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For the first few days, nobody requires anything from any of them. With Chan and Felix still attached at the hip and like Changbin disoriented by the novelty of being themselves again, people’s attention is elsewhere and Jisung is allowed to have the proximity he has yearned for for a hundred years.
Not even Minho is trying to make him keep a distance. On the contrary; it’s like his mate has yearned for their togetherness as much as he has. That’s impossible, of course. Minho is quiet, composed, in control. Definitely not the volcano of emotions ready to erupt every second of every day that Jisung has been.
Minho was a drágan.
Jisung was alone.
So he deserves to be clingy. He deserves to stick his face into Minho’s neck the second they’re alone and shove his hands under Minho’s shirt and just never really intend to let go ever again.
He deserves, too, to be able to kiss his mate until they’re breathless, just to wait until their breathing evens out again before doing it all over again. Minho’s lips are more well-kissed than they’ve ever been, and his own feel a bit raw and sensitive as well but he doesn’t care. He deserves another kiss, and another, and as many kisses as he can get.
He deserves, too, to wrap his limbs around Minho’s frame and snuggle up as close as he can get when they finally make it to the bed, just experiencing their proximity to the fullest, letting his hands roam over Minho’s stomach and chest, pushing up his shirt more and more and more until eventually he takes it off his mate’s body entirely, tossing it aside carelessly.
Minho laughs with him a little, maybe, but that’s fine. He missed Minho’s laughter as well. He missed the judging intake of breath when he does something silly. He missed the hand settled in the back of his neck as he kisses Minho. He missed the little smiles and the big ones, and the longsuffering sighs when he does something his mate pretends not to like yet never stops him from doing.
The touch doesn’t feel sufficient. His hands aren’t close enough. Never close enough. He wants to hug Minho so close to his chest that he sinks inside of him. He wants to kiss until his lips are burning with it. He wants, he wants, he wants.
Minho’s hands move to cup his face.
“Jisung.”
He pauses only briefly, only because the sound of his name being called in that soft voice is something else he missed and he glances up to see if it will happen again. Minho’s gaze is soft, that look just for him, fingers cradling his face, thumb brushing over his cheek.
“You’re going to hurt yourself, fheall,” he’s told softly, Minho leaning in to rest their foreheads together. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay.”
He feels himself grow warm from the nickname, that undeniable proof that Minho is his mate, that they are destined to be together. Fated. That there could be no one else now for him other than the consort, and no one other than him for the consort.
He is still restless. Shifting, touching, trying to tilt his head to kiss his mate again, even though the hands are still on his face. He’s not stopped, not really, but Minho pulls away before he can get his fill.
Then again, he doesn’t know if he could ever get his fill. The pit inside of him is a gaping hole. The need to touch inside of him is insatiable. It will never be enough. There are a hundred years to span. There are a million things he missed out on.
“Jisung. Settle down, mo grá.”
“Why? ”
The sudden venom in his voice seems to startle Minho, who is still holding on to his face, but whose thumb temporarily pauses, and no more gentle stroking happens for a moment. Then the touch resumes, and some of the fight drains out of him again with every time Minho’s thumb touches his skin, brushes down his face. Soothing. Reassuring. Gentle.
He forgot how Minho has always been gentle with him. He forgot how soothing the sound of his mate’s voice could be. His closeness. His presence.
At some point in the past century, he realises now that he hears it properly again, he forgot what Minho’s voice sounded like altogether.
“Talk to me,” Minho says, and he huffs almost instantly.
“I did,” he counters. Accuses. Bites. He’s got a century of pent up hurt and no one to blame it on but the male currently running gentle fingertips over his scalp, down the back of his neck, pushing all the pressure points that make his skin tingle and his body relax despite how tense and restless he continues to feel. “I talked to you for a hundred years. Did you even hear any of it?”
“Not that,” Minho says, unruffled, steady. “Right here, right now. Talk to me.”
He tries. He tries to find the words to put to all the feelings in his chest, but he can’t. He doesn’t have the focus to string a sentence together. All he wants is to press as close as he can get, to convince himself this is real, this is true, and it won’t be taken from him again.
“No,” is what he says in the end. Defiant. Or defeated. Either way, Minho’s fingers find a spot halfway down his spine and press down hard. The pain is intense, the relief right after instant. He pulls away, rolls over and out of reach, gets up from the bed.
“Jisung.”
“I don’t want to talk, curse you! There are no words! Who are you of all people to ask them of me?”
“I am your mate, mo grá, and I am asking you to find your words because you’re not yourself right now.”
He paces. Left, right, left, right. Minho slowly sits up in the bed, and then moves out of it to come to him. He evades the first attempt at taking hold of him, but he can’t help melting into the second, Minho’s hands closing around his wrists, pulling him closer.
“Jisung ca’r Ilsung h’wa Yejun,” Minho says softly, and there are a hundred years of missing that have changed the rhythm of his true name, but Minho doesn’t get even the slightest hint of it wrong. It fills him with warmth, with reassurance, it maybe even narrows the gaping hole inside of him just a little. Just a smidge. Just an infinitesimal tiny bit.
“What?”
He turns his head so he can rest his forehead against Minho’s chest. He bites his lip, he lowers his defences. The power of his true name hangs over him like a threatening cloud. Minho could ask anything, could tell him to do everything. He gave his mate that power long ago, long before he ever could have imagined any of this. He still doesn’t regret it.
“I love you. I am here. I am not going anywhere.” A pause. Minho’s lips gently landing in his hair. Minho’s hands squeezing his wrists lightly. “Believe me.”
It’s not an order. He’s given a choice.
The anger sizzles out like the last ember cooling, his body starts to tremble. Minho’s hands let go of his wrists so that those arms can wrap around him, draw him in, protect him. He grows quiet and still. The restlessness stills as well.
“I missed you,” he says; tries for this male who has always tried for him as well. “I missed you so much it feels like nothing we do could ever be enough. Not close enough, not real enough, not enough to bridge the hundred years in which I was alone. I was alone, Minho. I was alone and you weren’t there and now you are but it’s not enough. I want it to be enough but it’s not.”
His throat burns. His eyes are burning. The tears running down his cheeks are frustration, hot on his skin. Minho’s fingers brush them away.
He hits his mate’s chest with the bottom of his fist.
“You chose a drake over me, curse you!”
“Jisung.”
Minho is not angry, not violent, not annoyed or upset. Minho is gentle as ever, his voice is warm as ever, the hands drawing him in closer are soft and warm and endlessly familiar.
“What?”
“You always knew you could call me back. Any time, anywhere. You could have called my name and I would have listened to you. You didn’t. You let me stay. You could not do to the drake what was done to you, you could not take her mother.”
Minho’s fingers run through his hair, over his shoulders, down his arms, take hold of his hands and squeeze them.
“You are stronger than anyone I’ve ever met, fheall. When you faced the northern terror, you came out unscathed. You chose to live a hundred years alone to help a drágan stay alive. For sixty years you spoke to me and I heard you and I knew, but you had nothing. No reassurance, no certainty, nothing but determination and hope.”
He swallows. Minho’s hands cup his face again, Minho’s thumb brushes over his cheek again.
“I’m so sorry, Jisung. And I am here. I’m right here. You can stop aiming for survival now. You made it. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I love you.”
In a perfect world, maybe he cracks, maybe he collapses into his mate’s arms and cries out all the bitterness, all the pent up frustration, loneliness and despair. But then; in a perfect world, none of that would have been there to begin with.
In this world, the emotions stay lodged right in his chest, and he brings up his hands to grab hold of his mate’s hair, to pull him in, to kiss him hard. Minho doesn’t resist anymore. The arms come around him and squeeze him close, so tightly it almost hurts, but he revels in it, in how real it makes everything feel.
He rakes his fingers down Minho's chest, leaving angry red welts behind from the scraping of his nails, but his mate doesn't resist against that either. They kiss and kiss, barely pulling apart to breathe before they move back together, as if the kisses are the only thing sustaining them.
He only realises he put them into motion when the back of his legs hit the bed, and then he's pulling Minho down on it again. Atop him at first before he rolls them over so he can shove Minho down against the mattress, hands curling into fists where they're on his mate's arms. There is no resistance, no sounds of pain, no hesitation. Minho kisses him back with as much conviction as ever, and so he doesn't let off.
"Jisung."
It's a sigh more than a sound, his mate's hands reaching for him without being able to touch, because he's still keeping them pinned down to the mattress.
He leans in, spacing kisses out against the column of Minho's neck before biting down hard on his shoulder. It elicits a growl from his mate, a very wild sound that is silenced when he kisses him again. There's teeth nipping at his lips then, retaliation perhaps, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't care. At least there is something to feel, something to counteract that gaping hole in his chest.
Minho suddenly wrestles his arms free, hands moving over his arms before going down so they can take hold of his shirt. Up and off it goes, and he briefly lifts his arms to make that possible. Before he can lean right back in there's hands taking care of his pants too, discarding his clothes and his mate's clothes until the only fabric they're sharing are the sheets tangled around them.
Fingers run over his skin, nails scrape down his back until he's shivering with the feeling of them, until he's making little sounds against Minho's collarbone, in between the kisses he leaves there.
"Jisung," Minho repeats again, the rhythm of his name like a caress down his back. He grunts some sort of reply, but he doesn't want to speak. He doesn't want any words to take this from him and turn it into something it's not.
Minho's hands are warm on his skin, his mate's lips leaving traces of hot fire near his own collarbone, up the side of his neck. He barely misses the way those teeth nip at his skin due to the hand that suddenly takes hold of him, squeezing him, stroking him. He lets out a sound that must be wildness itself, or maybe it's desire, or maybe it's the satisfaction of a predator capturing its prey. Minho doesn't seem to care much either way, his hand continuing to move expertly while Jisung's hips mirror the motions of their own accord.
He's panting before long, breathing hard and holding on to those broad shoulders just to not lose himself in the feeling of it all. He wants this to last forever, wants to rut into Minho's hand and feel the desire build, feel his body bundle up as he loses himself in a mixture of desire and delight.
"Minho," he cries at a particularly good feeling, and there's sharp teeth biting at his neck, a hand cupping his head before they start kissing again, then moving down over his back and settling on his butt, pulling him closer.
He moves a hand down as well, to return the favour even as he's still steadily on his way to the clouds. Minho's response is instant as well, their hips moving together, their bodies slowly synchronising to the rhythm of their moving hands and the both of them chasing that high. He feels closer than he's ever done before. He feels more unreal than he's ever done before. Minho's panting next to his ear but it's fine. It's more than fine. He's alive and burning with it. He's not alone and there is nothing in the world that could get between them now.
"Jisung," Minho pants next to his ear. A soft whimper follows, like his mate is trying to hold out but reaching his limit. Jisung only moves his hand faster, grinds his hips closer, shifts to capture those lips in another open-mouthed kiss, sloppier than any before but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the thrill of this, the heat of this, the way he's feeling.
There's a moan, then, Minho coming undone beneath him, setting him right on the path to that very same direction. Another moan, Minho's hips pushing into his hand, Minho's free hand tugging on his hair, trying to bring him even closer. He feels the body beneath him stutter, tense, Minho's hand settling in the back of his neck, squeezing it. Minho's voice panting his name. The tension settles all wrapped up inside of him, in his gut, building and building. The bed is suffering their movements, but it's okay because no one else will hear anyway.
"Ji… sung… Ah…"
Minho's breath hitches. His own breath hitches. There is an ocean between him and the shore. There is less than a hand's width between his chest and that of his mate.
He shudders first, his hand stilling as he focuses on nothing but moving his hips into that solid hold, feeling Minho do the same thing, feeling the delight he is certain his mate must be feeling as well, wanting nothing more than to kiss but unable to find the energy or breath for it. When the wave crashes over him, it seems to hit them both at the same time, Minho's arm coming around his shoulders and leaving him no chance to pull away. He doesn't even try. Their bodies move out of instinct and feeling alone, until they finally settle.
In the aftermath, he lies atop his mate's chest, completely spent. Sticky. Sweaty. Empty. They're just breathing together for a while then, coming down from whatever high had taken them. He is more than happy to let his brain clock out and his heavy body relax. When darkness takes him, it's a relief, and he goes willingly.
-
He wakes slowly, wrapped up in warmth and arms, with his nose pressed against his mate's neck. He inhales automatically, the scent of soap and clean. It's almost too impersonal, because after a hundred years he can't recall what Minho's supposed to smell like, except that it's not this. This is northern soap, northern sheets, northern everything. Minho is from the west through and through. Has always been from the west.
He lets himself roll away and onto his back, moving up a little to look around the room. They're still in the same one, the one that was given to him to use on his visit this time. He gets the same one most visits, because it's far removed from the main part of the northern stronghold.
The sheets are soft against his bare skin, which is no longer sticky as he runs a hand over his abdomen. He smells like soap, too, which means he's been moved, washed and tucked back into bed without stirring even once. Something only his mate could do, because that's the only one he'd instinctively feel safe enough with not to wake up. Even now, even after a hundred years.
Only now does he realise fully how much time humans must think that is. A lifetime. Everything starts and ends within that timespan. Minho left and returned.
"Awake?"
Minho's voice is soft beside him and he turns his head to look. He's given an almost sleepy smile, before his mate reaches out a hand to cup his cheek, to run a thumb over his skin. There's bruises on Minho's arms and he instantly reaches out to pull down the sheets a little, revealing the scratches on his mate's chest. Minho's gaze never leaves his face, like he doesn't need to look to know what Jisung is focused on.
"It's fine," he's told softly. "I'm okay."
There's nothing he can do but move back in, slipping an arm around Minho's middle, pressing his lips to the angry scratches on that usually unmarred chest as gently as he possibly can.
"Why didn't you heal yourself?"
"I didn't know if you wanted me to."
He frowns, running a finger carefully over the marred skin as he looks up at Minho's face. There's no anger there, no accusation, nothing but that soft, gentle warmth.
"If you want me to hurt like you did to make it better, I will," Minho explains without him having to ask, and it's such a ridiculous notion, but some other part of him settles because of it. Like he's not alone. Like he's being understood.
"Heal yourself," he says within the next breath, moving his hand so that it rests on his mate's shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous."
It's just a few words, falling from Minho's lips so easily, so smoothly, the natural energy rising around them and seeping into the consort's skin, healing away the signs of his complete lack of control. He will remember them for as long as he lives, regardless.
"How are you feeling?" Minho asks, fingers running through his hair, scratching his scalp gently. He gives in and rests his head down on his mate's chest, closing his eyes.
"Unhinged."
There's a soft kiss pressed into his hair.
"Come here," Minho says, and whatever comment he could have made about already being there is lost when Minho rearranges them, pulling him further on top, shifting until his head rests right atop his mate's heart, the beating of it steady and loud under his ear. He closes his eyes. He allows it to soothe him in a way that nothing else has done so far.
Minho's hands run over his body, stroking, just stroking. The warmth from those palms soothes his tired muscles and after a while those fingers deftly find the spots where he's most tense, digging into them and massaging the tension out of him. Little by little his body relaxes further into his mate's frame, until he feels like he might have melted into Minho's chest entirely.
When he realises it, something else inside of him shifts, clicks into place. Some other wild part of him is soothed.
"I missed you," he repeats himself softly. "So much."
Minho's hand is in his hair then, fingers toying with the strands. A kiss is pressed to the crown of his head, he is too comfortable to move whatsoever.
"I missed you as well, fheall."
There are no better words for right now, and somehow Minho seems to know because he says nothing else. In the end, the land of dreams captures him for a little longer and he is too boneless and comfortable to resist.
-
It's the light of the sun shining almost right in his eyes that wakes him the next time and he squints before shifting, turning his head over to the other side. Minho's skin is hot beneath his cheek. The sheets have already been pushed down his back a little, as if to make sure he wouldn't be too warm and could sleep comfortably. When he mumbles some sort of greeting, he turns his head to press a kiss to that hot skin as well.
"Hey you," Minho says, sounding awake but not rushed at all. Like they could lie here forever. Like it's fine if Jisung never lets him go again.
"Don't you have to leave?" He asks. "Isn't your king expecting you somewhere?"
Chan is his king too. Chan is not the issue here. But Minho doesn't say any of those things even though Jisung has no doubt that his mate knows them.
"Right now you need me more than he does," he's told softly. He wants to rebel against the use of the word 'need' but the softness of Minho's hand running up and down his back is too good to move away from. "You should drink some water, mo grá, it's right next to the bed."
He groans, but he shifts anyway, slowly rediscovering his limbs until he can push himself up and reach for the cup and the carafe. The thirstiness hits him at the first sip, and so he empties two glasses before he remembers to offer his mate some as well. Minho drinks a glass himself, and then goosebumps suddenly appear all over his mate's chest and arms. He reaches out instantly, running his hand over the now cold skin.
"I got used to the you-blanket," Minho explains, and he breathes out a smile. He leans in without words and when they gently collapse back down on the bed, they're kissing again. Gentle kisses, sweet kisses, kisses just for the sake of kissing. Soft kisses that are sweet and warming, while their hands roam leisurely over each other's bodies, just mapping them out again, committing each detail to memory.
"I'm sorry," he breathes out against Minho's shoulder at some point, but there's a hand on the back of his head letting him know it's fine.
"Don't apologise," Minho says. "Not for this. Not for any of this. It's okay. I'm sorry for leaving you for so long. It was never supposed to be a hundred years." There's a kiss to his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "But if it meant the difference between saving you or watching you die I'd do it for a hundred more."
He sighs softly from the lips to his neck, the hand brushing his side.
"Right now being here is that difference," he says, and Minho's hands both run up and down his sides then, pulling him in, keeping him close.
"I know," he's told softly but seriously. "I know. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Another piece of him settles, soothed by the gentle voiced words of his mate, by the promise that's hidden in kisses and touches and every soft exhale against his skin. He lets those touches soothe him, too, and takes his comfort from every place their skin touches, every way their bodies link.
"Jisung."
He smiles against Minho's collarbone, temporarily dropping his forehead down against his mate's chest before lifting it so he can look at him.
"Minho."
"Do you have some time?"
His smile widens and he shifts a little in place, getting more comfortable.
"Why?"
His mate's smile is one of those precious things that he doesn't get to see often, but when he does it's always genuine, warm, full of undeniable love. It's no different now. It warms him from the inside out.
"If you have some time, I'd like to steal it."
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, though at this point his smile has turned into a grin.
"How many times do I have to tell you that if you let me know beforehand you're going to be a lot less successful at your theft."
Minho's fingers trace a line down his back, then back up to his shoulder blades.
"That's okay. I only want to steal it with your permission."
"Okay," he says, leaning in to kiss those soft lips that have learned to speak to him so well over the years. They know almost exactly what to say now to make him feel better. Or else it's just that anything Minho says to him makes him feel better at this point.
"Okay?" Minho echoes, as if making sure.
"Yes," he agrees again.
And his mate keeps his word, stealing some of his time, and all of his breath, and the entirety of his heart all over again.
It's not fixed yet, he's not better, but he'll get there. He is getting there. And he'll reach for Minho's hand over and over again. As much as it takes. As long as it takes.
They'll be okay.