheeks flushed in a way that isn’t from exertion alone.

san stops in front of him, worry written plainly across his face.

“hey,” he says softly. “look at me.”

wooyoung lifts his head, offering a weak smile. “told you. i’m fine.”

san’s eyes flick over him—his breathing, the way his shoulders rise and fall too quickly, the slight tremor in his hands.

“…you’re out of breath,” san says gently.

wooyoung huffs out a laugh that turns into a cough. “maybe i’m just getting sick,” he says, trying to brush it off. “or i skipped lunch. or—i don’t know. i’ll be okay.”

san steps closer, instinctive, one hand hovering near wooyoung’s back like he’s afraid to touch too hard.

“you didn’t even run,” san murmurs.

wooyoung opens his mouth to argue—

then closes it.

san’s thumb brushes a damp curl away from wooyoung’s forehead, the touch light, grounding.

“does it hurt?” san asks quietly.

“…no,” wooyoung admits. “just feels… weird.”

san’s jaw tightens.

he nods once, like he’s accepting the answer for now, but his eyes don’t stop searching wooyoung’s face.

“okay,” san says softly. “then we’re sitting for a bit.”

wooyoung tries to protest, but san’s already guiding him toward the bench, arm steady around his waist, careful and protective.

and wooyoung lets him.

because suddenly, standing feels harder than it should.

~

the ramen shop is loud and warm, steam fogging up the windows, the air thick with spice and broth and laughter.

they’re packed into a booth that’s definitely too small for all of them. mingi is already halfway through his bowl, slurping dramatically.

jongho is arguing with yeosang about which toppings are elite. san sits beside wooyoung, shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing under the table.

it feels normal.

wooyoung usually orders two bowls here.

always does. complains one isn’t enough. says this place is too good not to.

san notices immediately when only one bowl gets set in front of him.

he doesn’t say anything at first.

they eat. talk. laugh.

well—everyone else does.

wooyoung smiles when he laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. his chopsticks move slower. he listens more than he talks. san’s gaze keeps drifting back to him, something tight settling in his chest.

san reaches down, squeezing wooyoung’s thigh lightly under the table.

wooyoung glances at him and smiles, quick and reassuring, like he’s trying to say don’t worry. he chimes in a little louder after that, adds a comment to the conversation, laughs when mingi says something stupid.

but the bowl stays mostly untouched.

the noodles sit there, steaming.

san leans in, voice low so only wooyoung can hear.

“are you full?” he asks softly.

wooyoung blinks, then nods. “yeah. i don’t really have much of an appetite today. not sure why.”

across the table, mingi’s head snaps up. “wait—are you not finishing that?”

jongho grins. “i’ll take it.”

yeosang laughs. “i knew today was a good day.”

they reach for his bowl without hesitation, already fighting over it.

wooyoung chuckles weakly and slides it toward them, like it doesn’t matter.

san watches his hand shake just slightly as he pulls back.

his smile fades.

he keeps his hand on wooyoung’s thigh, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles, eyes never leaving his face.

something is wrong.

and san feels it deep in his chest, cold and certain.

~

san gets home just after nine.

the apartment lights are already on, the low hum of a sports broadcast filling the living room. yunho is sprawled across one end of the couch, long legs stretched out, drink balanced dangerously on his knee.

“you’re late,” yunho says without looking away from the screen.

san kicks his shoes off. “i was with wooyoung.”

yunho snorts. “obviously.”

the front door opens again and seonghwa and hongjoong come in together, arms full of pizza boxes and paper bags. they move in practiced sync, setting everything down on the coffee table like they’ve done this a thousand times—which, honestly, they have.

“food’s here,” hongjoong announces.

they all settle in, grabbing slices straight from the box, the game continuing in the background. it’s oddly domestic for four cursed spirits who’ve lived through wars, plagues, revolutions, and the invention of electricity.

sports, apparently, is still entertaining.

san watches for a moment, amused in that distant way he gets sometimes. seonghwa and hongjoong look barely older than him—always have. it still makes people do double takes when san calls them his parents.

yunho steals two slices at once. hongjoong scolds him. seonghwa pretends not to notice.

normal.

too normal.

seonghwa glances over at san. “so,” he says casually, “how’s your boyfriend?”

san nearly chokes.

yunho grins instantly. “oh, here we go.”

hongjoong leans back, smirk sharp. “yeah. how are things?”

san’s ears burn. “they’re—good,” he mutters. “really good.”

yunho makes a gagging noise. “he’s smiling again. it’s gross.”

seonghwa smiles softly. “i’m glad.”

hongjoong snorts. “you should’ve seen seonghwa when we first started dating.”

seonghwa shoots him a look. “you were worse.”

“i was romantic,” hongjoong argues.

“you were dramatic.”

yunho laughs. san watches them, something tight and aching in his chest.

a hundred years together. through everything. wars. famines. entire civilizations rising and falling.

he envies them more than he wants to admit.

“…but,” san says quietly.

the word lands heavier than he expects.

seonghwa’s attention sharpens instantly.

san swallows. “wooyoung’s been… off. lately.”

yunho frowns. “off how?”

“tired,” san says. “more than usual. he got winded just walking in the park last week. then he barely ate at dinner today.”

hongjoong straightens slightly. “is he sick?”

san shakes his head. “he says he’s fine. but he doesn’t look fine.”

seonghwa studies san carefully. “and you?”

san blinks. “me?”

“have you had to switch back lately?” seonghwa asks. “into spirit form?”

san hesitates.

“…no,” he admits. “that’s the weird part. i’ve been staying in this body for days. i

feel fine.”

the room goes quiet.

yunho lowers his drink. hongjoong’s smirk fades completely.

seonghwa exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for a while.

“…san,” he says carefully.

san’s stomach drops. “what?”

seonghwa meets his eyes. “i think the curse isn’t affecting you anymore.”

san’s chest tightens. “that’s good, right?”

seonghwa shakes his head.

“i think it’s transferring.”

the word echoes.

hongjoong’s jaw tightens. “onto wooyoung.”

san feels cold all over.

“…what?” he whispers. “that doesn’t make sense.”

seonghwa’s voice is gentle but firm.

“you’re bound to him. you’ve always been. cursed spirits don’t get to exist freely in the living world without a cost.”

san’s hands curl into fists. “so what—you’re saying he’s paying it instead?”

seonghwa doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t need to.

san feels it then—sharp, sick panic flooding his chest.

wooyoung’s breathless laugh.

his untouched ramen.

the way he smiled and said i’m fine.

san stands up so fast his chair scrapes against the floor.

“i need to go,” he says, already reaching for his jacket. “now.”

yunho’s up immediately, blocking him without even thinking. “san—stop.”

“move.”

hongjoong rises too, expression sharp. “you’re panicking.”

“of course i’m panicking,” san snaps. “he’s getting hurt because of me.”

seonghwa stays seated.

that alone makes san pause.

“san,” seonghwa says quietly. “look at me.”

san does, chest heaving.

“running to him like this won’t help,” seonghwa continues. “you know that.”

san swallows. “then what am i supposed to do? just sit here while he gets worse?”

yunho glances between them. “what if you… switch back for a bit?”

san blinks. “what?”

“spirit form,” yunho says carefully. “you said that’s usually when the curse stabilizes.”

san hesitates. “…yeah. usually.”

hongjoong nods. “if the imbalance is coming from you being fully human, stepping back might take the pressure off him.”

san’s hands shake at his sides.

“but i should tell him,” he insists. “i can’t just disappear—”

“no,” seonghwa says, firm now.

san looks at him sharply.

“not in person,” seonghwa adds. “not yet.”

san’s chest tightens. “why?”

seonghwa stands, crossing the room slowly until he’s right in front of san. he rests a hand on san’s shoulder—solid, grounding.

“because you being physically near him right now might make it worse,” he says gently. “you’re bound too tightly. your presence is anchoring the curse instead of easing it.”

san’s throat closes. “so you want me to just… leave him?”

“temporarily,” seonghwa says. “not abandon him.”

hongjoong chimes in softly, “visit him in his dreams. where you’re meant to exist. give his body time to recover.”

yunho nods. “he’ll feel it. the relief.”

san stares at the floor.

images flood his mind—wooyoung laughing in the park, wooyoung pushing his ramen away, wooyoung saying i’m fine when he clearly wasn’t.

“…he’ll hate this,” san whispers.

seonghwa squeezes his shoulder. “he’ll survive it.”

san’s jaw tightens.

“…okay,” he says finally. “okay. i can do that.”

he exhales shakily.

“i’ll switch back,” he murmurs. “just for a bit.”

just long enough, he tells himself.

just until wooyoung feels better.

just until everything settles.

san closes his eyes.

yeah.

he can do that.

he has to.

~

wooyoung wakes up to the sound of his own breathing.

slow. shallow. wrong.

his throat is dry, head pounding like someone stuffed cotton behind his eyes.

when he tries to move, his limbs feel heavy, like they don’t quite belong to him. it takes effort just to turn his head toward the window.

gray light. morning.

day four.

he knows because his phone buzzes weakly from the nightstand—another alarm he doesn’t remember setting, another reminder to take meds he already took and doesn’t remember swallowing.

he reaches for the phone with trembling fingers.

no new messages.

his heart sinks immediately.

san.

still nothing.

wooyoung scrolls up, panic creeping in slowly, insidiously. his last message is still there, unopened.

i think i’m sick. i have a fever. don’t worry too much, okay?

sent three days ago.

no reply.

his chest tightens.

san wouldn’t do this.

wouldn’t disappear without saying something. wouldn’t leave him hanging when

he knew wooyoung was sick.

san had hovered over him the first time he sneezed, for god’s sake—hands warm on his cheeks, brow furrowed, whispering tell me if you feel weird, okay?

wooyoung swallows hard.

“san…?” he murmurs into the empty room, voice hoarse.

nothing answers.

his mom must be at work. the house is quiet in that hollow daytime way. there’s a bowl on his desk from yesterday—cold soup he barely remembers eating. pill bottles lined up neatly beside it.

he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for days. waking just long enough to sip broth, take medicine, feel someone press a cool hand to his forehead.

except—

no.

his stomach twists.

san hasn’t been there.

not once.

and neither have his dreams.

that part scares him the most.

san told him once, casually, like it wasn’t a big deal—that when wooyoung was too exhausted, too sick, his mind wouldn’t open enough to dream. no visits. no warmth. no mountains or hammocks or soft hands.

wooyoung hadn’t thought much of it then.

now it feels like punishment.

he stares at the ceiling, blinking back sudden tears.

“where did you go,” he whispers, barely audible. “did i do something?”

his body feels wrong. lightheaded when he shifts. his heart races even though he’s lying still. he presses a hand to his chest, trying to calm it.

he doesn’t remember the last time he felt this alone.

even before san—before everything—there was always noise. friends. games.

kyungmin tugging at his sleeve. something to ground him.

now there’s just this.

the silence stretches.

minutes pass. maybe hours. he dozes again, fever pulling him under in shallow waves, dreams fragmented and empty.

when he wakes this time, it’s darker.

evening.

his phone vibrates.

wooyoung’s heart leaps painfully.

he grabs it so fast his vision swims.

still no text.

just a notification from yeosang asking if he’s alive.

his chest caves in.

san wouldn’t leave.

unless—

the thought hits him like ice.

unless he had to.

wooyoung squeezes his eyes shut, breathing uneven.

“please,” he whispers into the quiet room, voice breaking. “please come back.”

and somewhere deep inside, beneath the fever and exhaustion, a fear takes root—

what if this is what losing him feels like?

~

the hours drag until wooyoung can’t tell if it’s night or morning anymore.

his fever burns him from the inside out.

his heart won’t slow, even when he lies perfectly still. every breath feels shallow, wrong, like his body is forgetting how to exist without effort.

san still hasn’t answered.

the fear mutates.

what if his body finally gave out?
what if he pushed too long—just to stay with me?
what if he’s trying to reach me and i’m too sick to dream?

wooyoung hates it.

hates the helplessness. hates that his own exhaustion feels like a locked door. hates that the one place san could always reach him—his dreams—has gone silent.

his chest tightens painfully.

“san,” he whispers into the dark room, voice cracking. “please… don’t be gone.”

his body finally gives up before his mind does. fever drags him under, heavy and relentless.

and then—

warmth.

not the fever kind.

the him kind.

wooyoung jolts awake.

his room is there—familiar, dim, unchanged.

and san is standing at the foot of the bed.

whole. solid. eyes red-rimmed like he hasn’t slept in days either.

“youngie—” san breathes, rushing forward.

wooyoung’s chest caves in.

before san can touch him, wooyoung smacks his arm away hard.

“don’t,” he snaps, voice shaking violently. “don’t touch me.”

san freezes.

wooyoung’s eyes burn, tears spilling fast and furious now, anger finally breaking

through days of fear.

“where the hell have you been?” he demands. “do you know what you did to me?”

san swallows, throat working. “wooyoung—”

“no,” wooyoung cuts in sharply. “you don’t get to say my name like that. you don’t get to disappear. and then show up out of nowhere,”

san steps closer anyway, hands trembling. “let me feel your forehead,” he says softly. “you’re burning up.”

“answer me,” wooyoung chokes, batting his hand away again. “why am i like this?”

san’s shoulders slump.

“…because i think the curse is transferring,” he admits quietly.

wooyoung goes still.

“what?”

san’s voice breaks. “i think every moment i stayed human—every time i held you, kissed you—the cost stopped being paid by me.”

wooyoung’s breath stutters. “and went where?”

san meets his eyes, guilt flooding his expression.

“…to you.”

the words hit like a physical blow.

wooyoung laughs weakly, disbelieving. “you’re saying i’m sick because of you?”

“because of us,” san whispers. “because i couldn’t let go. because i was too scared to.”

wooyoung’s vision blurs completely.

“scared?” he chokes suddenly, anger erupting again. “scared?”

san flinches.

“san, i’ve been sick for days,” wooyoung yells, tears streaming freely now. “i couldn’t breathe without thinking you were gone. i thought you were dead.”

san’s eyes shine. “youngie—”

“you don’t get to make choices for me,” wooyoung cries, voice breaking apart. “you don’t get to decide what hurts me less without even talking to me.”

his hands shake as he grips the sheets.

“you don’t get to leave me alone in this bed wondering if lyou are alive or if your body gave out or if you suddenly forgot i existed.”

san collapses to his knees beside the bed, hands clenched in his lap, shaking.

“i was terrified,” he whispers. “of hurting you. of losing you again.”

wooyoung sobs, chest heaving.

“then you talk to me,” he says hoarsely. “you don’t disappear. you don’t take that choice away from me.”

san looks up at him, utterly wrecked.

“…i’m sorry,” he whispers. “i didn’t know how to save you without losing you.”

wooyoung’s anger dissolves into something aching and exhausted.

“we figure it out together,” he says quietly. “or not at all.”

san nods shakily.

“…together.”

he reaches for wooyoung’s hand again—slow, careful, like he’s afraid of hurting him just by touching.

this time, wooyoung lets him.

their fingers intertwine.

and even through the fever, the fear, the curse—

wooyoung knows one thing with terrifying clarity.

losing san would hurt worse than anything else ever could.

~

“wooyoung,” san sobs, hands clenched in wooyoung’s shirt like he’s afraid to let go. “i can’t do this to you.”

wooyoung looks up at him from the bed, eyes fever-bright, jaw set in that stubborn way san knows too well.

“don’t,” wooyoung says hoarsely. “don’t start.”

san shakes his head, tears spilling freely now. “you’re getting worse. every day. and i’m still here. that means—”

“you’re not leaving me again,” wooyoung cuts in sharply.

the words land like a slap.

san sucks in a breath. “i’m not leaving you,” he insists. “i can visit you in your dreams. in spirit form.  i can stay close without—without hurting you like this.”

wooyoung laughs weakly, bitter. “you think that helps? waking up alone? wondering if you’re gone again?”

san’s voice cracks. “i can’t stay while i’m the reason you’re sick.”

wooyoung pushes himself upright with effort, breath hitching. “yes, you can.”

san stares at him, horrified. “wooyoung—”

“if i’m going to be sick,” wooyoung says, voice trembling but fierce,

“then i need you by my side. i’m not doing this alone.”

san squeezes his eyes shut. “you don’t understand what you’re asking.”

wooyoung reaches up, cupping san’s wet cheek with a trembling hand. his touch is warm. real. grounding.

“i understand perfectly,” he whispers. “i’ve already lost you once. i’m not doing it again while i’m still alive.”

san opens his eyes.

there’s something in wooyoung’s expression then—quiet, resolute, terrifyingly calm.

“if you leave,” wooyoung adds softly, “i don’t think i’ll survive it anyway.”

that’s what does it.

san caves with a broken sound, pulling wooyoung into his chest, arms wrapping tight like he can shield him from the world if he just holds on

hard enough.

“…okay,” san whispers. “okay. i’ll stay.”

the word tastes like ash.

at first, san is vigilant.

too vigilant.

he hovers. insists on walking wooyoung to the bathroom. glares at him if he tries to stand too fast.

snaps at anyone who looks at wooyoung for too long.

wooyoung complains constantly, rolling his eyes, swatting san’s hands away.

“san, i’m fine,” he insists, breathless but smiling. “stop treating me like i’m made of glass.”

san pretends to believe him.

wooyoung keeps up the act for a while.

he jokes through the coughing. laughs when he has to sit down halfway through the hallway, about how he has to ‘seriously build some muscle.’

jokes about san being dramatic when san brings him water, food, blankets, anything he might need.

“see?” wooyoung says, flashing a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “still me.”

but his strength keeps slipping.

the fights fade first.

one day, wooyoung doesn’t argue when san helps him dress.

another day, he lets san carry him to the couch without protest, head falling limply against san’s shoulder. his voice grows softer. his steps shorter.

he still smiles.

still reaches for san’s hand instinctively.

“i’m okay,” he keeps saying. “i’m just tired.”

san knows better.

it gets worse in ways san can’t shield him from.

wooyoung’s parents notice.

they try not to show it—to keep their voices light, their smiles steady—but worry settles into the house like a permanent ache.

his mom watches wooyoung move across the room like he might shatter if he steps wrong.

his dad starts driving slower, quieter, like noise itself might be too much.

doctor appointment after doctor appointment.

blood tests. scans. specialists with furrowed brows and careful words.

fatigue.
stress.
maybe a virus.
maybe anxiety.

they prescribe pills with names wooyoung doesn’t bother remembering.

san watches from the bathroom doorway one night as wooyoung stares at the orange bottle in his hand, fingers trembling.

then, without hesitatio , he unscrews the cap and tips them into the toilet.

flush.

san’s chest tightens.

“wooyoung,” he whispers.

wooyoung looks over his shoulder, tired smile soft and apologetic.

“they won’t help. this isn’t something medicine can fix.”

san presses his lips together, swallowing the scream clawing its way up his throat.

kyungmin notices too.

one night, after wooyoung has finally fallen asleep—exhausted, fever-warm, curled on his side—san hears soft crying from the living room.

kyungmin is clinging to their mom, small body shaking.

“why does hyung look so weak?” he sobs. “he used to pick me up. why can’t he anymore?”

their mom breaks.

she pulls kyungmin close, face crumpling as she cries into his hair, unable to answer. unable to explain something she doesn’t understand herself.

san stands in the hallway, nails digging into his palms, guilt blooming hot and poisonous in his chest.

because of me, he thinks.

nights are the worst.

wooyoung sleeps while shivering even under piles of blankets.

san lies beside him, arms wrapped tight, terrified to move in case it wakes him—and terrified not to, in case wooyoung slips further away.

wooyoung’s breathing turns shallow. uneven.

san presses his ear to wooyoung’s chest, counting heartbeats, panic clawing at him when they stumble over each other.

“youngie,” san whispers desperately. “stay with me. please.”

wooyoung whimpers in his sleep, curling inward, body so light it makes san’s chest ache. he pulls him closer instinctively, and that’s when it hits him

—how small wooyoung feels.

too small.

san’s arms used to fit around him easily. now they feel like they’re holding something fragile, something already halfway gone.

san’s breath stutters. tears spill freely now, soaking into wooyoung’s hair as san presses his face there, shaking.

“i’m sorry,” he sobs silently. “i’m so sorry. i never meant for this to happen—“

wooyoung stirs, half-awake, brow furrowing.

“san…?” he murmurs weakly.

san freezes, forcing his breathing to steady, wiping his face quickly.

“i’m here,” he whispers, voice breaking anyway. “go back to sleep.”

wooyoung relaxes just a little, fingers curling weakly into san’s shirt like it’s instinct.

“don’t go,” he breathes.

san’s heart caves in completely.

“i won’t,” he lies, because the truth is unbearable. “i promise.”

he holds wooyoung through the night, through every cough that wracks his thin frame, through every shiver that makes san panic harder. he memorizes the rise and fall of wooyoung’s chest like it’s sacred.

every cough feels like an accusation.
every wince, a reminder.
every soft smile, a knife.

and still—

san stays.

because leaving would break wooyoung’s heart.

and staying is breaking his body.

and there is no version of this that doesn’t end in ruin.

san clutches him tighter, tears dripping silently into the sheets, heart screaming with a truth he can’t escape anymore—

whatever this love is,

it’s killing the boy he waited centuries to find.

and it’s too much.

it’s all too much.

~

the nights all blur together now.

they don’t go out anymore. wooyoung never feels well enough, and san doesn’t push. instead, they stay in bed, curtains drawn, the world reduced to dim lamplight and the quiet hum of a movie san isn’t watching.

wooyoung is curled into him, tucked tight beneath blankets, san’s arms wrapped fully around his thin frame. san presses small, absent kisses to wooyoung’s forehead, his temple, his hairline—anywhere he can reach.

wooyoung smiles shyly every time, like he’s still embarrassed by being cherished.

san can’t stop looking at him.

his cheeks are hollow now. his collarbones sharp beneath the fabric of his shirt. his hair is damp with sweat, stuck to his forehead, and yet his body shivers every few minutes like he can’t hold onto warmth anymore.

san’s chest hurts.

“youngie…” san whispers.

“hm?” wooyoung hums, eyes still on the screen.

san swallows. his vision blurs.

“i can’t do this anymore.”

wooyoung freezes.

the movie keeps playing for a second longer before wooyoung fumbles for the remote and pauses it. the sudden silence is deafening. he shifts carefully, turning to face san.

“…do what?” he asks.

san breaks.

he dives forward, pressing his face into wooyoung’s chest, arms tightening like he’s afraid wooyoung might slip through him entirely.

his shoulders shake as tears spill freely.

“i can’t keep fulfilling your wishes,” san chokes. “i’m sorry.”

wooyoung’s hands hover awkwardly, unsure where to land. “san… what are you saying?”

san’s voice cracks against wooyoung’s skin. “you’re so small now,” he sobs. “so frail. so weak.”

wooyoung shivers, breath hitching.

“you’re sick,” san continues, words tumbling out broken and desperate. “and i want to be by your side every second of it. i do. god, i do.”

he lifts his head, eyes red and shining.

“but it’s killing you. you’re dying, woo.”

wooyoung flinches.

“san,” he whispers, shaking his head. “it’s not that bad. it’s just—getting older, stress, maybe the meds—”

“no,” san snaps, sharper than he’s ever been. “don’t lie to me.”

wooyoung goes still, eyes wide.

san grabs his face gently but firmly, thumbs brushing wetly over wooyoung’s cheeks.

“wooyoung,” he pleads. “i’m begging you. please.”

fear flashes across wooyoung’s face.

“…please what?”

“let me go,” san whispers.

the words hit like a gunshot.

wooyoung’s breath leaves him in a broken sound.

“san, if you leave me alone right now,” he says shakily, “i will never ever forgive you.”

something cracks in san’s chest so violently it almost drops him to his knees.

“listen to me,” san begs. “if you were in my position, you would’ve left so long ago. if you knew that staying around me would be causing me to fall sick, be exhausted, you would make distance in a heartbeat.”

he rests their foreheads together, breath trembling between them.

wooyoung starts to cry.

“san,” he sobs. “don’t you fucking dare.”

san squeezes his eyes shut. “i’ll find a cure,” he whispers. “a loophole. something. i swear.”

wooyoung shakes, tears streaming freely now. “but until then?”

san swallows hard. “until then, i’m leaving.”

wooyoung gasps like he’s been stabbed.

“you need to get better,” san says, voice breaking. “if we’re ever going to be together, you have to be alive.”

wooyoung’s hands shove at san’s chest weakly, then harder, anger and fear pouring out of him all at once.

“how could you leave me when i need you most?” he cries. “this isn’t fair. i’m just going to be dying in bed all alone and you’re not even going to be here for me—”

he hits san again, fists weak but desperate. san pulls him close immediately, holding him tight despite it all, sobbing into his hair.

“i’m sorry,” san whispers over and over. “i’m so sorry. this is for your own good. if i’m gone, you’ll start to feel better.”

“that’s bullshit.@ wooyoung sobs into his chest, voice raw. “i’m not waiting for you.”

the words hit san like a blade.

he stills.

“…that’s okay,” san whispers.

wooyoung looks up at him, eyes red and furious and terrified all at once.

san presses one last kiss to his forehead. then another. then another, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling.

“i love you,” san says softly.

and then—because staying would kill him too—san slips from the bed.

he doesn’t look back.

the window opens silently. cool night air rushes in. and with the hardest choice he’s made in centuries, san leaves through it, vanishing into the dark—

leaving behind the boy he loves, shaking and sick and sobbing alone in his childhood bed.

and for the first time since they found each other again,

san walks away.

the window clicks shut softly behind him, like the house itself is trying not to make a sound.

wooyoung stays frozen for a long moment, staring at the empty space where san stood just seconds ago. the air still feels warm there.

wrong without him.

then his body caves in on itself.

he curls onto his side, knees drawn up tight to his chest, blankets twisted around him like a shield that doesn’t work.

his teeth chatter uncontrollably, whole body shaking as the sobs finally break free.

it hurts everywhere.

his chest aches. his head pounds. his heart feels like it’s being torn in two.

“fuck you, san,” wooyoung whispers hoarsely into the dark room, voice barely holding together.

his throat tightens.

“…i love you too.”

the words come out broken, half-swallowed by tears.

he presses his face into the pillow, clutching it like it might still smell like him, like it might keep him from disappearing entirely.

“you better be back soon,” he murmurs weakly. “you hear me?”

the room doesn’t answer.

only the quiet hum of the night, and wooyoung’s uneven breathing, and the slow, terrifying feeling of being alone settling over him as he

cries himself back into sleep.

~

it’s been a week since san left.

wooyoung still sees him.

every night, without fail.

but it isn’t the same.

in his dreams, they don’t touch the way they used to. they don’t kiss. they don’t even talk much. they exist near each other instead—two bodies sharing space, careful and restrained.

the old house waits for them like it always has.

wooden floors worn smooth with time. the narrow kitchen that smells faintly of smoke and herbs. the windows that catch the light just right at sunrise and sunset.

wooyoung moves through it slowly.

he watches the sun climb over the mountains in the morning. watches it bleed orange and gold in the evenings. he cooks in the small kitchen, hands steady, movements practiced, like muscle memory from a life that wasn’t supposed to be his.

san is there.

sitting quietly at the table. leaning against a doorway. watching wooyoung like he’s afraid to blink.

they don’t speak. well, san tries to. wooyoung ignores him.

wooyoung doesn’t look at him much either. he pretends he doesn’t feel san’s eyes on him constantly, heavy with regret and longing.

but san’s presence—just being there—is enough.

enough to make wooyoung wake up crying every morning, chest tight and hollow, like something vital has been ripped out of him again and again.

sometimes he wakes up gasping, hand clutching at his chest, missing san so fiercely it makes him nauseous.

still.

a week without san in the real world does something else too.

his appetite comes back.

at first it’s cautious—small meals, careful bites. then hunger hits him like he’s making up for lost time. he eats until his stomach aches, until

his mom watches him with teary relief instead of fear. his energy is still shot, but it’s… better. or getting there atleast.

he sits in the living room with his family now, curled up under blankets, watching movies he barely follows. kyungmin leans against him, head warm on his shoulder.

wooyoung can’t pick him up anymore.

it kills him.

so he reads instead.

story after story, voices soft and animated, kyungmin giggling and correcting him when he gets the voices wrong. wooyoung smiles through the ache in his chest.

he can’t help his mom much with dinner either. his legs still get weak if he stands too long.

so he sits at the table, keeps her company, listens

while she talks about work, nodding along, grateful just to be there.

~

two weeks pass.

san still comes every night.

wooyoung is grateful for it. desperately so.

because waking up after those dreams feels like being torn out of safety and dropped back into reality without warning.

every morning feels like trauma—his body jolting awake, heart racing, tears spilling before he can stop them.

he cries every time.

sometimes silently. sometimes loud enough that he has to bite his sleeve to keep from waking anyone.

by the end of the second week, his cheeks have filled out a little. his body looks softer, less sharp around the edges. he can shower on his own again—most days.

one night, he almost passes out under the spray, vision tunneling, knees buckling. his mom helps him to the bed, panicked and shaking, and wooyoung cries afterward, humiliated and exhausted.

but he is getting better.

physically.

emotionally, he feels like he’s falling apart.

he tells his parents san is studying abroad. or visiting family overseas. something vague and distant enough that they won’t ask too many questions.

every lie hurts.

every day without san in the room hurts more.

wooyoung lies awake some nights, staring at the ceiling, fingers curled into the sheets where san used to be.

his body is healing.

his heart is not.

and the cruelest part—

is knowing that getting better means san is doing exactly what he promised.

protecting him.

even if it means breaking both of them in the process.

~

san doesn’t find anything.

not the first night.

not the second.

not the third.

the archive swallows him whole.

he tears through books until the words blur, until languages bleed into one another, until centuries collapse into static.

scrolls unravel across the floor like shed skin. notes pile up in uneven stacks, corners bent, ink smudged where his hands shake too badly to be neat.

binding requires—
rare phenomenon—
unverified—
the subject may—

“no,” san mutters, flipping the page harder. “no, no, no.”

he skips chapters. skims margins. hunts for keywords like they’re oxygen.

release.
reversal.
cure.

nothing.

every answer stops just short of hope.

every explanation ends in irreversible.

hours pass unnoticed. then days. san eats standing up, shoving food into his mouth without tasting it, refueling like a machine that can’t afford to shut down.

when his hands start cramping, he switches to another book. when his back screams from hunching, he ignores it.

sleep becomes an inconvenience.

he doesn’t go near wooyoung in dreams anymore—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s afraid he’ll see improvement and lose his resolve. afraid he’ll hear wooyoung laugh and decide this suffering is worth it.

he can’t afford that.

not when wooyoung almost died in his arms.

san’s eyes are always open now. red-rimmed. too bright. his jaw clenched like if he loosens it, something inside will shatter.

“there has to be something,” he whispers into the silence. “there has to be.”

his fingers tremble as he turns another page.

nothing.

another.

nothing.

his vision swims. letters smear together. he rubs his eyes hard, dragging his palms down his face, breath hitching.

“come on,” he begs softly. “please.”

the book slips from his hands.

it hits the floor with a dull thud.

san doesn’t even register it at first.

his head drops forward onto the desk, cheek pressing into the wood, breath stuttering out of him like he’s been punched.

exhaustion takes him without mercy—no dreams, no warning, just the sudden, heavy pull of sleep.

tears slide free as he goes.

they soak into the page beneath his face, blurring words he never got to read.

hours later, the door opens quietly.

hongjoong stops short.

the room is a wreck—books everywhere, notes scattered, the faint smell of cold coffee and dust. and there, at the desk, san is slumped forward, shoulders tense even in sleep, brow furrowed like he’s still searching.

hongjoong sighs.

soft. tired. devastatingly fond.

he steps closer and drapes a blanket over san’s shoulders, careful not to wake him. san stirs just slightly, a broken sound catching in his throat, but he doesn’t wake.

hongjoong’s gaze lingers on san’s face.

the tear tracks.

the dark circles.

the way his fingers are still curled like they’re holding onto something invisible.

“…you’re killing yourself,” hongjoong murmurs quietly.

there are no answers in sight.

only time slipping through san’s fingers.

and somewhere far away, wooyoung is getting better—

alone.

san sleeps.

and the archive remains cruelly, painfully empty of any kind of answer.

~

wooyoung wakes up to silence.

no mountains. no old wooden beams. no san sitting quietly somewhere nearby, pretending not to watch him.

nothing.

he blinks at the ceiling for a long time, chest rising and falling slowly. he hadn’t dreamed at all. not even fragments. not even that familiar ache of waking up knowing san had been there.

was i that tired?

he doesn’t know.

physically, though—

he feels… okay.

better than okay, actually. his limbs feel lighter. his chest doesn’t burn when he takes a deep breath. his head isn’t swimming the way it was days ago.

outside, everything is white.

snow has fallen thick and quiet overnight, softening the world. school is canceled. work is canceled. the house is warm and slow and full.

wooyoung pads out to the living room in socks, curls up on the couch without thinking. his mom smiles immediately, pats her lap, and wooyoung drops his head there like muscle memory.

she runs her fingers through his hair, slow and soothing.

“you’re up early,” she murmurs.

he hums, eyes fluttering shut again. she feeds him snacks absentmindedly—cut fruit, crackers—and he laughs when she teases his dad about hogging the blanket. his dad grumbles back, offended and fake-serious.

it’s easy.

it’s gentle.

it’s good.

and it hurts.

because it feels like it did before.

before dreams. before san. before everything cracked open and rewired his heart.

good family.
good friends.
a good life with no obvious complaints.

and yet—

there’s a hollow space in his chest that nothing fills.

even when kyungmin toddles over and wooyoung lifts him easily—easily—spinning him around while kyungmin shrieks about airplanes, his mom crying quietly because she’s so relieved she could burst.

even when wooyoung runs around the living room, breathless but laughing, arms sore but steady.

even when he yells at the TV with his dad during a sports game, voice loud, alive, present.

the hollow stays.

that’s when it hits him.

san was missing this whole time.

not just from his dreams.

from everything.

wooyoung’s smile fades a little as he sinks back onto the couch, breath catching—not from weakness, but from understanding.

he really had been dying.

slowly. quietly. piece by piece.

and of course san couldn’t stay.

of course san wouldn’t let him rot away like that, smiling and pretending it was fine.

the anger softens into something heavy and aching and grateful all at once.

you were right, wooyoung thinks, staring out at the snow. and i hate that you

were.

he presses a hand to his chest.

he’s getting better.

stronger.

and when he’s fully back on his feet—when his body is his again—he already knows what he’s going to do.

he’s not letting san disappear.

not again.

never again.

he swallows hard, jaw setting with quiet determination.

wait for me, he thinks. just a little longer.

then i’m coming to find you.

~

the archive smells like dust and old paper and something faintly metallic—magic clinging to the spines like it never really dried.

san is asleep on the couch.

it’s not a gentle sleep. his body is folded in on itself, arm slung over his eyes, a book still open on his chest where it slipped from his hands. his jaw is tight even in rest. dried tear tracks stain the corner of his cheek.

he looks wrecked.

hongjoong pauses when he sees him like that, pizza box still tucked under his arm. his mouth presses into a thin line.

“…he’s been here every night,” hongjoong murmurs.

yunho nods quietly, already pulling another stack of books off a shelf. “every minute he’s awake.”

seonghwa doesn’t say anything. he just exhales, slow and heavy, and gently lifts the book off san’s chest, folding a blanket over him instead. san doesn’t stir.

the book is written in a language san never quite mastered.

one of the few.

that’s why they’re here.

they fan out through the archive in silence, the kind that presses in on your ears. shelves tower overhead, packed tight with centuries of records—rituals, curses, loopholes that may or may not exist.

hongjoong flips through ledgers written in tight, slanted script. yunho skims a text bound in cracked leather, lips moving as he translates under his breath.

seonghwa stands by the long table, a thick book open in front of him.

swahili.

he rubs his thumb along the page, eyes scanning quickly.

“picked this one up in the late 1800s,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “when you and i were hiding near the coast.”

hongjoong snorts softly. “you mean when you insisted we ‘blend in’ by pretending to be married traders?”

“it worked,” seonghwa replies dryly, not looking up. “we learned the language. didn’t we?”

hongjoong’s mouth twitches despite himself. “we also almost got cursed by a sea spirit.”

“irrelevant.”

yunho huffs a quiet laugh, then sobers again.

the pages turn.

minutes stretch into hours.

no one says what they’re all thinking.

that san shouldn’t have to be doing this alone.
that he’s already lost too much.

that this feels cruel, even by cursed spirit standards.

hongjoong glances back at the couch.

san hasn’t moved.

his hand twitches once, fingers curling like he’s grasping for something that isn’t there.

hongjoong swallows.

“…there has to be something,” he mutters, flipping another page. “there’s always something.”

seonghwa’s eyes narrow suddenly.

he pauses.

reads the line again.

then again.

“…wait,” he says quietly.

yunho looks up immediately. hongjoong freezes.

seonghwa leans closer to the book, breath slowing, heart starting to pound—not hope yet, but something close to it.

“this section,” he murmurs. “it’s not about breaking a curse.”

hongjoong steps closer. “then what is it about?”

seonghwa lifts his gaze, eyes dark and thoughtful.

“about sharing one.”

seonghwa keeps reading.

the room is quiet except for the soft rustle of pages, the faint crackle of the lamp. san is still asleep on the couch, curled in on himself, completely unaware that his entire existence is being dissected a few feet away.

“okay,” seonghwa murmurs, eyes scanning slowly. “it explains the how next.”

hongjoong leans closer. yunho braces his hands on the table.

“‘the living vessel will not perish,’” seonghwa reads aloud, voice steady but strained. “‘the body ceases its decline once the bond is sealed.’”

yunho’s breath catches. “so… wooyoung wouldn’t keep getting sick.”

“no,” seonghwa confirms quietly. “the sickness would stop. immediately.”

hongjoong swallows. “but—”

seonghwa doesn’t look up. “keep listening.”

he turns the page.

“‘the living will remain as they are at the moment of binding,’” he continues.

“neither aging forward nor regressing backward.”

yunho frowns. “so he wouldn’t grow old.”

“…or recover to what he was before,” hongjoong adds softly.

seonghwa nods once.

“‘the living will walk the world as an echo of life,’” seonghwa reads. “‘able to touch, to speak, to love—yet no longer bound by the laws of time.’”

yunho lets out a slow breath. “that’s—”

“immortality,” hongjoong finishes flatly.

seonghwa’s jaw tightens.

“not the kind people want,” he says. “the kind they endure.”

he flips another page.

“‘the curse, once shared, may no longer be escaped by either party,’” he reads. “‘separation becomes injury. solitude becomes poison.’”

yunho stiffens. “so if one of them tries to leave—”

“it hurts both of them,” hongjoong says.

seonghwa nods. “or worse.”

hongjoong rubs a hand over his face. “does it say anything about… identity?”

seonghwa pauses.

reads.

his shoulders sag just a little.

“‘memory remains,’” he says quietly. “‘the self remains. but the soul changes shape.’”

yunho’s voice drops. “what kind of shape?”

seonghwa exhales.

“one that no longer belongs to the living,” he says. “or the dead.”

they all fall silent.

hongjoong glances toward san again—at the way his fingers curl unconsciously, like he’s holding onto something in his sleep.

“…he’d never agree to this,” hongjoong murmurs.

seonghwa closes the book slowly.

“no,” he says. “san would rather disappear than let wooyoung make that choice.”

yunho’s voice is barely audible. “but wooyoung?”

seonghwa looks up, eyes heavy.

“…wooyoung would do it without hesitating,” he says.

the truth hangs between them, unbearable and obvious.

hongjoong whispers, almost to himself, “and once it’s done… there’s no undoing it.”

seonghwa nods.

“it’s not a cure,” he repeats softly. “it’s a forever.”

on the couch, san stirs—just barely—brow furrowing, like some distant part of him feels the weight of what’s coming.

and none of them know yet how to stop it.

~

san stirs to the low murmur of voices.

he doesn’t open his eyes yet—just shifts slightly on the couch, brow knitting as words drift into him half-formed, heavy.

“…he would outlive his friends. his family.”

yunho’s voice. quiet. careful. like he’s afraid of being overheard by fate itself.

hongjoong sighs, long and tired. “i remember when i became immortal. i thought i was prepared. i really did.” a pause. “it took me fifty years to stop waking up angry that everyone else kept aging.”

seonghwa doesn’t look away from the book in his hands. “and that was with us. with support. with time.”

yunho rubs the back of his neck. “wooyoung’s seventeen. his whole life is… right now. school. friends. family dinners. growing up.” his jaw tightens. “this would rip him out of all of it.”

hongjoong nods slowly. “he wouldn’t just lose people. he’d have to watch them go. one by one. he wouldn’t age on his birthday anymore. he could graduate and go to college, but it wouldn’t matter. he would graduate the same way as he entered..”

a beat.

“and worse,” seonghwa adds quietly, “he won’t even get the mercy of distance.”

yunho frowns. “what do you mean?”

seonghwa taps the page gently. “the bond isn’t symbolic. it’s physical. spiritual. if they separate for too long—”

“—it hurts,” hongjoong finishes. “or destabilizes. worst case, it unravels both of them.”

yunho exhales sharply. “so they’d have to stay together. always.”

“inseparable,” seonghwa confirms. “same space. same anchor. no long goodbyes. no ‘i’ll see you later.’”

hongjoong winces. “that’s not even romance anymore. that’s confinement.”

yunho glances toward the couch, voice dropping even further. “san can handle that. he’s been alone for centuries. but wooyoung?” he shakes his head. “is he ready to give up privacy? independence? moving away from his family? a future that isn’t… shared?”

seonghwa closes the book at last, fingers lingering on the cover. “it would mean moving in. planning everything together. existing as a unit.”

hongjoong’s mouth twists. “and if they fight?”

yunho swallows. “they don’t get space.”

silence settles.

san’s breathing has slowed again, but his jaw is clenched now. he’s listening. all of it.

hongjoong looks at him, softer now. “san would never ask this of him.”

“no,” seonghwa agrees. “san would rather lose him again.”

yunho’s voice cracks just a little. “but wooyoung?”

seonghwa’s eyes darken with something like dread.

“…wooyoung would choose him anyway, but he’s also young. would he even understand what this means?”

on the couch, san’s fingers curl into the blanket.

then he inhales sharply and sits up.

“what are you guys talking about.”

the room stills like it’s been caught mid-breath.

seonghwa freezes with the book half-open in his hands, thumb marking the page. yunho straightens, guilt written all over his face. hongjoong exhales slowly, already bracing for impact.

“…you weren’t supposed to hear that yet,” yunho mutters.

san’s eyes flick between them, sharp and suddenly awake. “hear what.”

no one answers.

san swings his legs off the couch and stands his body sore from how he had fallen asleep, the blanket slipping to the floor.

“don’t do that,” he snaps, voice already tight. “don’t talk around me. just say it.”

seonghwa hesitates, then finally opens the book fully and turns it so they can all see the page.

“we found a binding,” he says quietly.

san’s stomach drops.

“not a release,” seonghwa continues carefully. “not a cure. there isn’t one. but this… this is a way cursed spirits stopped decay when nothing else worked.”

yunho steps closer, peering at the text. “it’s rare. usually only mentioned in old spirit books. most people didn’t survive long enough to try it.”

san swallows. “try what.”

hongjoong answers this time. “making the curse mutual.”

the words feel wrong in the air.

seonghwa nods. “the sickness transfers. not into nothing—but into permanence. the living soul stops aging normally. stops decaying. the spirit stops feeding on the living.”

san shakes his head slowly, like his body knows what his mind hasn’t caught up to yet. “you’re saying—”

“wooyoung would stop getting sick,” seonghwa says. “his body would stabilize.”

yunho adds, low, “and you wouldn’t need to switch forms anymore. you two could be together.”

san’s breath catches despite himself.

seonghwa doesn’t let that linger.

“but there’s a cost,” he says, voice firm. “he would no longer be fully human. he would be bound to you. distance would hurt him. separation could be fatal. the bond would demand proximity.”

hongjoong finishes it, blunt. “you’d be inseparable. like all the time.”

san’s hands start shaking.

“he would outlive his friends,” yunho murmurs, almost to himself. “his parents. kyungmin.”

hongjoong nods slowly. “i remember when it happened to me. the first fifty years were… unbearable.”

seonghwa looks at san. really looks at him. “he would choose immortality knowing exactly what it takes from him.”

san’s chest tightens violently.

“no,” he says immediately. “no. don’t even start.”

hongjoong opens his mouth, but san barrels on.

“whatever that is—whatever this is—it’s not happening. wooyoung is not getting dragged into a curse because of me.”

yunho winces. “san—”

“he’s human,” san says, voice rising, pacing now. “he has parents who love him. a little brother who cries when he gets sick. a future that doesn’t end in watching everyone die.”

seonghwa steps forward. “san—”

“this isn’t even a choice,” san snaps. “this is condemning him.”

hongjoong meets his eyes. “then what’s your plan.”

san falters.

hongjoong’s voice stays calm. deadly calm.

“because if it’s not this, then wooyoung gets better. he grows up. he moves on. and you—”

san’s throat closes.

“—you watch,” hongjoong finishes. “from the sidelines.”

san shakes his head. “i can leave. i can disappear—”

“you already tried that,” yunho says softly. “and it almost killed him. and you.”

san drags a hand down his face. “so i’m just supposed to let him ruin his entire existence for me?”

hongjoong steps closer. “you’re supposed to let him choose.”

san laughs bitterly. “choose eternity? isolation? watching everyone he loves die?”

hongjoong’s voice drops, quiet but devastating.

“or choose the opposite but without you.”

that lands like a punch to the chest.

san stares at the floor, jaw clenched so hard it hurts.

“…he’s seventeen,” he whispers. “he doesn’t understand what that means.”

seonghwa answers gently. “neither did you when you chose him. you were nineteen.”

silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

hongjoong exhales. “we’re not saying you should want this. we’re saying pretending it doesn’t exist won’t save him.”

san’s shoulders sag.

“…i can’t do this to him,” he whispers.

yunho murmurs, “but can you live watching him walk toward a life you can never share?”

san closes his eyes.

and for the first time since leaving wooyoung’s room, he doesn’t know which future hurts less.

~

it’s been a month since san last came to him in his dreams.

almost two months since wooyoung last saw him in person.

and somehow—unexpectedly—wooyoung is okay.

not numb. not hollow. not pretending.

okay.

he wakes up before his alarm, sunlight already spilling across his room, and instead of the usual heaviness, his body feels… light.

his chest doesn’t ache. his head doesn’t spin when he sits up. he swings his legs over the side of the bed and waits for the dizziness that used to follow.

it doesn’t come.

wooyoung blinks.

“…what the hell,” he murmurs.

he stands. steady.

walks to the bathroom. brushes his teeth without having to lean on the counter. catches his reflection—cheeks full again, eyes bright, color back in his face.

his heart stutters with disbelief.

he laughs. loud. startled by the sound of it.

“eomma!” he calls, voice echoing down the hall. “did you feed me something or am i just hot again?”

his mom laughs back from the kitchen, telling him to stop yelling so early in the morning.

kyungmin runs into his room anyway, launching himself at wooyoung’s legs.

wooyoung catches him easily.

no shaking. no weakness.

kyungmin squeals. “hyung! airplane!”

wooyoung lifts him without effort, spinning until both of them are dizzy and laughing.

his mom stops in the doorway, eyes sparkling with softness.

“…you look good,” she says softly.

wooyoung grins. “i feel good.”

and he does.

at school, it’s the same.

he talks too loud. laughs too much. annoys yeosang until yeosang threatens to shove him down the stairs. he eats two full lunches and still buys a snack on the way out. the world feels sharp again. vivid. alive.

after the final bell rings, wooyoung doesn’t hesitate.

he pulls out his phone and calls san.

it rings.

once. twice. three times.

no answer.

wooyoung doesn’t frown.

“yeah,” he mutters, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “figured.”

he turns toward the bus stop instead.

toward san’s house.

his heart pounds.

he doesn’t know what he’ll say yet. doesn’t know how san will look at him. doesn’t know if san will be angry or relieved or terrified.

but he knows one thing with absolute certainty now, standing there with the afternoon sun warm on his skin and strength humming in his bones—

he’s not waiting anymore.

he’s bringing san back.

~

the forest is eerily quiet.

wooyoung gets off the bus two stops past where he meant to, then keeps walking anyway. his phone has no signal. the road thins into dirt, then into nothing at all, just pine needles and damp earth under his shoes.

he should be confused.

yet he isn’t.

he doesn’t know how long he’s been walking when the trees begin to part. not abruptly. gently. like they’re making room for him.

and there it is.

the house.

calling it a cabin almost feels wrong. it’s small, yes—but not fragile. wood darkened with age and weather, beams curved instead of straight, like they were grown that way instead of cut.

moss climbs one side of the roof. wind chimes made of bone and glass hang from the porch, chiming softly though there’s barely a breeze.

it looks like something out of a story.

like somewhere fairies would live.

wooyoung stops at the edge of the clearing, heart thudding—not from fear, but recognition.

“…okay,” he murmurs. “…does he really live here?”

he has no idea how he found this place.

there was no address. no directions. no pin on a map.

he just… knew.

every turn felt right. every step pulled him closer. like following a thread he didn’t know he was holding.

his chest tightens. painfully. warmly.

san.

wooyoung steps forward, boots crunching softly on gravel that definitely wasn’t there a second ago.

the air feels thicker here, humming faintly, like the space itself is alive.

the porch creaks when he steps onto it.

he lifts his hand to knock—

and hesitates.

because suddenly, standing this close, he feels it. the weight.

the centuries pressed into the walls. the grief soaked into the wood. the loneliness that clings like smoke.

san has been here this whole time. waiting.

wooyoung exhales, steadying himself.

“i found you, fucker…” he whispers, not sure who he’s saying it to.

then he knocks.

the door opens almost immediately.

and wooyoung’s brain short-circuits.

the man in front of him is tall. broad-shouldered. handsome in a way that feels unfair, like someone carved him out of myth instead of flesh. dark hair, kind eyes, an expression that shifts from neutral to openly stunned the second he sees wooyoung.

they just stare at each other.

“…fuck,” wooyoung mutters. “did i mess up.”

he takes half a step back, glancing behind him at the trees like maybe they’ll offer an explanation. “sorry. i think this is the wrong place—”

“wooyoung?”

he freezes.

slowly, he looks back at the man.

“…do you know me?”

the man blinks, like he’s recalibrating. then he smiles—small, careful, not unkind.

“kind of,” he says.

that makes absolutely nothing better.

wooyoung swallows, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between them. the air feels thick here, heavier than it did outside. heavier than anywhere he’s ever been. it presses against his chest the same way san’s presence used to—comforting and overwhelming all at once.

his eyes flick past the man’s shoulder.

inside, the house looks… normal. lived-in. a couch. a table. shelves lined with books that look far too old to belong anywhere near a place like this.

it has to be right.

how else would this stranger know his name?

the man seems to read the question on his face.

“what can i do for you, wooyoung?”

wooyoung fidgets, fingers curling into the sleeves of his jacket. his heart thumps. he can feel the sweat on his palms from nerves.

“how do you know me?” he asks. “because i’m pretty sure i followed my gut here, but i’ve also been told i have zero survival skills.”

the man hums, thoughtful. “what are you looking for?”

wooyoung hesitates.

something in him twists. instinct screaming at him to be careful. that this place isn’t dangerous—but it isn’t neutral either.

he doesn’t know if he should trust this man.

so he doesn’t answer the question directly.

instead, he lifts his chin slightly and says the only thing that feels true.

“can i come in?”

the man raises an eyebrow. amused. curious.

“you want to come into a stranger’s house?” he asks lightly.

wooyoung exhales through his nose. “yeah.”

a beat.

then the man steps aside.

“okay.”

wooyoung walks past him before he can overthink it, heart pounding as he crosses the threshold.

the air shifts the second he’s inside—warm, humming, alive.

behind him, the door closes with a soft click.

the man chuckles.

“you’re bold,” he says.

wooyoung stops in the middle of the room, turning back to face him.

“you guys have something that’s mine,” he says plainly.

“…yeah,” he says softly. “we figured you’d come eventually.”

wooyoung’s stomach twists.

“what does that mean,” he asks, frowning. “and why does this place look like it’s been lived in for—”

“centuries?”

the voice comes from behind him.

wooyoung’s head snaps around.

the man who steps into view looks like he walked out of a painting and decided to stay. long dark hair pulled loosely over one shoulder, sharp features that somehow manage to be elegant and severe at the same time, eyes calm and ancient and far too observant.

also—unfairly handsome.

“i try my best with the decor,” the man adds dryly.

“…oh,” wooyoung breathes out, caught off guard. then, instinctively polite, “sorry, it’s not bad. it’s just—unusual?”

the man chuckles. “relax, wooyoung. i’m teasing.”

wooyoung scratches the back of his head, suddenly aware that he’s standing in the middle of a stranger’s house being calmly dissected by two men who feel wrong in a way he can’t quite explain.

his gaze flicks between them. “so you both get to know my name, but i don’t get to know yours?”

one of them laughs.

“he’s feisty,” the tall one murmurs.

the man tilts his head, studying him. “what good would it be giving a human our names?”

the word hits wrong.

human.

a chill runs down wooyoung’s spine.

“…what,” he says carefully. “what did you just say?”

yunho only chuckles, like wooyoung asked something amusing instead of terrifying. he turns and walks down the hallway, completely unconcerned.

wooyoung watches him go, heart pounding harder now.

“okay,” he mutters. “that’s not weird at all.”

the long-haired man gestures toward the couch. “sit.”

wooyoung doesn’t move.

“i’m not staying long,” he says quickly.

the man raises an eyebrow. “why’s that?”

wooyoung swallows, nerves crackling under his skin, but he holds his ground.

“because you have something,” he says. “or rather—someone—who’s mine.”

the man studies him, expression unreadable. not hostile. not surprised. something closer to… resignation.

“and who would that be?”

wooyoung meets his gaze.

the air feels heavy. charged. like the house itself is listening.

for a split second, doubt flickers.

then he exhales, steadying himself.

“san,” he says.

the name lands like a dropped plate.

somewhere deeper in the house, something shifts.

and wooyoung knows—absolutely, undeniably—

he found the right place.

they just stare at him.

wooyoung doesn’t blink.

his jaw sets, something hard and unmovable settling in his chest.

“where is he?” he asks again, voice steady despite the way his heart is starting to pound.

yunho and seonghwa exchange a look. not surprised. not panicked. something closer to worried.

when neither of them answers, wooyoung scoffs.

“whatever,” he mutters. “i’ll find him myself.”

and before either of them can stop him, he turns and walks deeper into the house.

the air changes immediately.

the floors are dark mahogany, polished but old, reflecting the dim grey light filtering in through tall windows. outside, the forest looms—overcast clouds hanging low, casting everything in a muted, colorless glow.

the hallway stretches out in front of him.

too long.

wooyoung slows.

“…okay,” he murmurs. “that’s new.”

he keeps walking.

door after door lines the hall, all identical. same wood. same handle. same faint hum in the air. he opens the first one—empty room. opens the second—another empty room. third. fourth.

with every door he opens, it feels like the hallway lengthens.

like the house is rearranging itself around him.

“are you fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

he opens another door. then another. then another.

by the twelfth, he groans, frustration boiling over.

“what the fuck is this.”

he exhales sharply—

and coughs.

it’s light at first. a tickle in his throat.

he coughs again, covering his mouth. “fucking dusty-ass place—”

he stops.

his eyes widen.

he hasn’t coughed like that in weeks.

his chest tightens.

“…no,” he whispers.

his breath comes a little faster now.

that means—

san.

he turns, suddenly frantic, pace quickening.

“san?” he calls, opening the next door. empty.

“sannie?” his voice cracks as he opens another. nothing.

the hallway feels longer now. heavier. the air thickens, pressing against his lungs.

he coughs again—harder this time.

his chest burns.

his head starts to spin.

“okay—okay,” he pants, one hand bracing against the wall. “he’s close. i can feel it.”

his vision blurs at the edges as he forces himself forward, opening doors faster now, not even checking inside them anymore.

cough.

his knees wobble.

another cough—sharp, painful.

his heart races, pounding too hard, too fast.

then—

he freezes.

at the very end of the hall, where there hadn’t been anything before, stands a door.

different.

darker.

older.

it doesn’t hum like the others. it pulls.

wooyoung’s breath catches.

“…there you are,” he whispers.

he breaks into a run.

with every step toward it, the air grows thicker, like smoke filling his lungs. his chest constricts. his throat burns. he coughs violently now, nearly choking, tears streaming down his face.

his vision spots.

he stumbles—but keeps going.

“san you fucker—” he pants, forehead pressing briefly to the door as his fingers fumble for the knob. “come out…”

his grip is weak. his hands feel wrong. heavy.

he pushes anyway.

the door swings open—

and his body gives out completely.

wooyoung goes down hard, the impact knocking the breath clean out of him as he hits the wooden floor. it feels like gravity triples all at once, like something unseen is pinning him there, pressing him

flat, stealing the last of his strength.

he tries to move.

can’t.

his chest barely rises. his ears ring.

“ha—” he wheezes, turning his head just enough to see the room.

it’s small.

warm.

dim.

a bed sits against the far wall—and on it, a cocoon of blankets, thick and tangled, like someone curled in on themselves and never meant to come out.

a familiar mess of black, spiky hair sticks out at the top.

wooyoung’s heart lurches.

“…s-san,” he manages, voice barely more than air.

the figure under the blankets freezes.

there’s no immediate movement.

just stillness.

san peeks out from beneath the covers, eyes wide, pupils blown like he’s staring at a ghost. his breath stutters, sharp and shallow, like he forgot how to use his lungs.

“…no,” he whispers.

he doesn’t get out of bed.

he doesn’t move toward him.

he just stares—terrified—like stepping closer might finish what the curse already started.

“no, no—” san breathes, shaking his head, fingers clutching the blanket to his chest. “you can’t—why are you here—”

wooyoung’s vision blurs, san’s face doubling, swimming.

still him.
still real.
still beautiful.

his lips curve, barely.

“i came back for you,” he breathes.

the words land.

san makes a sound that catches in his throat—half sob, half broken inhale.

“why,” he whispers. “why would you, why—”

but wooyoung is already slipping.

the weight presses harder now, like the house itself is dragging him down, pinning him to the floor. his chest barely rises. the room tilts. the ceiling stretches too far away.

his head turns slightly, knocking softly against the wood.

san finally moves—

not toward him.

away.

he recoils, pressing himself deeper into the bed, hands shaking violently as if touching wooyoung might steal the last of his breath.

“i’m sorry,” san whispers, tears spilling freely now. “i’m so sorry—”

wooyoung doesn’t hear it.

darkness rushes in, fast and complete.

the last thing wooyoung feels is the cold floor beneath him.

the last thing san sees is wooyoung’s body lying impossibly still on the wood—

and the terrifying silence where his breathing should be.

~

wooyoung wakes up somewhere that isn’t the floor.

or the cabin.

or his room.

it’s quiet. not empty—just suspended. like the world has paused mid-breath.

he’s sitting at a low wooden table, hands folded in his lap. the light is soft, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. it reminds him faintly of the old mountain house. not a memory—just the feeling of it.

“…hello?” he calls, voice echoing slightly.

someone clears their throat behind him.

wooyoung startles and twists around.

the man standing there is unfamiliar and yet deeply, unsettlingly familiar. long dark hair, sharp features softened by something kind. eyes that look like they’ve seen too much and learned how to carry it anyway.

“…you,” wooyoung says blankly. “what?”

the man offers a small, polite smile. “i was hoping you’d recognize me.”

wooyoung squints. “have we met?”

“not properly,” the man says. “i’m seonghwa.”

wooyoung’s brows knit together.

“…wait,” he says slowly. “seonghwa as in—”

“the guy you met earlier” seonghwa finishes gently. “yes.”

wooyoung exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “okay. great. fantastic. why are you in my dream and not san?”

seonghwa hesitates, then answers honestly. “because i got here first.”

that makes something sharp twist in wooyoung’s chest.

“…why?” he asks.

seonghwa gestures to the chair across from him. “sit. please.”

wooyoung doesn’t want to. every instinct in him says move, find san, wake up. but his body feels heavy, like it’s made of fog. so he sits.

seonghwa takes the seat across from him.

“san didn’t want you to hear this,” seonghwa says. “not from anyone. especially not from me.”

wooyoung’s jaw tightens. “then why are you telling me?”

“because,” seonghwa says softly, “you have the right to choose.”

the words hit harder than anything else so far.

choose.

wooyoung lets out a humorless laugh. “of course he didn’t tell me.”

seonghwa watches him carefully.

“he wanted to protect you,” seonghwa says. “he thought if he stayed away long enough, you’d forget him. move on. live.”

wooyoung’s chest tightens painfully.

“…he’s so stupid,” he whispers.

his voice cracks on the last word.

seonghwa doesn’t correct him. he just reaches out and squeezes wooyoung’s shoulder—steady, grounding.

“he loves you,” seonghwa says. “and love makes people do reckless things.”

wooyoung swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “so what is this. what choice.”

seonghwa exhales slowly.

“there is a binding,” he says. “a mutual curse.”

wooyoung lifts his head immediately. “mutual how.”

seonghwa doesn’t rush. he never does.

“right now,” he explains, “san exists between realms. when he stays too long in a human body, the curse looks for somewhere to discharge the damage.”

wooyoung’s stomach twists. “that’s me.”

seonghwa nods once. “you.”

wooyoung’s jaw tightens. “so the sickness—”

“isn’t illness,” seonghwa says gently. “it’s overflow.”

wooyoung swallows hard. “then the binding fixes that?”

“it changes where the cost goes,” seonghwa replies. “instead of one of you

bearing it alone, the curse completes itself.”

“completes?” wooyoung echoes.

“you would no longer be human in the way you are now,” seonghwa says. “and

san would no longer be half-tethered. you would exist on the same plane. the curse would stop searching for balance.”

wooyoung’s fingers dig into the edge of the table. “and my body?”

“it would stabilize,” seonghwa says. “no decay. no sickness.”

wooyoung lets out a shaky breath. “okay. that sounds—”

“but,” seonghwa cuts in softly.

wooyoung looks up.

“you would stop aging,” seonghwa continues. “you would outlive your parents. your brother. your friends.”

wooyoung’s chest tightens. “i—”

“and you would be bound to san,” seonghwa says. “distance would become dangerous. separation prolonged beyond what the curse allows would harm you both.”

wooyoung’s voice is barely there. “so we couldn’t… live apart.”

“no,” seonghwa says. “your lives would have to move together.”

wooyoung stares at the floor, breathing uneven.

“…would i still be me?” he asks.

seonghwa’s gaze softens. “yes. painfully so.”

that hurts more than anything else.

“and if i choose this,” wooyoung says slowly, “i don’t get to undo it.”

seonghwa shakes his head. “no.”

wooyoung’s heart stutters.

“and if i don’t want that?”

seonghwa meets his eyes, expression gentle but unflinching.

“then you need to tell me.”

wooyoung’s breath catches. “why.”

“because you’re unconscious right now,” seonghwa says quietly. “your body is unstable. the proximity to san pulled you deeper than it should have.”

wooyoung’s fingers curl into his palms.

“…how much time do i have.”

seonghwa’s mouth tightens.

“not much,” he admits. “the sooner a decision is made, the sooner you’ll wake up.”

wooyoung’s voice drops to a whisper. “and if i don’t decide?”

seonghwa’s eyes soften with something like grief.

“i don’t know when—or if—you’ll wake up.”

panic flares, sharp and cold.

“what?” wooyoung breathes. “then—then what if i say no? what happens?”

seonghwa doesn’t hesitate.

“then i go back into the real world,” he says. “i take you away from san. i put distance between you. i get you medical help.”

wooyoung’s heart drops into his stomach.

“away from him?” he whispers.

“yes.”

the silence stretches.

wooyoung stares down at his hands, trembling.

“…and san doesn’t know you’re telling me this,” he says.

seonghwa shakes his head. “no.”

wooyoung laughs weakly. “figures.”

he presses his palms to his face, dragging them down slowly as he tries to

breathe.

love.

choice.

distance.

forever.

“…okay,” he says finally, voice shaking but clear. “okay. i hear you.”

seonghwa nods. “take your time. but not too much.”

wooyoung looks up at him, eyes glossy.

“…can i see san?”

seonghwa hesitates.

then he stands and offers his hand.

“you will,” he says. “after you decide.”

and as the world around them begins to blur and fade, wooyoung realizes something terrifying and true—

this isn’t about saving san.

it never was.

it’s about what he’s willing to give up
to stop losing him.

wooyoung’s breath comes shallow, uneven. he drags a hand through his hair, pacing like an animal trapped in too small a space.

“this is fucked,” he mutters. “this is so fucked.”

seonghwa stays silent.

that somehow makes it worse.

“you’re talking about forever,” wooyoung says, turning sharply. “do you understand how long that is? do you understand what you’re asking me to give up?”

he gestures wildly, like the whole world is standing just outside his reach.

“i like waking up late and running to school half-asleep. i like complaining about homework. i like arguing with my dad about stupid shit. i like my mom yelling at me to eat more.”

his voice cracks.

“i like being normal.”

he stops pacing, hands trembling.

“i like knowing how my life is supposed to go,” he admits quietly. “even if it’s boring. even if it’s messy. at least it makes sense.”

his shoulders sag.

“this doesn’t.”

he laughs again, hollow. “you’re asking me to become something i don’t even understand. to live through centuries i didn’t ask for. to watch people die over and over.”

his throat tightens painfully.

“i don’t want to outlive my parents,” he whispers. “i don’t want to watch kyungmin grow up and then… just keep going without him.”

he swallows hard.

“i don’t want to be the only one left.”

the words echo, heavy.

he rubs at his arms like he’s cold.

“and what if i hate it?” he blurts. “what if i wake up in fifty years and realize i

ruined my life for something i didn’t even choose freely?”

his voice rises, desperate now.

“what if i resent san? what if i resent myself?”

his breathing speeds up.

“what if i look at him one day and think—this is your fault.”

the thought terrifies him.

he shakes his head violently, like he can shake it loose.

“no,” he says again, more firmly this time. “i can’t do that to him. i can’t trap him with someone who might grow to hate him.”

he presses his hands to his chest, feeling his heart hammer.

“loving someone shouldn’t cost this much.”

the silence presses in.

seonghwa finally speaks, gentle but steady.

“loving him already does.”

wooyoung flinches.

he turns away, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

“i know,” he snaps. then, softer: “that’s the problem.”

he sinks down onto the floor slowly, back against nothing, staring at his hands.

they’re shaking.

“if i choose him,” he says, barely audible, “i lose everyone else.”

he squeezes his eyes shut.

“and if i don’t…”

he can’t finish the sentence.

because even without saying san’s name—

his chest aches.

even now.

even here.

and wooyoung hates that part of himself most of all.

he wipes angrily at his eyes.

“i should choose my life,” he whispers, like he’s trying to convince himself. “that’s the right answer. that’s what a normal person would do.”

he nods once. twice.

“i should choose the people who raised me. the future that hasn’t even happened yet.”

his voice wavers.

“…i should.”

but the words don’t settle.

they don’t bring relief.

they just sit there—heavy, hollow, wrong.

wooyoung curls in on himself slightly, arms wrapped around his knees.

and for a long, terrible moment, it feels like no matter what he chooses—

he’s going to lose something he can never get back.

and then—

san.

not the curse.
not eternity.
not the choice.

just him.

it starts stupidly.

wooyoung thinks of the internet café.

of san standing there like he doesn’t belong in this century at all, sleeves pulled over his hands, pretending not to watch wooyoung play while very obviously watching him play. the way he left snacks behind without saying anything. the way wooyoung had pretended not to notice, heart thudding stupidly anyway.

his chest tightens.

he thinks of san on the couch, late at night, the glow of the tv painting his face in soft blues and golds. san’s shoulder warm under his cheek. their fingers tangled under the blanket like it was a secret they were keeping from the world.

he thinks of san whispering wooyoungie like it’s something sacred.

his throat burns.

he thinks of the first kiss.

of san asking.
waiting.
letting him choose.

letting him lead.

wooyoung’s breath hitches.

he thinks of being sick—really sick—of san holding him when he was shaking, wiping his face when he couldn’t stop crying, apologizing over and over like the pain was his fault.

you’re so small now.

the memory hits like a punch.

wooyoung’s hands curl into his sleeves.

he thinks of san leaving.

of the way his voice broke.
of the way he still said i love you without saying it.

of waking up alone.

of how every morning after felt like surviving something instead of living.

his eyes sting.

“fuck,” wooyoung whispers.

he presses his hand to his chest, like he can hold his heart still.

this is stupid.
this is emotional.
this is exactly why people make bad decisions.

he should choose his family.
he should choose time.
he should choose a life that makes sense.

and yet—

the thought of never touching san again makes something inside him collapse.

not dramatic.

not loud.

just gone.

he realizes, suddenly, with terrifying clarity—

he already tried a world without san.

it was called getting better.

he swallows hard.

“i wouldn’t be giving everything up,” he whispers, barely audible.

seonghwa looks at him.

wooyoung’s voice trembles, but his thoughts are racing now.

“i wouldn’t lose my family tomorrow. or next year. or even ten years from now.”

he looks down at his hands.

“i’d still live. still grow up. still laugh and fuck up and do normal things.”

his breath stutters.

“i’d just… stop at some point.”

the idea settles differently now.

not like a cliff.

like a horizon.

“everyone dies,” he murmurs. “everyone gets left behind eventually.”

his eyes fill before he realizes he’s crying.

“but san already did.”

the tears spill over now, fast and uncontained.

“he already lived through losing me. through centuries of it. alone.”

he scrubs at his face angrily. “why is it okay for him to suffer forever, but not me?”

seonghwa doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t need to.

wooyoung’s voice breaks completely.

“i don’t want to be brave,” he sobs. “i don’t want to do the noble thing. i don’t want to be remembered fondly while he’s still here hurting.”

his shoulders shake.

“i want him.”

the words come out raw. unfiltered. undeniable.

he laughs weakly through his tears. “i want to live my stupid human life with him. and when it ends—when it actually ends—i want to still reach for him and have him there.”

he wipes his eyes, breathing hard.

“that’s not throwing my life away,” he whispers. “that’s just… choosing who i spend it with.”

he looks up at seonghwa, eyes red, jaw set.

“i’m not choosing san instead of everyone else,” he says. “i’m choosing san

alongside them.”

his voice steadies.

“and when the time comes—when i’ve lived enough—i won’t be afraid to stay.”

seonghwa studies him for a long moment.

then, quietly:

“…you understand what this means.”

wooyoung nods, tears still slipping free.

“yeah,” he says hoarsely. “it means i’ll lose people. it means it’ll hurt.”

he inhales shakily.

“but it also means i won’t lose him again.”

he presses a hand to his chest.

“and i already know what that feels like.”

he looks up.

“i won’t survive it twice.”

silence hangs heavy.

then wooyoung whispers the words that seal everything—

“…let me see him.”

~

he wakes up to warmth.

not the abstract kind. not the dream-kind.

real.

a hand wrapped tight around his, fingers trembling like they’re holding onto something sacred. breath nearby—uneven, broken, trying too hard to stay quiet.

wooyoung blinks.

his vision swims, then settles.

san is there.

kneeling beside the bed, hunched forward like he’s been praying. both hands clutching wooyoung’s, knuckles white, like letting go would undo everything.

tears slip freely down his face, dripping onto the sheets, onto wooyoung’s wrist.

san doesn’t even realize he’s crying.

he’s staring at wooyoung like he’s afraid to blink.

wooyoung swallows.

“…san,” he whispers.

it’s barely a sound.

but san hears it.

his breath catches so hard it almost hurts to listen to.

“—fuck,” san chokes, voice breaking on the word. “fuck—”

his grip tightens for half a second before panic hits.

“you’re awake,” he says, rushing all at once. “i—i shouldn’t—i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to hold you like that, i just—”

he starts to pull back.

wooyoung panics.

his fingers curl weakly but desperately around san’s sleeve.

“don’t,” he murmurs. “don’t move.”

san freezes instantly.

slowly—so slowly—it’s like he’s afraid of shattering glass, he looks back up.

their eyes meet.

san’s are red. swollen. wrecked.

wooyoung’s chest aches at the sight.

“you’re really here,” wooyoung whispers.

san nods once, sharp and broken. “i am. i’m here.”

wooyoung exhales, a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding.

then, with what little strength he has, he tugs san forward.

san gasps softly, startled—

and wooyoung kisses him.

their noses bump. wooyoung’s lips tremble.

but it’s everything.

weeks of fear, of abandonment, of missing him so badly it felt like dying—all of it pours into that kiss. it’s clumsy and desperate and unbearably tender.

san makes a sound against his mouth that isn’t quite a sob, isn’t quite a laugh, and then he’s kissing wooyoung back like he’s been starving. like he’s afraid this is a hallucination that will disappear if he doesn’t hold it hard enough.

san’s hands frame wooyoung’s face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, his jaw, like he’s memorizing him again.

when wooyoung pulls back, they’re both breathing hard.

san presses his forehead to wooyoung’s, eyes squeezed shut.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers. “i’m so fucking sorry.”

wooyoung’s hands slide into san’s hair, holding him there.

“you should be,” he says quietly.

san nods immediately, like he doesn’t deserve to argue. like he’s already accepted the blame.

wooyoung swallows, chest tight.

“how could you not let me choose?” he asks, voice breaking just slightly.

san goes still.

“…you know,” he says.

wooyoung nods. “seonghwa told me.”

san’s shoulders sag like the fight drains out of him completely.

“i was scared,” he admits, voice raw. “i didn’t want to be the reason you gave everything up.”

wooyoung lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a sob halfway through.

“you idiot,” he whispers, pulling san into his chest. “you already were.”

san buries his face into wooyoung’s shoulder, holding him like he’s afraid he’ll vanish again.

“i thought losing me would hurt less,” san confesses. “than losing your whole

life.”

wooyoung closes his eyes.

“you don’t get to decide what hurts me less,” he says softly. “not anymore.”

san nods against him. “okay.”

wooyoung pulls back just enough to look at him.

really look.

this man who waited lifetimes.

who loved him enough to walk away.

who broke himself trying not to break wooyoung.

really look.

this man who waited lifetimes.

who loved him enough to walk away.
who broke himself trying not to break wooyoung.

wooyoung’s chest aches with it.

“i chose you,” he says quietly. “not because i didn’t think about it.”

san’s head lifts sharply, eyes searching his face like he’s terrified of what comes next.

wooyoung swallows, steadies himself.

“because i did.”

the words land heavy.

san’s breath stutters. tears spill over immediately, like his body gives up pretending he can hold them back.

“youngie—” his voice cracks. “no, no, you don’t—”

wooyoung cups his face before san can spiral, thumbs brushing away the tears

san keeps trying to blink away.

“i’m not leaving you again,” he murmurs. “and you’re not leaving me.”

san shakes his head weakly, disbelief written into every line of his face.

“you don’t understand what you’re saying,” he whispers. “you’re seventeen. this is—this is forever. this is watching everyone you love—”

“i know,” wooyoung says gently.

san freezes.

“…you know?”

wooyoung nods. “i thought about my parents. kyungmin. my friends. school. getting older. getting married. growing up.”

his throat tightens, but he keeps going.

“i thought about watching them age while i don’t. about funerals. about loneliness. about how unfair it is.”

san’s hands tremble where they rest on the bed. “then why,” he begs. “why would you still—”

“because i also thought about a life without you,” wooyoung says.

the room goes quiet.

“i tried it,” he continues softly. “even just for a month. and i was healthy again,

yeah. i was eating. laughing. holding kyungmin. doing everything right.”

he laughs weakly. “and i was empty.”

san’s lips part. no sound comes out.

“you asked me what if i regret it,” wooyoung says, meeting san’s eyes fully now.

“and yeah. maybe i will. maybe there will be days where it hurts so bad i hate the choice i made.”

san shakes his head frantically. “that’s exactly why—”

“but what’s life without regrets?” wooyoung interrupts gently. “what’s a future worth if i spend it missing you every single day?”

san looks wrecked.

“what if you hate it,” he whispers. “what if one day you wake up and you hate me for this?”

wooyoung leans forward, forehead pressing to san’s.

“then i’ll hate you,” he says honestly. “and i’ll still love you. both things can exist.”

san lets out a broken sound, something between a laugh and a sob.

“you’re not supposed to say that,” he whispers. “you’re supposed to say you’ll never hate me.”

wooyoung smiles sadly. “that would be a lie.”

san’s breath shakes. “i spent centuries watching people ruin themselves for love,” he says quietly. “i promised i’d never let you do that.”

wooyoung tilts his head, eyes soft but unwavering. “and i spent a month

learning what it feels like to live without you.”

san flinches.

“you think immortality scares me?” wooyoung continues. “it does. it terrifies me. but losing you scared me more.”

san shakes his head, hands tightening in wooyoung’s shirt. “you don’t know

what forever actually feels like.”

wooyoung’s voice drops. “then you’ll teach me.”

silence stretches between them, thick and trembling.

“what if you wake up one day and wish you’d chosen differently,” san asks.

“what if you look at me and all you see is the reason your life stopped moving forward?”

wooyoung breathes out slowly.

“then i’ll tell you,” he says. “and we’ll deal with it. together. like people who actually love each other.”

san stares at him like he’s seeing something holy.

“…you’re really not scared of me,” san whispers.

wooyoung shakes his head. “i’m scared of a life where you’re just a memory.”

san’s composure finally shatters completely.

he pulls wooyoung into him again, clutching him like the decision might slip through his fingers if he lets go.

“i waited so long,” san cries. “i waited and waited and i never thought—”

wooyoung presses a kiss to his temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

“i know,” he murmurs. “and i’m here now.”

san lifts his face, eyes red, searching. “say it again.”

wooyoung smiles, soft and sure.

“i choose you.”

something in san finally, finally settles.

not the curse. not the pain. not the fear.

just this.

two souls standing in the aftermath of everything they survived, choosing to stay anyway.

san presses his forehead to wooyoung’s, breathing him in like an anchor.

“…okay,” he whispers. “then we’ll do this together.”

wooyoung nods. “together.”

outside, the forest hums—low, constant, indifferent.

it has watched this happen before. people choosing wrong things for the right

reasons. people choosing each other anyway.

inside, the air shifts.

not warm. not soft.

just… settled.

like something finally clicked into place after being pulled too tight for too long.

there’s no flash. no rush of power. no sense of triumph.

just a slow, almost imperceptible tightening—threads drawn between two souls that have already learned how to break.

san feels it first. a pressure easing in his chest, where the curse used to burn

and rot and fester. the pain doesn’t vanish—it dulls, spreads, becomes shared. manageable in a way it never was alone.

wooyoung exhales like his body has been holding its breath for months.

his knees almost buckle.

san catches him instinctively, hands firm, grounding.

their fingers are still tangled together.

neither of them moves to separate.

because this time, nothing is pulling them apart.

this time, it was chosen.

not immortality without loss.

not love without consequence.

just this.

a life that keeps going.
a future that will hurt.
a bond that won’t loosen just because it should.

two souls bound not by punishment—

but by refusal.

to walk away and forget.

to pretend this didn’t matter.

san presses a kiss to wooyoung’s knuckles, careful. steady.

“we’ll figure it out,” he says. not hopeful. not certain. just honest. “day by day.”

wooyoung nods—

and then it hits him.

hard.

his breath stutters. his shoulders start to shake. he folds forward, forehead pressing into san’s chest as the weight crashes down all at once.

“fuck,” he sobs. “fuck—i really—i really did that.”

san tightens his hold.

wooyoung cries like he hasn’t let himself cry yet. deep, ugly, shaking sobs.

“my parents,” he gasps. “kyungmin—my friends—i’m going to watch them—”

san doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t correct him. just holds him.

“I know,” he murmurs into wooyoung’s hair. “i know.”

wooyoung clutches him tighter. “i’m scared.”

“I know.”

“i don’t want to be alone.”

san presses his forehead to wooyoung’s, voice steady even as his eyes burn.

“you’re not,” he says. “not anymore. not ever again.”

outside, the forest keeps humming.

inside, two cursed souls sit with the consequences of what they chose.

not free.

not saved.

but together.

and this time—

that’s enough.