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Present - Minho 🏶
Minho stands at the marble countertop in the spacious kitchen. It’s equipped with every extravagant appliance imaginable and it’s his favourite place to spend his time as he prepares the vegetables to accompany the filet mignon for dinner. He enjoys cooking. He does it everyday. Minho mutters to himself. “I like cooking.” Reminding himself this is real. As Minho slices up vegetables, a familiar headache appears around his temples, the haziness washes over him as he zones out from his task. He mutters to himself “This is a daydream, Minho. It’s just another hallucination, it’s not real.” Reminding himself this isn’t real.
This happens to him a lot. Chronic headaches that cause a struggle for him to differentiate the things he knows he likes doing, the things that are his life—from the things his mind summons to him. It’s getting harder to tell the difference between them these days, what is real and what is a hallucination. The hallucinations he experiences come at night while he sleeps, like a regular dream, sometimes nightmarish, but also in the day while he’s awake. He calls them hallucinations, because he’s not sure how else to explain it, or why they happen. Not that he’s mentioned these to anyone else. He has no one else, only Chan.
Minho doesn’t want to be a disappointment to Chan, his love. He doesn’t want Chan to frown at him in that way he does, making Minho feel belittled and foolish. He doesn’t want Chan to tell him he’s mentally unstable again for having such strange thoughts. He doesn’t want to take pills, they don’t help—they only cloud his mind further, they make him slip away too far. He doesn’t want to feel this way, living his life in a constant state of bewilderment. Chan is a good man, he takes care of Minho. So he stays quiet about it, and doesn't make a fuss. It’s easier to smile and pretend happiness. It’s like, his entire life is disjointed and disoriented. It’s like, the moment you wake from a deep sleep, recalling you’ve just been dreaming something intense, yet have no memory of it the moment you wake up, blinking your eyes against the bleakness of the night.
Minho’s hallucinations are played like flashbacks haunting his mind every single day. Flashbacks of what? He doesn’t know. It’s like flashbacks of a life that isn’t his, but feels so much like it was. So theatrical, like it’s his memories. They’re most vivid and powerful but sometimes lucid when he’s drifting somewhere in between both and he understands it’s only a dream.
Chop—chop—chop the sound of the vegetables slicing atop the wooden board grow distant as the vibrant chorus of an orchestra playing erupts into his mind. The fusion of strings, woodwinds, brass and percussion—shroud around him, like it’s right here in the kitchen—Tchaikovsky, Swan Lake, the finale—he’s on the stage—dancing—ballet—the vibrations from the orchestra just beyond the stage rumble under his feet—he knows this dance, but it’s disorienting and stuttered—the spotlight from the rafters flashing across his eyes—brief silhouettes from the audience before him, cast into shadows—a glimpse of other dancers beside him on stage, moving fluidly and gracefully—a male, dressed in black portraying Odile. The black swan—cunning and manipulative, and a female dressed in white portraying Odette. The white swan—innocent and fragile—the music sounds loud and harsh in his ears—the vision is moving rapidly across his eyelids. It’s almost too much to keep up with, his heart beats against his chest as though he’s really dancing—Odile’s face briefly transforms to look like Chan—then the image changes—the orchestra fades. Chop—chop—chop the sound of the vegetables being sliced atop the wooden board reappear, but still distant, the flashback emerges into something different—he’s feeding cats now—three of them, all meowing loudly at his feet—two ginger and one tabby—he chuckles and stands—a male voice is laughing in the background, it’s deep, rich and comforting in his ear—arms come to wind around his waist, followed by the soft brush of lips, kissing delicately at the nape of his neck. The sense of warmth envelopes him, the feeling of love and safety—the soothing scent of vanilla washes over him—the voice whispers into his ear I love you, hyung. Chop—chop—chop the sound of chopping vegetables atop a wooden board sounds distant and muffled—yet still present, anchoring him in his reality as he drifts. In his hallucination, Minho turns around to face the man who calls him hyung—he’s so stunning. A beauty so different from Chan’s striking features. His appearance is soft, with dewy skin, almost honey like. He wears thin gold rimmed glasses perched mid-way over his nose but underneath the lenses are pretty brown eyes which gleam like sunshine—fluffy dark hair frames his face—he smiles softly from his heart-shaped lips as his arms circle around Minho’s waist.
Is this real or a dream?
Chan’s voice whispers into his ear “What are you making, my love?” Minho suddenly jolts as reality crashes into him with force and the immense sting of the sharp knife he’s holding slicing over the tip of his finger causes him to wince in pain—the visions from his daydream fade away. Chan inhales a sharp breath behind him bringing him fully back to the moment. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re such a sweet clumsy thing, aren't you, my love?” He whispers, taking hold of Minho’s bleeding finger. He watches Chan intently as he lifts it to his lips, the bright red blood trickles down his trembling finger quickly as Chan tilts it towards his mouth. Heat flashes through Minho’s being as his pulse pounds into his eardrums. The warmth of Chan's mouth wraps around it as he sucks at the blood spilling from his wound. “Mmm.” Chan moans lewdly around Minho’s finger.
Minho shudders a laugh. “You’re such a freak!” He chuckles softly.
“Only for you, my love.” Chan mutters around his finger as he sucks again, the flat of his tongue pressed firmly against his finger, like he’s coaxing the blood from the laceration, right into his mouth—it’s dizzying and unsettling.
Chan’s gaze grows dark as his eyes lock with Minho’s. This is a look Minho is all too familiar with. “Come with me, my love.” Chan whispers as he reaches to stroke his free hand delicately against Minho’s cheekbone.
“But, dinner—” Minho attempts to protest.
“Fuck dinner, I want you. Now...” Chan growls as he tugs Minho harshly, pulling him into his broad chest. Minho isn’t by any means weak or feeble. He’s aware of his own body, he works out most days, he’s strong, lean and athletically built but his will is no match for Chan’s.
What Chan wants, Chan gets.
“Ok…” Minho whispers as Chan turns off the simmering pan of water before leading Minho up the staircase to the bedroom.
Chan whispers, I love you, as he kisses into Minho’s mouth, pressing his cold lips against Minho’s warm, naked skin. Chan’s skin is always cool to the touch, Minho notes as the trace of his fingertip glides along Minho’s skin, always sending shivers along his spine.
Chan whispers, I love you, as his long fingers expertly open Minho up, while biting gently and sucking bruises at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, as Minho helplessly writhes on the bed above him, curling his fingers into the sheets and arching his back from the mattress below him.
Chan whispers, I love you, as he fucks deeply into him, looming above him as he cages him in between strong arms and broad shoulders. Minho runs his fingers over the toned curves and ridges of Chan's muscles, feeling them contract under his touch with each subaqueous thrust he drives into Minho, sending him further up the bed with each one.
Minho feels like he’s floating as his temples pulse with a dull ache and the room shrouds with shadow. This is real. Chan is real. He reminds himself as he continues to touch Chan’s body. He’s real and he loves me. Minho looks up at Chan as the shadows form around them—the sounds of Chan’s grunts and Minho’s breathy whines fade briefly, before Chan’s appearance transitions into something darker—he’s looking down at him with crimson eyes and fanged teeth, his lips are stained with remnants of blood—black feathers float in the murky air—Minho blinks and Chan appears like himself as he fucks into him with fervour. This is real and I love him? Minho considers, this time he isn’t reminding himself of whether he loves Chan, but rather—he’s questioning himself.
“Tell me you love me, I need to hear you, my love.” Chan whispers into Minho’s ear, before he steadies himself back up onto one arm, muscles pulled taut as he thrusts harder, he curls his other hand around Minho’s throat, just ghosting the skin as he looks down meeting Minho’s gaze. His dark eyes are almost black like coal, his expression morphs into something more possessive as his jaw tightens and he squeezes his palm around Minho’s throat, applying pressure with his thumb and forefinger. “Say it, my love… Say you love me.”
It’s not that Minho purposefully resists telling Chan he loves him. He wants to make Chan happy. He wants to be good. Chan takes care of him. Chan gives him everything he asks for. Almost. It’s just, without being prompted by Chan, the words I love you, never feel like they’re spoken from Minho’s own free will, only ever when Chan demands it from him.
“I—ahh—I love you—” Minho gasps through gritted teeth as Chan releases his palm from his throat.
Past - Chan 🏶
Chan takes his seat in the Opera House, it’s always the same. Middle centre, front row of the first balcony. The best view to watch the object of his desire perform. He purchased a season ticket for Swan Lake the moment he saw Minho’s picture on a promotional poster outside the Opera House. Principal dancer, Lee Minho in the role of Prince Siegfried. Chan was instantly captivated by his astonishing beauty from just a poster alone, in person—Lee Minho is only described as otherworldly to Chan. Minho’s body creates the perfect balance between adagio and allegro expressing himself exquisitely as he moves his body, flowing between soft, rhapsodic movements into something exhilarating and dynamic. The first time Chan watched Minho perform, he cried. Chan hadn’t shed a tear in so long, the bitter salty taste of his tears reaching his lips, astounded him. Chan has waited centuries to find Lee Minho, and now he’s found him, he’ll never let him go.
Chan spends hours studying Lee Minho. He surveys everything about him, with such vigilance. He follows his moves, learning his routine. The times he arrives and leaves. What food he eats. The style of clothes he prefers. Chan loves everything about Minho. He is perfect. His vibrant auburn hair, glass skin, so pale like the first snowfall. Fine sculpted features created by the Gods themselves. The most sublime visage to behold. Feline eyes that twinkle like stars, high cheekbones either side of his straight nose above his soft pouting lips. His lean, athletic build demonstrates his superb strength and stamina for his dancing ability, yet he’s delicate and pliable, like a tiny bird. His little dove. Chan wishes to capture the bird and keep it for himself. Caging it away from others, for only himself to care for and appreciate. Chan can look after Minho like no one else can, Chan appreciates his beauty like no one else on this earth.
Except maybe one other, Chan’s eyes scan across the orchestra before he finds his target. He regards Han Jisung, the concertmaster and first violinist. The one Lee Minho’s heart belongs to, the one whom he shares a bed, home and entire life with. Chan clenches his fist, curling it tightly into a ball, crumpling the programme along with it as he seethes through gritted teeth. He imagines Han Jisung’s slender neck trapped between his fingers, the soothing, gentle snap of his windpipe shattering like glass underneath his palm as his wide eyes regard Chan’s menacing smirk in sheer terror—the concluding vision that pathetic creature ever sees, as he draws his final breath, before Chan seizes Minho for himself—perhaps, he would make Minho watch? As a reminder of who can take care of him in such a cruel and uncertain world. A harsh lesson in love. Chan is the only one who can keep Minho safe. Chan will imprison him within his heart. Locking him away, safe from those who would try to steal him for themselves. Minho is his. He’s Chan’s rare, fragile little bird. His little dove.
Present - Minho 🏶
The night becomes day and Minho blinks his lids open slowly as he wakes from his slumber. The dreams visited him once more, playing intense and realistic visions but always blurred and disjointed, confusing him between the lines of reality and hallucination. Beautiful dreams that feel like memories, yet they’re not his life. This is his life, here in the sleek, ultra modern penthouse with Chan—not in a cosy little apartment, with three cats and the beautiful man who calls him, hyung.
Minho stretches, reaching his arm across to where Chan would sleep, he’s already risen. Minho isn’t even sure if Chan sleeps at all. Every night, Chan will lay next to him, placing his palm over Minho’s eyes, casting shadows behind his lids. Commanding day to become night. “Sleep now, my love. Let me watch you fall asleep, my precious little dove.” Chan’s whisper caresses Minho's ears as he drifts into sleep each night, only to wake alone each morning.
Minho throws the covers off himself, climbing off the bed, feeling sore in his limbs from Chan’s display of love the night before as he pads gingerly over to the ensuite to take a shower. While he waits for the water to heat up, Minho brushes his teeth and regards his reflection in the mirror, faint bluish bruising has been left on either side of his throat—a not so gentle reminder of Chan’s touch from last night. He’ll have to cover those up. Chan doesn’t like Minho’s skin to appear anything other than flawless, despite what may cause it to appear tarnished. As he leans closer to inspect his throat he notes another mark upon his neck, two marks that look like tiny puncture wounds. “What on earth?” Minho mutters as he presses two fingertips over the tender skin, flinching from his own touch.
Minho showers and proceeds to cover the bruising before dressing and heading downstairs into the large open plan kitchen to make himself a morning coffee. He passes Chan’s study—the door closed, meaning he’s busy and not to be disturbed yet. As he sets the options on the fancy coffee machine, the annoying sound of the drink brewing grates in his ears. Beep—beep—beep. A familiar assault of pain attacks his temples and as his vision doubles the haze swarms Minho’s mind as the sound of the orchestra floats into his consciousness—Tchaikovsky—Swan Lake, the finale—himself dancing upon the stage—a glimpse of the orchestra below—the first violinist, bobbing his head as he controls the bow over the strings whilst he watches the maestro conduct—their eyes meet briefly before Minho is spinning and twirling—the spotlight dazzling his vision—silhouettes in the audience—his co-dancers—then shadows envelop him, dark and ominous—a single black rose, held between his fingers—the thorn pricks his skin—a bead of bright red blood forms perfectly—a hand reaches for it—a musicians hand, with long slender fingers, delicate in touch bring his finger up to a pair of heart-shaped lips—the beautiful man with soft features, silly hyung! Let me kiss it better, he whispers before pressing the blood-stained finger against his lips—the coffee machine comes back into the forefront of his mind as the orchestra fades—beep—beep—beep—Chan’s image flashes into his mind, striking and handsome in a tailored black suit—offering Minho a single black rose—he’s smiling, only the most mysterious, elegant and sophisticated flower is suitable for someone with such distinct beauty as yourself, Lee Minho he speaks and his voice is soothing and hypnotic in Minho’s ears—beep—beep—beep.
“My love, your coffee is ready? Why are you staring into space, like that? Pretty thing.” The back of Chan’s cold hand strokes at Minho’s cheekbone, startling him back from his hallucination, memory, flashback? He doesn’t know. Everything’s blurred and lost, repressed somewhere deep in his mind. That, or he’s spiralling into madness.
“I—I don’t know!” Minho stutters. “I was lost in thought, I suppose.” He confirms with a soft smile, as he turns around to face Chan.
“You look tired, my love. Did you not sleep well?” Chan inquires as he circles his arms around Minho’s waist, pulling him close into his chest.
“I think I did, I don’t know… I’m fine, really.” Minho mutters against Chan’s shirt. “I think something bit me last night…” He whispers.
Chan chuckles. “Hmm? Why do you think that?”
Minho pulls back, tilting his neck for Chan to see clearly. “Look at my neck? That's some kind of puncture, right?” Minho questions.
“Hm, how strange, my love.” Chan muses before placing a kiss to his neck. “Let me kiss it better for you…” The memory of the beautiful soft featured man from Minho’s flashback darts into his mind, he said the same words, a wave of unease washes over him as Chan’s cold lips press at his skin. “I can feel your pulse under your skin, my love” He whispers. “The beat of your heart makes me feel so alive, little dove.” Chan moans deeply as he begins sucking at Minho’s exposed neck. Minho shudders under Chan’s strong hold. “Fuck, my love, you drive me crazy, you know that right?” Chan murmurs as he manhandles Minho, spinning him around and pushing his chest flat against the cool marble slab on the kitchen island.
Minho stretches his arms out, curling his fingers around the edge of the counter as his face lays flat against the frigid surface. He waits obediently as he focuses on the digital clock on the stove as Chan yanks his sweatpants and underwear down his thighs. The sound of Chan’s belt buckle unclasping rings in Minho’s ears as Chan shuffles from the confines of his slacks. The weight of Chan’s freed cock, hard and ready, slaps heavily against the cleft of his ass.
Chan whispers, I love you as he spits into the palm of his hand and presses his spit slick fingers against Minho’s fluttering rim.
Chan whispers, I love you as his cock slides inside, dragging achingly against his walls as he pushes himself into Minho’s heat.
Chan whispers, I love you as his thumbs press into the supple skin of Minho’s hip bones, like a searing brand that’ll leave bruises as a reminder of his love as he fucks into him hard and fast from behind.
“Say it, my love!” Chan growls as he thrusts. “Tell you love me, little dove.” Minho winces as he holds so tightly against the counter top his knuckles are whiting from the grip.
There it is again, the resistance within him to say it freely to Chan. This is real. This isn’t a dream. Minho reminds himself before gasping out through ragged breaths. “I—ahh—I do—I love you—” Minho sobs against the chilled marble.
“My little dove—ahh—so perfect for me.” Chan moans deeply as he spills into Minho after reaching his climax. The kitchen falls silent, save the sound of the coffee machine alerting them that the drink is ready. Beep—beep—beep.
Chan whispers, I love you as he washes Minho with the utmost care and attention in the shower, tracing the lathered soapy sponge over every curve and crevice while peppering featherlight kisses upon his skin as Minho clings onto his muscular form, nuzzling his face into his chest. This is real. He loves me and I love him. I do?
Past - Chan 🏶
Chan’s been stalking his human, Lee Minho for months now. The object of his affection. The object of his all-consuming obsession. He’s dedicated his time to attending every show of the season and leaving a single black rose for him to find once he comes off stage. Minho reminds Chan of a black rose, mysterious and elegant, sophisticated and breathtakingly beautiful. Tonight is the season finale, before the ballet comes to an end. Chan simply cannot be without Minho. Tonight is the night. Tonight he’ll capture his little dove and take him home for safe keeping away from everyone else. He’s shared him enough, allowing these filthy peasants to feast on the beauty of his performances. Now, his beauty will be only for Chan to behold. Chan stands ready to make his way backstage after the final performance of the season draws to its climatic end. The opera house bursts with cheers and roars from the audience with calls of Bravo and flowers thrown onto the stage as the performers from the ballet bow and curtsy with gracious smiles at their adoring fans. Minho, was as always, sublime. Tonight, the black rose will be gifted in person. As Chan weaves his way around the maze of slim corridors upon reaching the backstage area, he’s approached by a stagehand.
“Excuse me, sir… Can I help you?” The petite woman asks with a smile.
“Yes, I’m looking for Lee Minho’s changing room, if you’d be so kind as to direct me?” Chan says politely, offering a charming smile.
“Oh, I see. He doesn’t usually take visits directly following a performance, he will be attending the after party though, did you have an invitation to that?” She offers a shy smile towards Chan. “If you don’t, you could always join me?” She pulls her bottom lip between teeth, looking at him suggestively.
Chan places his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “No thank you, you are a sweet one aren't you? Sadly, desperate whores really don’t do it for me. You’ll tell me where I can find Minho now…” Chan commands softly.
“Of course, his room is down the end of this hall, second door on the left.” She looks back at Chan with a dazed expression.
“Thank you, you’ve been most helpful. Now, you see the staircase behind me?” She glances behind Chan and meets his gaze, nodding enthusiastically.
“Throw yourself down them for me, yes?” He commands with a dark smile.
“Absolutely, thank you…” She responds with a nervous smile. Chan releases his hand and smiles as he steps to the side, continuing his walk along the hallway, as he reaches the end to turn left towards Minho’s room the sound of a painful scream and stumbling in the staircase from the far end can be heard.
Chan chuckles as he glides towards Minho’s door. He takes a deep steadying breath and knocks twice, firmly. He places both hands behind his back, concealing the rose between his fingers, waiting in giddy anticipation. The door swings open and he’s met with the face of Han Jisung, looking back at him curiously.
“Hello?” He offers curtly. “Can I help you?” He questions softly.
Chan regards him now they’re up close. Han Jisung, is also a very handsome young man. He’s got a real softness about him, his face, his attire and voice alike. Chan can appreciate why Minho would choose this one as his partner. That won’t be lasting much longer though, so it really doesn’t matter.
“Hello.” Chan smiles warmly. “I understand this is Lee Minho’s changing room?” He inquires.
“It is, yes…” Jisung confirms with a nod. Still keeping the door ajar cautiously.
“Excellent, I was hoping for a moment of his time?”
“Ah, that’s not really—”
Jisung is interrupted by Minho’s voice from behind the door. “Who is it, jagi?”
Jisung smiles at Chan. “I didn’t catch your name?”
Chan nods and smiles politely. “I never gave it.” Chan extends one of his hands from behind his back, offering a handshake to Jisung. “My name is, Bang Chan.”
Jisung accepts the handshake and smiles. “Bang Chan, I don’t believe we’ve met?”
“Oh my gosh!” Minho’s voice calls from beyond the door. “Wait!... Bang Chan?... B.C? Jisungie… The roses—” Minho’s perfect face peeks around the door from behind Jisung. He offers a gracious smile towards Chan and his heart feels like it might explode right out from his chest, if it was capable of being anything other than static and cold.
“Is it you?” Minho gushes, with a pretty flush across his cheekbones. “Are you the one that has been sending me the black roses?” He questions softly, with a sparkle in his eyes.
“I have.” Chan returns a smile as he extends his other hand from behind his back, offering the black rose for Minho.
“Gosh! Thank you… It’s beautiful! They’ve all been so beautiful!” Minho smiles softly as he takes the rose, lifting it up to his nose and inhaling with a joyful expression.
“Come in, please!” Minho gestures and Jisung swings the door open wide, stepping aside with a smile for Chan to enter the room. Jisung closes the door behind him as he enters the room and walks back over to lean against the dressing table, as Minho steps a little closer into the center of the room near Chan. He smells divine, like bergamot and musk as he stands before him wearing a silken black robe. Chan wishes to devour him on the spot, but must be patient. He has all the time in the world to devour Lee Minho. Eventually, when he turns him, they’ll have all the time in the world to bask in each other's darkest desires. There are ties to be severed here first.
“I hope you don’t mind my intrusion, I understand you must be tired after another exquisite performance…” Chan bows towards Minho.
“Oh, no! It’s not an intrusion at all, really.” He smiles. “Jisungie and I were just unwinding a little before the afterparty…” He explains as he smiles, pointing over at Jisung.
“Ah, yes of course, you’re Han Jisung, correct? First violinist to the orchestra?”
“I am one and the same, yes… Have we met before?” Jisung answers politely with a smile.
Chan shakes his head dismissively. “We haven’t. I’m a huge fan of your friend here…”
“Partner…” Jisung corrects with a smile that Chan finds irritating.
“Pardon?” Chan tilts his head, peering back at Jisung.
“Minho is my partner, we’re a couple.” He smiles graciously. Minho nods and blows a dramatic air kiss towards Jisung with a giggle as Jisung pretends to catch it in his hands, clutching it to his chest. Sickening.
“I see…” Chan’s smile folds as he licks at the seam of his lips. Crushing this man's arrogance will be deeply satisfying. “Well, I hope you don’t feel threatened by the roses I send to him before each performance?”
“Not at all, they’re exquisite, just like Minho!” Jisung beams. “He deserves adoration.”
“Thank you, Jagi.” Minho mutters softly as the sweetest giggle escapes him.
“Hm, indeed he does. Say, Jisung… Perhaps you should feel threatened by my presence instead, hm?” Chan retorts with an icy tone.
“Excuse me? Why would I feel threatened?” Jisung glances between him and Minho briefly, a slight frown tugs at his lips as his brows knit together. There it is, confusion. So predictable.
Chan smiles before stepping closer to Jisung and glancing back towards Minho. “Forgive me, my love. This needs to be the way, I need you to watch so you’ll understand it’s only me who can care for you… No one else can take care of you, like I will.”
Minho shakes his head, also frowning as realisation dawns upon him that something more sinister is at play now. “What? Hey, wait a minute, what are you doing! Get away from him, I’ll call security!" Minho begins to lunge forward but Chan’s lightning reflexes have his hand outreached in mid air, palm held flat towards Minho to halt him in place before he’s even started to move his feet. Minho is paralyzed in his spot. Helpless, and with such heightened fear in his eyes, it sets a scorching blaze of enticement through Chan’s entire body like hell-fire.
“Shhh.” Chan places a finger on his lip as he gazes at Minho, before touching Jisung on the shoulder. “Jisung, I’d like you to stay very still for me now… Don’t make a sound, ok?” Chan speaks to Jisung like an adult instructing a child with the most menial task. Jisung looks up at Chan, nodding his head in compliance, but doesn’t speak a word. His eyes are wide with alarm and bewilderment. “Such a good boy, I see why my love likes you so much…” Chan smiles softly.
“Correction.” Minho intervenes, still unable to move. His voice wavers and his bottom lip quivers, he’s so endearing. “I’m not your love, I’m sorry Mr Bang, I wholly appreciate your gifts and your enjoyment of the ballet, but I love this man and would kindly ask you to step away from him now.” His eyes are immense, like an animal cornered by its prey. He has a look of understanding that this isn’t going to end well, but is powerless against Chan and it’s written all over his divine face.
Chan regards Minho for a long moment, soaking up all of the emotions which flood from him as he remains frozen at his will. Chan smiles softly towards him and whispers “I'm sorry my love… I simply cannot.” He takes Jisung by the right hand, the hand in which he plays the violin so perfectly, holding it so delicately between his own fingers. He glances back at Jisung. “You truly were such a talented musician, Han Jisung… It’s such a pity.” Chan’s smile turns dark as the bitterness consumes him, he pulls back all four of Jisung’s fingers in one swift movement, folding them like a linen napkin as they reach the back of his hand with a horrific crack. The crude sound of his bones crunching and splintering under his skin, so fragile like a fine piece of china shattering upon a hard surface causes Minho to let out the most shrill wail of terror and it fills Chan with an overflowing sense of euphoria to hear it. Jisung’s skin peels apart as the bones tear through his flesh like wet paper coming apart. The sound of his heart beating rapidly beneath his chest pulses inside Chan’s ears. Jisung’s heartbeat sings a sweet melody of panic—crippling pain—overwhelming confusion. Minho shrieks out something garbled and incoherent as he attempts to rush forward, towards Jisung, but he’s still held by Chan’s command so continues to howl, incapable of coming to the aid of his love, Jisung whose face remains completely expressionless—also still held by Chan’s command, save the delicious tears welling in his large brown eyes which trickle out from the corners slowly as they stream down his cheeks like tiny waterfalls. It’s magnificent, the frailty of humans, how weak they really are, how effortless they are to control. This is far more satisfying than outright killing him, Chan reminds himself. This is breaking him. Breaking them.
Chan turns to Minho and speaks in the softest voice. “You’ll come with me now, my love. Yes?” He instructs with a gentle smile. “If you don’t, I’ll have to crush his windpipe next…” He drops Jisung’s limp hand from his grasp, droplets of blood sprinkle onto the floor below, some of it lands on Chan’s shoe. He tsks in displeasure before curling his large hand around Jisung’s slender throat instead.
“Don’t!” Minho wails, he’s so utterly stunning with tears streaking down his perfect cheekbones, slicing through his stage make up like a hot knife through butter, all mingled with his smudged black mascara. Such a beauty in his mournful state. “Don't hurt him anymore than you have, I beg of you! I’ll come with you… Whatever you want ok, please—” He cries out a broken sob as he looks at Jisung with sheer desperation in his eyes. “Please, don’t hurt him anymore… Jisungie, I’m so sorry, jagi. Please forgive me…”
Present - Minho 🏶
Minho wanders aimlessly around the sleek penthouse. His bare feet leave lingering foot prints over the cool marble floor below. He traces his fingertip along the sleek gold metallic finish of the tall pillars as he passes them by. Four ostentatious pillars fuse the floor and the ceilings together in this open space. He curls his cardigan around his chest, shielding himself from the chill of the air. “It’s always so cold here.” Minho mutters under his breath as he comes to a halt at one wall hosting the towering windows, spanning from floor to ceiling, overlooking the city below them as dusk blankets the sky in vibrant trails of coral and fuchsia, a perfect view of sunset from the sky-scraper in which they reside. More like Chan resides and Minho is imprisoned, he considers to himself for a moment, before shaking his head. No, not imprisoned. Taken care of. Chan loves me. Chan protects me. He just wants to keep me safe, that’s all. Minho leans closer to the frosted glass blackout window. He opens his mouth and breathes against it, misting it with hot air. He draws the outline of a bird over the condensed shape, then gazes at it for a prolonged moment before sighing and wiping it away with the back of his sleeve.
He turns to look over the vast space around him. Tall windows feature on every wall—all sleek and blackout in style, because Chan doesn’t like the sun and Minho suffers such severe headaches. A large U shaped couch in black leather forms the centrepiece of the space, facing a white and grey marbled participation wall with a large television screen fixed on it. Beyond that is the lustrous kitchen and dining area, stairs to the upper level and a hallway leading to the door which separates the penthouse from the elevator. The door is locked. It’s always locked when Chan has to leave the apartment for business. Minho glances around at the pillars and the windows and a rueful laugh escapes his lips. Realisation dawns on him of just how ironic Chan’s pet name for him really is. “Little dove, Minho.” He scoffs to himself. “You truly are just like a bird, trapped in Chan’s cage.”
Minho takes a seat in the centre of the couch, picking at the jagged skin around his thumbnail. He picks and picks until the skin finally rips, he winces in response to the jolt of pain, despite knowing the outcome of what his picking would pertain. Minho silently watches a tiny pool of bright red blood seep from underneath his nail bed. He sighs, pressing his thumb past his lips, sucking away the blood, the faint taste of the metallic flavour lingers on his tongue. Chan will chastise him for picking at his skin when he sees it. Minho knows this. Chan likes Minho to appear flawless, always.
Minho climbs off the couch, padding his way over to Chan’s study, before curling his fingers around the doorknob, he hesitates. I shouldn’t go in here. I have no reason to enter. Chan isn’t here. He turns the doorknob, pushing softly as the door opens and he steps inside the study quietly with bated-breath.
He creeps further into the study, his heart galloping with nerves. It’s fine. Chan said he’d be gone a few hours and only been absent for one. Still, he shouldn’t be here, Minho has no business here. He glances around the room. It’s much like every other room in the penthouse. Sleek, modern, extravagant, cold.
Chan’s desk is located on the left of this room, it’s long and modern in design a solid wood top, coated in a polished black veneer finish with fancy metal legs wrapped in a gold trim, behind that features a built in bookcase the length of the entire wall, with the same finish, black and gold as the desk. A black leather recliner faces the towering floor to ceiling window, same as the others in the penthouse, blackout style. Next to that a garish gold floor lamp for reading.
Minho stalks over to the desk, ghosting his fingertips across shiny finish on the top, Chan’s fucked him on this many times, only when Minho has entered upon invitation though. It’s been left clear and tidy of any mess, typical Chan. Minho plonks down onto the high back swivel chair behind the desk and spins around twice before halting it with his foot and reaching for the drawer positioned in the center. He curls his fingers around the gold trim handle, pausing in deliberation before tugging gently—locked. Of course it is. He spins the chair around so he’s now facing the bookcase, eyes scanning across the shelves for anything of interest. A black wooden box on the very top shelf in the center piques his attention. Minho stands, reaching up on tiptoes, padding his fingers along the wood. He pours his energy into focusing on stretching his torso as much as possible, elongating his reach—his back and arm aches—just a little further now come on, Minho. His finger touches the top of the box and he smiles in triumph as he slides it to the very edge, then grabs it in a greedy hold. It’s a simple black wooden box, nothing exciting or ornate but the item inside is unusual.
A pair of simple, gold rimmed spectacles.
“What the?...” Minho’s face pulls into a frown as he takes the delicate glasses from the box, holding them in the air between his fingers. He opens the arms and places them on his face, letting the bridge rest on his nose, his focus blurs a little as he peers through them. He doesn’t wear glasses, but neither does Chan? Why does he have these—they’re clearly prescription lenses and not just for fashion purposes.
He pulls them off his face, holding them in his hands again, peering at them in confusion when his mind clouds with a familiar shooting pain at his temples then haziness—the sound of the orchestra playing in his ears as though they were right here in the study with him—Tchaikovsky—Swan Lake, the finale—like always. Minho feels himself dancing on the stage as he sways softly in the chair—the spotlight follows him as he moves around performing grande jete and pirouettes—the glimpse of his co-dancers flash before his eyes—a black rose is thrown from the audience, landing on the stage at his feet—the image projects into somewhere else—he’s laying on a cosy chenille couch—sinking into the fluffy scatter cushions—a weight pressed on him—the beautiful man with soft features is straddled over his legs—smiling down at him and giggling—Minho’s tickling him and giggling too—warmth surrounds him with the soothing scent of vanilla—the beautiful man leans in as Minho pulls the gold rimmed spectacles from his nose carefully. He leans closer, nuzzling his nose against the tip of Minho’s—the image transfers again—he’s naked—fucking the beautiful man who lays underneath him with his arms curled around him, I love you so much, Jisungie, Minho whispers into his ear, I love you, hyung—the music evaporates and Minho blinks his vision back to the study he sits in.
“Jisungie?” He whispers softly, with sorrow laced in his voice. “Who are you, Jisungie? Why do I dream about you?” Minho chokes back a sob. This is a dream, this isn’t real. A reminder to himself. He chews his lip. “I don’t know what is real and what is a dream anymore. I’m fucking crazy…” He mutters as he carefully folds the glasses and places them back inside the box. He stands and reaches back up on tiptoes to put the box back where he found it, leaning into the bookcase to try and center it back into the precise position he found it when he nudges his chest against a book, causing it to fall from the shelf. “Shit!” He curses as he steps back to ensure the box looks exactly where it should be before bending down to pick up the book, a slip of paper has fallen from within the pages. He grabs that too and glances quickly before he’s about to slip it back inside he notes the sequence of numbers on the paper.
1—4—3.
Minho slips the paper back between the pages and slots the book back into its place on the shelf. He straightens the chair, rolling it back under the desk and pads across the study on quick feet, closing the door softly behind him. Minho almost runs through the apartment and up the stairs, stopping by the walk-in closet first to pick up a pair of socks and a baseball cap which he pops onto his head before darting back down and running over to the hallway. He pulls the socks over his feet while hopping on each foot with excitement then steps into his running shoes and gingerly steps towards the door for the penthouse. Unsure why, he pulls the sleeve of his cardigan over his hand then pokes his finger, covered with the soft cashmere wool up to the keypad and quickly presses 1—4—3 with a blustering heart. Beep—beep. The keypad accepts the code and the door clicks open. Minho sighs a long breath of relief and steps through the door with haste before calling the elevator up.
As he rides the elevator down to the ground level he stares at his reflection in the mirrored back wall. What is he even doing? Where is he even going? He has no phone. No money. No sense of direction or purpose. He just has the overwhelming urge to leave and walk and breathe in the night air. The urge to feel discharged from the confines of the penthouse. The birdhouse. The birdcage.
The urgency to use his free will.
The elevator pings and the doors slide open, Minho swallows down the lump in his throat, pulls the cap down lower to shelter his face and bolts through the lobby. His focus on one thing only. The tall glass doors ahead. His exit from the building. He’s almost there. His hand reaching for the lever on the door. He pulls it back to feel the immediate gush of frigid night air fans across his face. It feels wonderful. For the first time in such a long time, Minho embraces the cold. His face blooms into a smile as he steps through the door and skips down the steps, jumping onto the sidewalk like a kid. He doesn’t care. The thud of his trainers hitting the concrete is incredible. Not even caring where he’s heading Minho turns and begins walking at speed, wrapping the cardigan around his chest and hugging it with his forearms wrapped around his shivering body. This is real. I’m free, He reminds himself as he turns a corner and walks along a quiet street, the moon now sitting tall in the sky above, having swallowed the sun and her moody twilight blanket of blackish blue has shadowed the vibrant sunset from earlier.
“Little dove?” Chan’s voice calls from behind him and Minho halts without hesitation. “Come here, my love.” He commands softly. Minho’s eyes scrunch tightly shut as he feels his body curling in on itself, shoulders hunching up around his neck as he slowly turns around to meet Chan’s gaze.
Chan doesn’t move. For the briefest moment, neither does Minho. He remains static and unwavering in defiance as he looks back at Chan. Will this be the day? He ponders. Chan raises an eyebrow as he slips his hands into his pockets. Minho’s eyes start to tear up. His right foot moves first, followed by his left and they repeat the sequence as he walks towards Chan. This isn’t a dream. This is real. Today isn’t the day I escape him. Minho reminds himself mournfully.
Chan offers a warm smile as he reaches out and Minho places his hand inside Chan’s. His grip is firm and painful as he holds tightly around Minho’s smaller hand. He tugs slightly and Minho follows him around the corner and back to the apartment entryway. Another day, Minho. He reminds himself.
As they stand on the cool marble tiles of the penthouse, Chan offers a sombre gaze towards Minho. “My love, my precious little dove…” He sighs in complaint. “You know, this isn’t the first time you’ve done this.” Chan smiles with sadness gleaming through his dark eyes as he brushes his finger delicately against Minho’s cheekbone, it’s chilling and ice-cold. “Such a clever little thing, more like a curious kitten than a bird sometimes, hm? So devious, Lee Minho.”
“I’m not!” Minho sobs in panic, the disappointment in Chan’s soft voice is unbearable. “I wasn’t—”
Chan tsks, sucking at his teeth as he regards Minho. “You know, I really should admire your tenacity, little dove.” Chan pulls Minho close, pressing his fingers into Minho’s back, which pushes him further into his firm chest as Minho nuzzles against him, sobbing. “I don’t admire it though my love, I truly don’t. You belong with me, do I not keep you safe and take care of you?” Chan whispers.
“You—” Minho sobs through a stuttered breath, as he clings to the lapels on Chan’s tailored blazer. “You do, I promise—I—I wasn’t—”
“Shhh.” Chan whispers. “Why is my love never enough for you, little dove, hm?” Chan asks as he rocks Minho in his arms, soothing his broken sobs.
Minho tilts his head back looking up to meet Chan’s glare. His eyes are dark and fiery. Minho wipes his tears away with his sweater paws of the oversized cardigan before slowly dropping down to his knees beneath Chan. The chill from the marble shoots right through the fabric of his joggers as though he was kneeling on bare skin. Chan’s love is enough. Chan does take care of him. This is real. Minho loves Chan. He does.
Minho chews at his bottom lip, never allowing his eyes to leave Chan’s as he begins unbuckling his belt with trembling hands. Chan allows it, weaving his fingers through Minho’s hair, so he continues to unzip his slacks. Chan’s sighs deeply through his nose and his nostrils flare briefly. Dipping his fingers into the waistband of the slacks and luxurious silken underwear pausing momentarily until Chan nods his head, just once. Minho smiles up at him softly although his bottom lip is quivering as he pulls the clothing down slowly, trailing his thumbs over Chan’s hips and thighs as the garments slide down, he lets them go once they reach his knees and they drop to the floor around his ankles with a soft thud. “I—” Minho’s voice cracks through his broken whisper. “I love you, Chan… I do.” He breathes out as he curls his fist around the thick girth of Chan’s cock. Heavy in his grasp, already fully erect and throbbing in his hand, tiny beads of precum form at the tip almost appearing pearlescent under the soft lighting in the penthouse.
Minho leans in and licks over the head, collecting the precum on his tongue as Chan moans in reaction, it comes out like a low rumble from within his core. His fingers cease weaving through Minho’s hair in favour of taking hold of it, gathering a clump of strands in his fist, it’s not painful, he isn’t pulling, just grasping. Minho slides his lips around Chan’s cock, letting the length slide across the flat of his tongue as he pushes his lips further, swallowing as much of Chan’s cock as he can take. As he starts to bob his head over the shaft, slicking it with his warm spit as he gazes back up at Chan whose eyes are locked with his, dark and wanton as his grip tightens around the clump of Minho’s hair in his fist. Minho’s vision starts to distort—the room becomes dark and infiltrated with shadows looming around Chan—this is not real, this is a dream—Minho repeats in his mind as the shadows dance and swirl around Chan—the familiar sound of music fills his ears—Tchaikovsky—Swan Lake, the finale—Minho envisions himself—dancing amongst the shadows—they’re trying to consume him as he leaps and spins around them—the vision changes—he’s standing on stage—the view of the audience is obstructed by the spotlight—blinding in his eyes—they’re clapping and cheering—flowers land on the stage at his feet—black roses—hundreds of single black roses—one face becomes clear in the audience—Chan, smiling at him.
Minho blinks a few times, tears brimming in his eyes, now Chan has stilled his head and is fucking himself into Minho’s open, perfectly pliant mouth. The sound of Tchaikovsky now harmonised with Chan’s moans and grunts as he thrusts himself faster, his pupils blown wide as he stares down at Minho possessively. Minho holds onto Chan’s hips for support as his thrusting assaults the back of his throat. His skin is cold to touch. Always so cold. The shadows surround Chan—flickering like ominous black flames—this isn’t real—it’s not, Minho repeats in his mind as Chan spills into the back of his aching throat. Chan pulls out and smears the tip of his cock across Minho’s parted lips, while he wipes away the tears from his eyes with his other hand.
“I love you, little dove.” Chan whispers with fondness. “Please don’t leave me.”
Chan leads Minho to the shower and fucks him against the cold wet tiles, whispering I love you repeatedly. All Minho can think about is, Jisungie.
Chan washes Minho from head to toe with gentle touches and pats his dry, whispering I love you as he carries him to bed. All Minho can think about is, Jisungie.
“Sleep now, my love. You’ve had a busy night, hm?” Chan whispers as he curls in next to Minho, holding him so tightly, as though he is frightened Minho will try to leave.
After a few long moments of silence Minho asks the question that has been lingering on the tip of his tongue. “Hyung…” He murmurs into the darkness. Chan hums, nuzzling his face against Minho’s neck as he whispers. “Who’s Jisungie?”
Past - Chan 🏶
In the beginning, everything was perfect between Chan and Minho. Following the night of the ballet season Finale, and Han Jisung’s unfortunate accident. Chan used his compel ability to safely remove Minho from the building, clouding his and Jisung’s memories, tying up all loose ends nicely. He’d chuckled to himself whilst reading the newspaper the following day on reports of two shocking backstage accidents that had occurred within the confines of the Opera House. Chan brought Minho home, to the penthouse and showered him with gifts, adoration and love every single day.
Minho was happy, truly. Everything was perfect in their little bubble overlooking the city and just so. Minho went about his days with experimental cooking—he’s so creative and intuitive. He would work out and practice yoga, keeping himself fit and healthy. Sometimes he’d come and sit quietly in the study, curling up on the recliner chair overlooking the window to read, as Chan worked. In the evenings, Chan would take him out for expensive meals, cocktails, the theatre—but never the ballet, for obvious reasons. Then one day out of the blue, Minho came to Chan and asked for them to go to the ballet. “Hyung! Let’s go to the ballet…” Chan had frowned back at Minho and suggested maybe they could sometime, but not right now. Lee Minho is a persistent little dove when he wants something. He asked with such sweetness falling from his lips like a caramel dessert as he climbed into Chan’s lap. “Please, take me?” He whined. Chan finds him simply irresistible, so charming he couldn’t say no, even with doubt cast in his mind. When asked what show in particular he would like to see, he announced Swan Lake of all things, Chan didn't have the foresight of this being the starting point of their sweet demise. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, even for centuries old vampires.
Chan took Minho to see Swan Lake, as requested and everything still seemed fine for around a week after it. Then, Minho started acting differently. Minho started to withdraw. Minho became quiet, too quiet. He started complaining of headaches and grumbled his head felt foggy a lot of the time. He came to Chan and told him he was having the most vivid of dreams, all of the time. When Chan asked him to describe the dreams, panic tore through him like a hurricane upon realisation that Minho’s memories were starting to come back to him. Memories of his life before Chan. Memories of a life Chan has been meticulously suppressing, without his knowledge. In his trepidation of Minho’s admission Chan started gaslighting Minho, persuading him it was all in his silly head. They were just dreams and nothing more, for a time that worked, despite Minho’s recoiling Chan still had control of the strings attached to his puppet.
That was until the first time Minho attempted to leave, when they were out at dinner one night. Minho had announced he was stepping into the restroom and never came back. Alarm bells chimed in Chan’s ears when he realised Minho had simply got up and left the restaurant, without a coat, a phone or any money on his person. He simply had the desire to escape. Chan found him a few blocks away and coaxed him back. Chan was amused the first time, not taking it seriously or taking further precautions until Minho attempted it again a few weeks later while they were out at a bar, Chan was mixing business with pleasure and the moment he took eyes off Minho, he was gone. He learned his lesson that time. Nowadays, Chan has to take serious measures to keep Minho safe, under lock and key within the penthouse, he even changes the door code every few days. Minho isn’t allowed to just enter his study anymore and trinkets of interest are locked away. They’ve stopped going out in the evenings because of it, but Chan tells Minho it’s because he’s very busy with work, Minho seems to buy into it, for now. So far, Minho has attempted to leave five times. He’s never made it further than a few blocks from the apartment, but it’s always the same, like it’s unplanned but rather a spontaneous decision to just run. The last time he even left without shoes on his feet and he was chilled to the bone when Chan caught up to him. Minho’s desire to leave is growing stronger the more he recoils from Chan’s smothering embrace.
This most recent attempt of escape has been the most concerning. Minho kept his dreams to himself and now he knows Jisung by name. Chan’s little bird is pulling further and further away and it’s come at the worst possible time. A few weeks ago, the whispers began in Chan’s ear. The softest whispers are growing louder now as they draw near, whispers of the voice he fears more than anything on this God forsaken earth. More than Minho actually pulling off a successful escape.
Yongbok. The appearance of an angel, but carries the wrath of the darkest of demons within and when they find Chan, they will have vengeance.
I’m coming for you, my sweet child. Not long now, Chan.
Yongbok has finally found Chan, after searching far and wide, scouring every corner of the earth. Chan senses their closeness, it’s the blood-bond. It’s only a matter of time now, before trouble and strife darkens his doorstep. Chan is terror-stricken. He will be punished for his act of betrayal.
Present - Minho 🏶
Chan has been on edge for the past week or so. Today has been a particularly difficult day, he’s most unlike his usual poised self. He’s not groomed and dressed in his usual impeccable attire. He’s paced the length of the penthouse, sighing and huffing in between attaching himself to Minho like a parasite crawling under his skin. Just like he is right now, curling himself into Minho on the couch—suffocating him with love. It’s always been intense with Chan, but this is becoming unbearable, the air that fills Minho’s lungs is becoming unbreathable. Something has Chan in panic which is sending a wave of unease throughout Minho. The elevator chimes loudly from the hallway, startling them both. Unannounced visitors never come to the penthouse. Actually, no one comes to the penthouse. Chan bolts upright from the couch, pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his hair muttering words Minho can’t make out from his seat overlooking the city.
“Do you want me to get that?” Minho questions nervously when Chan has made no move to actually see who it is, as if he already knows.
“No!” Chan growls, then immediately rushes over to Minho, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m sorry little dove, I shouldn’t have raised my voice, I’ll go… It’s fine. Just stay here for me, ok?” Chan whispers softly before padding towards the hallway. Minho waits until Chan is out of sight resisting the order to stay put before leaping off the couch to pursue him, to find out who has dared arrive unannounced at the penthouse and have Chan riled up this way.
As Minho arrives into the open plan space, Chan is bowing and wringing his hands together as he speaks in a hushed voice. Minho's footsteps must have alerted him to his arrival as Chan spins around and gasps. “Minho! My love, I asked you to stay where you were—”
“I wanted to see who it was? Sorry…” Minho mutters an apology, wrapping his arms around himself. The temperature in the penthouse now feels Baltic. Why is it so cold in here?
“Hello, Lee Minho. You may address me as Yongbok.” The visitor announces as they step into view from behind Chan’s stature with a deep, velvety voice, hypnotic. “I’ve been very curious to meet you, indeed, the one who captured Chan’s heart.”
This person, only divulged as Yongbok, has an aura about them that stocks Minho with equal parts awe and dread. On initial appearance, Minho would describe them as ethereal, they carry an air of refinery—like, they hold all of the knowledge of the world and beyond within them. Petite in stature, far smaller than Chan, smaller than Minho too—yet, their presence dominates the entire penthouse. White-blonde hair, styled off their face, flowing down to the shoulders, save a strand which falls neatly over the forehead just off centre. Their face is lovely, pixie-esque with charming and dazzling features, like feline eyes and shapely brows, high cheekbones painted in warm freckles like the sun has personally kissed their skin in gratitude. Pretty lips, full and pinkish. The most striking feature is the eyes, Minho is unable to tear his gaze away, despite every fibre of his being screaming not to gaze upon this, Yongbok. Deep sapphire blue, so bewitching and shining with wisdom as they penetrate into Minho, as if he’s staring right into his soul.
Yongbok smiles graciously as they glide further into the penthouse, making their way over to the couch, like the feet barely touch the floor. Yongbok looks over their shoulder briefly as Chan and Minho follow behind on instinct. “So, tell me Minho, how did you and Chan meet?”
Minho takes a seat diagonal to Yongbok, fidgeting nervously with his hands in his lap. “We met—” He pauses, words failing him as he wracks his brain. He has no memory of it? This is bad. He’ll disappoint Chan. He must know? Why is everything clouding him? Fogging his thoughts and distorting his memories into something conjoined between reality and dream? His mind is blank. How did we meet?
Yongbok smiles softly, patiently waiting for Minho to provide an answer. “Tell me Minho, you sweet thing… You have a headache right now don’t you? Something chronic attacking your temples, like it’s clouding your judgement and suppressing your thoughts… Yes?”
Minho blinks rapidly as his temples pulse with the ever present dull ache. “I—Yes, I get them a lot… I think it's why I don't leave the penthouse much… For my well being.”
“How interesting, you poor thing…” Yongbok’s voice is saccharin as their expression sympathises. “You know… I can help you with that if you like, hm?” They suggest with a pleasant smile.
“How?” Minho questions curiosity drawing him in.
“Yongbok—” Chan tries to intervene.
“Shh. I have ways, Minho. I can help take all the pain away, you sweet thing.”
“Yongbok, don't—” Chan’s voice is halted as Yongbok snaps two fingers together, causing an echo around the vastness of the penthouse so roaring, it could be mistaken for a thunderclap, had Minho not seen it with his own eyes.
“Silence, Chan.” Yongbok speaks in a soothing, hushed voice and Chan appears paralyzed when Minho glances over at him. His eyes hold fear and sadness within them he notes. This is an odd moment. Something in the air is charged and for the first time in what feels like eons, Minho feels a sense of liberation flowing through his core.
“Minho, may I lay my hands upon you, my darling?” Yongbok places hands on their own temples as they regard Minho. “Right here at your temples?”
Minho glances back to Chan, who still appears immobilized opposite Yongbok. He shakes his head, looking petrified. Sheer panic and pleading reflect from his face. Minho turns back to Yongbok, meeting his fierce gaze, those bright sapphire eyes, almost glowing with influence. They’re like nothing he’s encountered before—unworldly. Minho’s mind is crystal clear. Free from the shackles of torment. No haziness or confusion shrouding him, no stress or anxiety weighing on him.
“Yes.” Minho confirms with a gentle nod.
Yongbok rises from the seat and steps towards Minho, leaning their body in as delicate hands with long wiry fingers reach in to press at his temples with the lightest of touch. Minho’s body jolts suddenly like all of the air is being forced out from his lungs as his back arches and his head falls backwards, despite being held in Yongbok’s fingers. An overload of flashbacks surge through his mind—moving images like old fashioned home movies, but appearing in clear high definition—bombarding him instantaneously—feeding him all of his suppressed memories—his life in the ballet—how he became principal dancer—how he met Jisung—how Jisung became first violinist—they were an exceptional and elite couple—so in love—so happy—the black roses—Chan’s appearance at his changing room—the night of the season finale—Chan’s torment and assault on Jisung’s fingers—the kidnap of Minho—Chan’s imprisonment and obsession of him—the gaslighting and manipulation—Chan’s true form, cast in hideous shadows—the mind control—Minho escaping on multiple occasions, only for Chan to force him back—the visions fade out into nothing and Minho’s eyes blink rapidly as Yongbok releases their fingers, taking a step backwards with a soft smile.
“You see, Chan has lost his way. He’s committed such atrocities towards you Lee Minho, and the one you call Han Jisung. He’s lost his way and the fault in that lies with me, so I needed to show you the truth, it’s a sorrowful tale and I apologize for his actions. For a time, I neglected him, my sweet child. In return, he sought rebellion and has reigned chaos and destruction on you.”
Minho's mind is soaring with questions and emotions making it difficult to formulate any words. He blinks up at Yongbok who regards him with a serene smile. “Are you—” Minho stops, shaking his head and taking a deep breath. “What are you?” His voice cracks as his words escape him.
Yongbok laughs deep from the belly and Minho flushes with awkwardness. “I’m old. Very old darling. I’ve walked many versions of this earth for thousands of years. When I first arrived, I was bloodthirsty, ravenous and fearless. I was terror itself, for that was my order from my own maker. His will was my command until he was no more, then I made my own rules and changed my destiny while I’m forced to roam this land for eternity or until I meet my maker again… You see, I’m Chan’s maker, his will is my command and he’s broken that, so now I must punish him for betraying me, for it is our way.”
Minho shakes his head. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re thousands of years old? You really expect me to believe that? Is this some kind of sick joke?” Minho seethes.
“I like your gumption, Lee Minho. Out of Chan’s hold you’re quite the fire-cracker are you not?” Yongbok smirks. “Believe what you will, I speak my truth and I have told you my tale. Nowadays, I believe humans would call us vampires, we’ve been called many things over the years, of course… What do you think that I performed on you right there? Some parlour trick? I think not. I hold power you could only dream of understanding, young one.” Yongbok takes a seat back on the couch, crossing a leg eloquently over the over and looks back at Chan with malice in their bright eyes.
“What am I to do with you, my child?” Yongbok muses.
Minho clears his throat. “Who do you mean? Me… Or him?”
“Him.” Yongbok mutters without looking towards Minho, glare fixated on Chan. “You are free to leave, Lee Minho… Bang Chan belongs to me.”
“I—” Minho ponders what this means for him now. He doesn’t know how much time has even passed, where Jisung is or how to return to him, how can he explain this to him? What if Jisung doesn’t remember him—or worse, doesn’t want him? “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or where I’m supposed to go now?” He mutters.
“I will help you darling child, it will come at a cost though.” Yongbok says. “I can set you free from this nightmare, Lee Minho. It comes at a cost though, I’m afraid, like most things do in this cruel thing you call life.”
“What is it?” Minho asks.
“In order to grant you true freedom, I’ll need to revoke all of your memories. Wipe them all away, you’ll have no recollection of Bang Chan, myself or the one you call Han Jisung… I am sorry, but that is the way it must be. Do you wish to be released?”
What is worse? A life having loved and lost Jisungie, his Jagi or a life never knowing his love at all? Never knowing him at all? The anguish floods him like a burst riverbank.
“I know it’s a difficult decision to make Lee Minho, but your time on this earth is short, young one. Your freedom to live a life, shouldn’t be such a thing to ponder on. Who knows, you may have a chance to meet your love all over again, hm?” Yongbok says.
Minho can’t think of this anymore. He needs to be free, he’s been trapped and imprisoned, manipulated by Chan for long enough. He’s loved Jisung once and he’ll swear on his own short life, he’ll find him and love him once more until the day he dies. “Make it so…” He whispers.
“Excellent choice, Lee Minho.” Yongbok applauds.
Minho turns to Chan. Tears stream down his face as he remains trapped Yongbok’s personal domain, to be punished how they see fit, whatever that may be. Minho does not know or care to know. This is real. This isn’t a dream. Minho doesn’t love Chan.
“If Yongbok wished it so.” Minho points toward Yongbok, with his eyes locked on Chan. “I’d gladly watch you burn to ashes for this. Yonkbok wants to keep you though, wants to lock you away and imprison you, just as you’ve done to me, so instead let these be my final words to you, I hope you’re listening very clearly…” Minho takes a deep breath, his voice speaks calm and true. “I hope you’ll always remember this moment, Bang Chan. I hope this moment will always be crystal clear in your memory and not cloudy or disjointed like mine have been. I hope you'll always remember these words.” Minho takes a few steps closer to Chan and leans into his ear. “I hate you with every fibre of my being. I hate you for stealing my life from me. I hate you for hurting my Jisungie. I hate you for keeping me trapped here against my will. I’ve never loved you. Love is something that is given freely and never manipulated. I’ll hate you for the rest of my life and beyond that, even when I’m dead and buried in the ground while the worms feast upon my carcass, when my memory of you is long gone. I hope you’ll always have my voice and these last words repeating to you in your mind for all of eternity. Good bye Bang Chan, I hope you fester and rot in your own nightmares until the end of time.”
Present, 1 year forward - Minho and Chan - The Finale 🏶
Minho wanders into the auditorium, breathing in the atmosphere as he admires the ornate carvings in the wooden décor. He runs his fingers over the luxurious fabrics covering the seating and notes the same flamboyance in the heavy flowing curtains of the stage. It’s all so grande and theatrical. It’s truly stunning, he’s dizzy and overcome with an immense sense of belonging—yet, unable to recall why? He's never been to the ballet. This is a special treat for himself, for doing so well during his repressed memory therapy this year. It’s been a long hard struggle after waking up one day with no memory whatsoever of who he is or was. He was just another John Doe for some time. An unknown. A nobody. All alone and lost in a vast world without answers, but now he’s Lee Minho and getting there slowly. He’s recovering his identity piece by piece, while living his life as much as he can. He still clings to hope. Hope of finding what is missing, or who is missing from his life.
As he wanders to his row he peers at his allocated seat number on his phone then back at the handsome man who appears to be occupying it. He clears his throat. “Uh, excuse me?” He says softly as the man glances up from his programme to meet Minho’s eyes. He pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, before smiling warmly at Minho. “Sorry.” Minho chuckles nervously. “It’s not a big deal or anything, but I think you may be in my seat?” He explains as he shows the email receipt on his phone, confirming his seat number.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” The man stands immediately, fussing to gather his coat and glancing at the seat number. “I was so excited to come this evening, I didn’t check the seat number properly, please forgive me!” He gushes with a pretty pink dusting across the dewy skin on the apples of his cheeks.
“It’s fine, really. I shouldn’t have even said anything, it looks like we’re right next to each other anyway.” Minho smiles back at him.
“In that case, I was just keeping it warm for you!” The man chuckles as he takes the seat next to Minho as they both sit down.
“Have you seen this before?” The man questions softly holding his programme up between slender fingers that could belong to a musician, except Minho’s eyes widen in surprise when he notes the severe scar damage on the man’s fingers upon closer inspection. He blushes and smiles ruefully at Minho in realisation before looking at his own hand. “I had a terrible accident.” He explains softly, with a melancholy expression. “The scarring is hideous I know, but it’s still healing slowly, so…”
“I’m sorry!” Minho apologises. “I didn’t mean to stare, truly… For what it’s worth, I think your scars are pretty!” Minho blurts out, before sudden panic washes over him at such a ridiculous statement, but then the beautiful man smiles warmly at him in response. “I haven’t.” Minho confirms with a shake of his head. “Seen it before, I’ve always wanted to though… Swan Lake is such a beautiful, bittersweet story, don’t you think?”
“I agree! Tchaikovsky’s composition along with the ballet movements are just so beautiful, working in perfect lyrical harmony with one another, music and dance as one… This is my first time also, it’s nice to know I’m not experiencing it alone, this evening…” He says softly with a shy smile curling on his lips.
“In that case, I’m happy to share this with you.” Minho smiles back, unable not to, this man is so beautiful, his smile is golden, brightening his entire face and it’s warm like sunshine. Something Minho welcomes after feeling the embrace of shadows for so long. “I’m Minho, by the way.” He offers his hand to shake. “It’s great to meet you.”
The man accepts his handshake and places his hand against Minho’s offering a firm, but gentle shake. Minho notes how their hands slot perfectly together and his touch is soothing against his skin. “I’m Jisung. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Minho.” Jisung leans back, regarding Minho’s face, their hands still locked in a handshake that is now unmoving, yet neither have felt the need to release their grip. “This is going to sound strange, but you look familiar to me, have we met at all?”
Minho’s smile deepens as his finger mindlessly caresses the scar over Jisung’s hand. “I have that same feeling actually, you also seem familiar, but I’m not sure we have… I’d remember you, if we had… I’m certain of it.” Minho feels the blush creeping across his own cheeks as Jisung’s eyes widen from his comment.
From the balcony directly above them, Chan sits rigidly as he balls his fist around the programme held between his fingers, then Yongbok’s cold slender hand slithers across to rest on top of it.
“Ahh, look.” Yongbok comments in a buttery voice, like velvet. “How poignantly sweet.” Gripping Chan’s chin firmly between the wiry fingers of their free hand. Long painted blood-red nail tips embedding into Chan skin, leaving little indentations as they force his gaze down towards the two humans below them, who are oblivious of their interaction being scrutinized from above by the vampires. “Would you look at that? A chance of a first encounter all over again… Let this be a cold harsh lesson in love to you, Bang Chan.” Yongbok chuckles softly, yet the words come laced with venom. “Your delicate little dove never belonged to you, his heart always belonged to another, and no matter how much you attempted to manipulate that… No matter how much you imprisoned him in your penthouse and attempted to control his every move, he’s free now and flown right back to whom he was meant to be with, don’t you see? Humanity is lost on us, my sweet child. All this silliness was for nothing, Chan. It’s brought you nothing but an eternity of pain and suffering.”
“Why did you bring me here, Yongbok? Have you not punished me enough already, by revealing the truth to him? By letting him leave me of his own free will?” Chan mutters, jerking his head free from Yongbok’s hold. “I love him so much.” He whispers breathlessly as he regards Minho’s statuesque side profile from below.
Yongbok leans in close, whispering with an ice cold tone. “There will never be enough years throughout our entire immortality together to punish you for escaping me, my child… You will never escape me again, I’ll make sure of it…” Yongbok leans back into the chair, crossing a leg over the other gracefully. “But this is a nice starting point, don’t you think?”
“Fuck you, Yongbok.” Chan hisses through gritted teeth, tears brimming in his eyes. “I’ll hate you for all of eternity for taking him away from me.”
Yongbok sighs softly, voice now saccharine sweet as they reach across to collect a fallen teardrop from Chan’s cheek onto the tip of their finger. Regarding it for a moment before sliding it between red glossed lips, licking it slowly. “Oh, my darling child! Such vulgar language. Let’s leave the pillow talk for after the performance, hm?” Yongbok leans in to peck Chan on the cheek causing him to wince. “We still have manners, after all.” The conductor makes his way out and shakes the hand of the first violinist before raising his baton in the air. The curtain’s drawback, revealing a spectacular backdrop on the stage display for the first act. The audience erupt into a cacophony of applause, then as the auditorium falls into silence, the conductor begins waving his arms in fluid movement for the orchestra to come to life as the music begins. Tchaikovsky, Swan Lake, the first act. “Ah, Swan Lake… A classic tale of love, betrayal and redemption… All of my favourites! Let’s enjoy it, my child.”