he stood in a corner of the studio’s lobby, watching dance students file out of the mirrored practice room, toting duffle bags, swinging water bottles, mopping sweat from their faces and chatting boisterously with each other as if the world around them wasn’t a complete lie. one or two eyed him curiously, maybe even suspiciously, as they passed; he wasn’t a regular, he wasn’t even familiar. he didn’t do anything resembling dancing ever, let alone set foot in the dance studio his best friend taught at. he loomed ominously in his corner, quiet, unmoving, his hands in his pocket, like a shadow with eyes.
if he made eye contact with any of the students, he stared back, as if challenging them to say something. he was in a confrontational mood, in fact, it was what he’d come here for in the first place, and if he had to get any nosy passerby off his case with a few choice words, he would.
when he was sure the room was empty he brushed past the last student, his target in sight. the air was still thick with the lingering humidity of sweat and active bodies, making the cotton of his own t-shirt hug his frame, as if prompted by some sudden bout of static electricity. he sniffed, eyeing the back of jongin’s frame with all the patience of a hungry wolf.
taeyong hadn’t missed the sudden shift in jongin’s behavior, the way he seemed to avoid eye contact or conversation or interaction altogether. they’d been best friends one minute, then strangers the next, almost literally, leaving taeyong to add jongin’s distressing apathy to a growing list of stressors.
perhaps it was too self-indulgent to think his best friend might have been there for him after the death of his brother.
he thought about picking up a nearby towel from the floor, balling it up, and throwing it at the back of jongin’s head to get his attention. instead he sniffed, cleared his throat, kept his hands safely in the pockets of his jeans.
“so you are alive then,” he greeted finally, flatly, a dig at the fact that he hadn’t heard from jongin in weeks, yet was all too aware of his presence (or lack thereof) looming over his head, “good to know.”
solace: i’ll write my character comforting yours or vice versa.( au where kana has more knowledge about what is going on in jongin’s life than she does ic currently )
“please don’t let him die,” and she does not beg. in her seat across from eunwoo in the tiny diner they’ve met in, she is dignified. the tears on her cheeks are hot and wet, but she holds her head high, and she doesn’t look away for a moment. if eunwoo was not jongin’s card, she would destroy him; she reassures herself in the back of her mind so she does not lose her resolve, her dignity, or her strength. desperation and these aren’t mutually exclusive; desperation isn’t a word she associates with herself, and she can add that to the list of reasons why she shouldn’t bother with kim jongin anymore, if he makes her do this.
eunwoo’s eyebrows furrow. jongin could die. it’s a reality he knew of, maybe-- surely, but that didn’t quite settle in until now, and he frowns. suddenly it is a little harder for him to breathe too.
what he says is, “humans are confusing,” because he doesn’t know the words for a promise he wants to make, but can’t keep. something like i don’t want him to die either. he won’t die, will he? do you really think he’ll die? what can i do? nothing.
“of course we are,” kana snorts, still as prideful as ever through her tears. “you’re a card.” and she doesn’t sniffle, even though she can’t breathe through her nose. she rubs a hand along the side of her face like she’s itching it, but really just brushes away the tears.
eunwoo’s primary thought: how can so much hatred and so much love be in a single body?
he doesn’t understand her, especially. she is something different. he studies her face-- tries to understand. ultimately, she looks tired, underneath the bitterness, real or feigned, and the preemptive grief. his eyebrows furrow again, because there is so much love right below the surface, but then it disappears, like she is constantly fighting against it. it makes his head spin. no wonder she is so tired.
he purses his lips, suddenly at such a loss-- suddenly so useless.
“do you really think he’ll die?” he asks, voice small, because he can’t help himself.
the sadness that flickers in his eyes is so real that suddenly, kana feels guilt. for a moment, she believes him, and she regrets her cruelty, but it fades. in its wake, however, it leaves something different-- not more harshness, but a stark vulnerability.
“he can’t die,” she answers, even more quietly, like it’s a secret, because it is. her tears have since dried, but her hand still shakes as she curls her fingers around the handle of her coffee cup and gingerly lifts it to her lips.
“but he can. he can die, but i-- can’t live without him. so just-- please.”
suddenly, eunwoo understands, despite his confusion, and despite his-- jealousy? and he still may have a heart. it is dark and tattered, but capable of beating, and breaking the smallest bit. sympathy; maybe there is sympathy too, or empathy, if they dare.
he rises from their booth at the diner, leaving kana at the table alone to cover her eyes with her hands and rub the sadness out of her features. she doesn’t expect eunwoo to return. instead, she feels foolish, and wonders if she wasted time she could spend on something that may actually save her best friend.
but he does, and when he comes back, he slides a plate across the table with a single cupcake on it. eunwoo doesn’t know how to comfort people, really, but he tries. "cupcakes always make me feel better,” he explains, a bit stiffly.
it takes kana a moment to wade through her confusion, and another still to decide she doesn’t care if he’s trying to poison her. she picks it up and takes a bite, only to watch eunwoo shove an entire matching cupcake into his mouth across the table. a smile ghosts over her lips, if only for a split second.
i love him too, eunwoo thinks-- wants to say, but also doesn’t. what kind of love is it?
kang seulgi, across the table, cupcake in hand, heart still heavy: can you tell me what kind of love this is?
love: i’ll write a drabble of my character admitting they love yours
for someone that handled it quite often, eunwoo didn’t know much about love.
he knew what it looked like. it wasn’t red roses or foiled hearts. it was fleeting. now and then, it was caught in a photograph. the minuscule details of how close someone clung onto their partner or how their fingers curled carefully into another’s clothing were what eunwoo traced over in these faded moments. other times, it was a glaze of fondness in a man’s eyes or a tinge of pink in a woman’s cheeks. it was delicate and alluring from the outside-in.
he knew what it smelled like. it was as simple as some burnt toast and overcooked eggs for a sunday breakfast, or a spritz of a christmas gift’s perfume. the aroma of love was tender, and it reminded him of warm honey being stirred into tea. it was life’s syrup to sweetness, and its scent was one that caught at the back of one’s throat, lingering there for a short while.
he knew what it sounded like. sometimes it was loud and drunken, impassioned on the rewards of lust. other times it was soft and needy, sighing out puffs of desperation, sandwiched between each breath. whether it was a burst of chime-like laughter or those long croons better saved for the bedroom, love’s voice was full. it was rounded with more than oxygen from the lungs, but almost like the heart were pulsing a fervor into it.
but he had forgotten what it felt like — until he met jongin.
“get inside.” jongin waved eunwoo towards his building, where the latter would hike up to his empty apartment and feel— well, empty. he also shuddered, but eunwoo didn’t know if it was from impatience or nighttime’s frost.
he didn’t move.
here, it was perfect.
they were alone, illuminated by a sole street lamp. the occasional breeze nudged between them, but that was all. any time, eunwoo could change things. he could make jongin fall in love with him, and he could erase everyone else — but if that was the toll for happiness, he was hesitant.
“is something wrong?” jongin asked, and eunwoo could read that puzzled expression. that goddamn vat of genuine care. it tormented him so.
“no—” eunwoo lied.
jongin responded with a doubtful look.
so, he preserved this moment — the point where the two were merely hero and card. this was where he could look jongin in the eye and not feel remorse. this was where he would go years from now, pondering on the what ifs.
because eunwoo wanted him. it wasn’t in a sexual way. perhaps it wasn’t even a romantic way. he wanted to keep jongin here, with him. it was ludicrous and selfish, but this was the one thing he would bet every penny on.
he wanted jongin for himself, because no one else would have him like jongin does.
the three words were tied on his tongue, and he stared back at jongin — waiting, worried.
jongin stepped forward, and eunwoo stepped back. it was defensive. he had let the other in too deep already.
the one move shattered the balance that had kindled in the silence. only now, eunwoo heard the engines of vehicles whirring in the street over, and he heard the far-off chatter of the television from the third floor. he heard jongin’s breathing, steady and solid.
eunwoo forced out a dry laugh. the smile felt foreign on his lips. if he didn’t brush it off, he would crumble.
“i love you, stupid.” he pretended his voice didn’t crack, breaking off like a chunk of ice. and he went inside.
eunwoo knew it. jongin’s stench was like a tramp in need of a bath. every day, he detected the details of love curling in the air, just shy of his fingertips. it was everywhere. it glazed over his client’s eyes and whistled down a sun-soaked sidewalk. it was raw in his barista’s voice, and it was heard between the thin walls of his apartment. whenever he encountered it, it flooded into him like the sweetest oxygen. yet, it sickened him. ever since the seal’s fall, it ached him in the confines of his chest. it was here, now. jongin was in love — he reeked of it.
he was quiet. if he were being honest, he had known of jongin’s condition for weeks. eunwoo didn’t picture himself in the position to ask questions. true, jongin was the most important person to him — even if he himself was weak, he would defend the boy with his life. still, he was hesitant. the other had never expressed anger or frustration towards him, and he didn’t want to see the only stable relationship he had crumble. but now, it was so potent, so dizzying, that he could no longer ignore it.
the two were at jongin’s place. eunwoo managed a couple nicks and scratches from a little scuffle. he was surprised, because jongin seldom summoned him. his abilities were less fit for battle than kyungsoo. he was akin to a ragdoll — a useless and easy target. “daddy,” eunwoo paused, picking and choosing the right words. “what do you know about love?” jongin couldn’t fool him, but he was curious to see if he would try.
yulhee stirs, and she isn’t sure at first where she is. the ground beneath her back is hard, so she isn’t in bed, and there are faint noises all around her, unidentifiable voices crying and screaming, sometimes even calling to her.
one is right above her, calling her name. “yulhee! yulhee, wake up, please!” the voice is familiar, but somehow it strikes both relief and fear into her heart. confused, she cracks her eyes open, her mind still spinning from losing all its oxygen when jongin tried to strangle her.
she opens her eyes, and sees jongin leaning over her now. the same face that had just been glaring down at her as he choked the life from her. yulhee stares up at him for a moment, before her eyes go wide and she tries to scream.
all that comes out are coughs and a rough, torn voice as she tries to scramble backwards, but her trembling body doesn’t want to support her. there are still tears coating her cheeks as even more spill from her eyes to join them, and a shaking hand grabs at her sword, which thankfully is lying on the ground next to her. “get away,” she rasps, unable to make her voice work properly. she can’t help but cough, but even as she dissolves into a long fit of coughing and hacking and trying to get enough air through her bruised windpipe, she manages to keep her eyes open and her sword pointed at jongin.
“get away from me!” she demands, her voice still hoarse but slightly stronger once she comes out of her coughing fit. staring into his face that she once loved -- that she still loves -- all she can think is that she has to run.
{ trigger warning: gore, asphyxiation, mutilation, everything in that zone. ugH }
it’s chilling. the image of her mother in front of her now touches her face, and it feels just like her. “you’ve grown up so well,” the woman says, and when kana next blinks, her father is there, right beside her mother as always.
all kana allows herself is a single calming inhale and exhale. they are dead. this is a reality she is aware of, and doesn’t question. she remembers their death clearly still, only a year and a half in the past now, growing further with each passing day, but that day is ironed behind her eyelids and emblazoned in her blood.
envy in a life like this is dangerous, and selfish, but it has never stopped kana. it’s a feeling she keeps to herself: the fact that she resents never having a last moment with them. (she would’ve killed them herself if it meant she could say goodbye.)
she was never allowed this privilege. she witnessed death, and carried the burden of it without any kind, parting words or monstrous creations. her entire world collapsed around her in a matter of seconds, and she could do nothing. it was a choice someone with no authority in her life made for all of them. (they weren’t even human.)
“thank you,” she says, and it is not for her false mother’s compliments. it is thank you for finally allowing me this. it’s nice to see them again without the blood, though it’ll be short-lived. and with her acceptance, something bubbles within the veins of her replica parents’ necks, and as she prepares to attack, droplets of blood appear, and drip onto their clothes. they slowly change from their innocent, familiar appearance to the last image she has of them in her mind, and as they do, the flow of blood grows stronger, and their eyes grow more terrified.
“seulgi, help us,” her mother calls, and she can hear her father crying.
“if you have to leave me, do it, but save your mother.”
(so this is what she would’ve seen if she made it in time to help them that night.)
she shakes her head, and with a snap of her wrist, her whip is around her mother’s neck, and then with focus, she extends it to snake around her father’s as well, tying them together as they slowly choke to death. the sound of it is always terrible, but they’re not her parents; it is any other kill.
(sometimes she wishes she had knives for weapons instead. the barbed wire of her whip digs into their skin, and it tightens and tightens, and they bleed more, and their faces turn purple, and this is how it always is. it suits her, though. death reminds her what she is fighting for, and it is this: the fact that she can hear their whispers of we do not deserve this; we did not deserve this in her mind even after her weapon long punctures their voice boxes. she agrees.)
and when they disappear, it’s like a puzzle piece offset in her finally falls into place. she can breathe a little easier, because now the guilt she has felt since their death falls into place with the atrocity she just committed, and it adds up. no one else took them from her this time.
she reassesses the situation, but not much as changed; if anything, her team members are a little closer, and more panic has spread. everything seems like a blur, and she isn’t sure if it’s the exertion of her energy that does it, or if the familiar has more ways than one of messing with their minds, but she can see now...countless humanoid forms emerging from wax, and cards and magical heroes alike facing them.
is it a test? is this one of the games of the hanged man? if so, she wins...right?
she has to step aside to make way for wax that nearly drips on top of her, and from it emerges...kim jongin.
she sighs.
“there isn’t any incarnation of you that can mind your own business, is there?”
“i was worried about you.”
“please,” she laughs bitterly.
“i promised you i wouldn’t leave you. how could i not find you in a place like thi--”
and she cuts his words off by flicking her whip around his neck too.
“stupidity gets you killed.”
this isn’t the real jongin. (the real jongin is too busy helping people more helpless than she is; this will always be the case.)
she saw him rise from wax, and yet the resemblance is uncanny. she turns away from the sight-- yanks on the end of her whip to tighten its hold around her best friend’s throat, and ignores as he chokes on air that will never reach his lungs. she feigns disinterest-- pretends like the fight is so easy she can kill him blindfolded, but in truth, she is searching.
where is the real kim jongin? it’s then she realizes she has no idea; maybe the creature consumed him already. the battlefield is disorienting, and makes her head swim, but she thinks she catches a glimpse of him in the distance, dangerously close to the familiar, and that is all the confirmation she needs.
she spins on her heel, and knocks the replica kim jongin to the ground, and stands firmly with one foot on his chest and the other on the ground as she tugs. his blood oozes over the sides of the whip, and she tightens it again-- pulls and tightens, and when his head finally snaps off of his neck, and his blood sprays into her face, she doesn’t blink.
(the blood is so real, too. how does the familiar manage to make it out of wax? does it really drip wax, or is it magic incarnate? for her, science and magic are intertwined, and this is something she will intently study when she makes it out of this alive.)
“what the hell was that?” a familiar, yet distant voice asks from beside her. she spins around again, so quickly that it nearly gives her whiplash.
“seulgi, what the fuck? how could you kill him-- after everyone else that died? you kill jongin? why?”
it’s her brother. kang sungmin-- she hasn’t seen him since her parents died. for as much as she knew, he died with them, though she never saw the body. she hasn’t seen him alive either, until now.
“no, that wasn’t him-- what the fuck are you doing here?” and she squints, already suspicious. two challenges are enough, right? she didn’t see where her brother came from to know if he too was born from wax, so it’s possible he became a magical hero too, and became too swept up in the lifestyle to ever come back for his innocent sister. maybe the aura of the convention brought him back.
“i came to fight. i ran away for too long...don’t you think?” and he laughs, but it’s empty-- familiar, because he sounds like her. his gaze hardens then, set on her, and suddenly a menacing sickle on the end of a chain appears in his hands. he swings it in a circle, charging up the attack like a lasso, and she barely has time to leap aside before the attack is hurtling at her. she’s on the ground, and then she must roll aside and leap to her feet to evade another attack from him.
“i can’t allow you to take anyone else from me!” he yells.
“what about me?” she screams back. “i’m the only family you have now!”
whether he actually hesitates or it’s just her imagination, kana doesn’t know, but she uses this time to gain the upper hand. first, she uses her whip to tie around her brother’s weapon, and in his shock, she yanks it out of his hand. she then flings it across the battle field, and sungmin charges after it, but she whips him across the back, over and over until he finally falls to his knees and collapses.
her brother is strong. somehow, this is a reality that makes sense. (but is it a reality? this is the last question she needs answered.)
“i didn’t kill jongin. kim jongin is still alive. in case you haven’t noticed, this familiar we’re fighting? when all of that shit falls from its arms, it summons mirror images of people we’ve loved to try to distract us from what we’re really supposed to be doing, which is fighting it, and surviving. that’s what i killed.”
“then how do i know...you’re the real kana?” he asks, using his dwindling strength to roll over and face her.
“you shouldn’t know that’s my name,” she says, and she laughs, and it’s almost maniacal. it’s then she realizes he looks exactly the same as she remembers him: he’s wearing his favorite t-shirt, and he hasn’t aged a day. suddenly she knows who she’s fighting.
(answer: no one at all. an illusion. a trick.)
“that sounds like...something a clone would say,” sungmin manages, even as she steps on his chest and ties her whip around his neck as well.
“i realized...if you were the real sungmin...i wouldn’t know anything about you. and you wouldn’t know anything about me,” she explains. the world has changed since they last saw each other. “and you look exactly the same. i’m not even the same person i was two years ago.”
the whip tightens around his throat again, like a deadly, toxic plant whose only intention is to kill and grow of its own volition. (and maybe her weapon suits her exactly.)
“you’ve gotten...darker,” sungmin agrees, but she doesn’t know why he keeps talking, and how he looks so peaceful even as blood drips from his neck. maybe they are too alike. would she squirm when faced with death? surely, it is impossible to be any part human and not scream when a hundred tiny knives pierce your neck deeper and deeper.
his blood drips, and some of it lands on her socks, already stained red more than a year ago. she wonders if now, other magical heroes will grow darker too, when confronted with the reality of their lives: with the reality of loss at their own hands.
if that’s the case, and sungmin is one of them now, she doesn’t want him to experience it.
“if you are the real sungmin, i realized...that i want you dead anyway. being alive here...isn’t a gift. it is a burden. all you have if you survive here is the hope of making sure others don’t lose as much as you have. i’m sure you understand. i want you dead.”
and then he is gone, and she breathes deeply, and she still does not know who is dead or alive anymore.
her parents: dead.
kim jinwook: dead.
kang sungmin: unaccounted for.
everyone else: still here, either fighting, or defeated.
she can tell most of her battle is over, because there is not another soul, living or dead, that she truly cares for left to face. and so she takes steps backward, up the steps of the chobotics building. she turns away from the battle, only to increase her speed, and charge up the steps, and pull at the doors, because maybe glass is enough to protect them from the morbid destruction outside, but it’s locked.
she shields her eyes, and scans the battlefield in search of any of the team members she saw earlier, and there is wendy and yulhee in the thick of everything, a little bit closer to her. this is enough.
her next priority is an escape route. she’s sure most of the magical heroes in the thick of things won’t leave the humans behind, but someone has to find a way to get everyone out, or no one will get out at all. she makes it her mission. any opening is a fair one to consider, even if it brings them right through danger.
if she stands in front of the chobotics building and faces the familiar as it oozes and destroys, running far enough to both the left and the right will provide an escape. there is no pattern to most of those fleeing the scene, running off in whichever direction they see first with no regard to how they will get away from the streets that are growing more and more flooded with the familiar’s wax. (the booth the familiar appeared closest to is now entirely covered, and the air grows thicker with a smell she can only imagine is burning flesh.)
she doesn’t know if the familiar tracks them by sight or by heat or scent, but she figures the best bet for survival is to split off in as many directions as possible. if everyone in the area leaves in one giant pack, it’ll make the creature’s goal of falling upon them even easier. this simplifies her decision. to the left, there is less ground to cover before they can escape into the rest of the city. (is this really what they want? what if they don’t succeed in cornering the familiar here, and just draw it out to cause more destruction?)
there is more ground to cover if she follows the escape route to the right. this, she suspects, is why those trying to escape that consider their options a little more seem to dart to the left. however, the escape route to the right has more opportunities to get to higher ground. there is a parking garage not too far away that she knows the location of: this is probably their best bet.
now, what’s left to figure out is how to communicate this to her team as fast as possible, and then run, because their time here dwindles as the familiar only fills the street further and further with its chaos. they will drown if they stay here for long.
