eurydice
minghao x reader - retelling of orpheus and eurydice, steampunk au - warnings: death - wc: 3.8k - for cwc fall fic fest !
---
minghao hadn’t expected the underworld to be this quiet. although, when he thinks about it, he isn’t sure what he did expect. there’s an eerie stillness in the silent air that drips down his torso and dangles by his feet begging him to stay. be weary of the underworld the guide had warned him it lives to tempt fools like you.
‘fool’ was the word the guide had used. minghao had denied it in the moment. “love,” he said to the guide, with a determined set to his jaw, “i’m doing this for love.” but now as he wanders the silent darkness and unnatural heat of the underworld with only a lantern to light his passage, he thinks that perhaps the guide wasn’t too far off. for his love made him foolish enough to make a deal with a demon and travel the underworld all in search of you.
“you came.” you say to him once he finds you with a voice so quiet it almost gets lost before it reaches his ears. you don’t look shocked to see him. you don’t even look happy. in fact, you barely look like you. minghao doesn’t recognize the hollowed shape of your face and the dull line your lips make. he found your body in the darkness, but for a moment, minghao can’t be positive he found you with it.
“of course,” he gulps, and you don’t make any indication that you’ve even heard him speak. he swallows again and shifts the lantern to his other hand, bouncing slightly on his heels. he fights the urge to shove his fists into pockets, and another, more prominent urge to turn around and run straight for the sun. “you waited.”
“well, yeah,” you shrug, “what else is a dead person supposed to do?”
--
minghao remembers the day you died. remembers it too well, almost. he remembers the ringing in his ears and a hollowness inside his chest. he remembers the way he couldn’t cry. the way he couldn’t feel sad. he remembers hearing that you had died and thinking there was no way in hell he’d let it stay like that. minghao knew, from the moment he heard, that he’d come and find you.
minghao hasn’t cried. but right now, staring at the face of someone who’s been dead for too long, he feels like he just might.
--
“you made a deal with a demon.” you repeat, voice still void of anything sounding remotely like you.
“yeah.” he says, picking at a spot below his chin, faking nonchalance in the same way he would’ve when he first met you. the same nonchalance that you used to poke his side and tease him for. but when he does it right now, you barely seem to register the words let alone the tone of them. “for you. i made a deal for you.”
you nod. “what is it?”
“you get to come with me back to the real world...”
“...but?”
“but you have to walk behind me the entire time. and I can’t look back. not once, not until we’re back up above.”
“and what happens if you do?”
“you die.” he waits a beat. “again.”
you utter something incomprehensible, a small croak that sounds faintly like a scoff. “kind of like eurydice.”
minghao leans forward. “what?”
you meet his eyes suddenly, as if only now realizing he’s been next to you this entire time. you blink. “nevermind.”
you don’t make a sound after that, don’t even move a muscle. minghao didn’t expect you to be elated, but he did expect you to at least be surprised. and your lack of shock, your lack of… you, creates a knee-deep river of doubt in his mind. “you don’t have to come with me.” he says with what he hopes is reassurance. “i didn’t come here to force you back. i came here to ask.”
and the silence that comes after he says it stretches into eternity. an infinite eternity that ends the second your mouth twitches, just barely, into what minghao swears is a smile. “you came.”
he inhales, and the air tastes faintly like hope. “i couldn’t let you go.”
“okay.” you accept, fiddling with something minghao can’t make out in your hand. and the admission, makes him release a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. minghao knew coming down here was a shot in the dark. literally. his friends had made sure he knew. even the guide had made it clear: sometimes the dead don’t want to return. so, yeah, minghao knew there was no guarantee you’d want to follow him back to the real world and no guarantee you’d agree to the demon’s terms. but all that doubt, all those voices telling him no seem so insignificant when he hears you say: “i’ll come with you.”
you meet his eyes again, and this time they look a little more like yours.
--
throughout his relationship with you, minghao grew fond of the way you cracked your knuckles and joints. it’s stress relief you’d tell him popping your neck for the fifth time that morning. he’d found it odd at first, concerning even. but now days, minghao can’t seem to find the way you crack your back every time you get up as anything but endearing.
even now, as you pace around the small, tattered couch that you had bought off of the old apothecary owner, cracking your knuckles anxiously, minghao feels nothing more than a small, comforting pang of affection for the way you worry about tomorrow’s work at the plant.
“it’s a really big shipment,” you tell him, coming around the couch for what he counts as the sixteenth time, “and i’m gonna be running it alone.”
“you’ve done solo shipments before.”
“not one like this.”
“i think,” minghao says, patting the spot next to him on the couch, “you’ll be fine.” you slump into the couch, the green cloth almost swallowing you whole.
“yeah,” you nod, leaning into his side, “you’re probably right.”
“and also,” minghao begins, reaching over to retrieve a piece of folded paper from his coat pocket, “soonyoung gave this to me today.”
he hands you the ad for a ticket to center circle. tickets to center circle are hard to come by and expensive to buy. but minghao figures if he pitches some money in, you’ll have just enough for a one-way ticket there.
you study the ad for a while, running your finger against the crease in the paper. minghao shifts uncomfortably in his seat while you do.
wordlessly, you fold the paper back up and toss it on the coffee table.
minghao gulps. “you don’t want it?”
“i don’t need it anymore.” you shrug.
“but it’s your dream.” he insists, hoping his face doesn’t give away how happy he is that you want to stay in ironport.
burying your face against his body, you murmur, “dreams change.”
this time, minghao doesn’t hide his elation at the news.
--
the walk to the real world begins quietly.
“do you remember the myth of orpheus and eurydice?” you say from somewhere behind minghao, voice quiet and yet far. and yes, it must be far because the words sound like they’ve been echoing off the rocks and stones for years.
“remind me.”
“from what i can remember, they were in love.” you wait a moment, and minghao could bet that if he turned around right now, he’d find you somewhere far behind him, cracking your knuckles. “and when eurydice died, orpheus convinced hades to let her go on the same terms as your deal with the demon. or something like that.”
“i see,” minghao whispers. “so what happened when they made it back to earth?”
“that’s the thing,” you say, this time nearly yelling the words, “they didn’t. orpheus looked back at the last second.”
minghao stops walking. “well, that’s not going to be us.”
he hears you sigh. “i know.”
minghao starts walking again, holding up the lantern that emits just enough light to see his feet and nothing else. “so why’d he look back?”
“i don’t think the myth really says. some say he got impatient. others say orpheus began to doubt that eurydice was actually behind him and then also doubt that hades would ever let her go. but I think they’re all wrong. maybe he looked back because eurydice asked him to.”
the implication makes minghao gulp. “why would she do that?”
you don’t answer the question. “why do you think orpheus turned?”
“i don’t know.”
“turn around and you will.”
“that’s not funny.”
quietly, you say: “it wasn’t a joke.”
minghao pretends to not hear.
--
when minghao realized he loved you, it wasn’t something big or spectacular. it wasn’t a tidal wave of emotion that crashed and dragged him below the tide. rather, it was a small wave of adoration that lapped by his feet, a cool and calm sensation that made him want to dig his heels in the sand and wade further into the water.
when minghao realizes he loves you, you’re sitting on his kitchen counter, complaining about work.
“i love you.” he admits, walking towards where you sit. he doesn’t miss the way you still and the way you refuse to look anywhere but at your own hands. and minghao knows it’s too soon, too fast. it’s only been two months since he’s known you. one month since you started dating. he knows it’s too soon to have fallen in love. but that doesn’t really change the fact that he has. he repeats it, feeling a deep need to cement this moment further into his memory and another to memorize the image of you sitting on his kitchen counter smiling at your hands.
“for real?” you mutter, biting back either a smile or a laugh, minghao can’t be sure which one. he nods, wrapping his arms around your waist. you crack a lone knuckle. “well that makes this awkward, and i really hadn’t planned on telling you liked this but,” you hold up your left hand, the ring that’s usually on your middle finger now fitted around your ring finger, “i’m actually married.”
“really?” he leans back. you give him a sympathetic nod. “to who?”
you switch the ring back. “oh well to the music of course.”
“yeah,” minghao laughs, leaning forward until his forehead is pressed against yours, “i’m definitely in love with you.”
you don’t hide the smile this time. instead you take his face between his palms and press your lips to his.
it’s three weeks after that moment in his kitchen, that you return the statement, although you don’t return it with the words themself.
he meets you on one of the benches outside the warehouse after work. when you see him approaching, something seems to visibly soften throughout your entire body. you pull him down to sit next to you on the bench, wrap your arms around his torso under his heavy coat, and bury your face into the space between his shoulder and his chest.
minghao’s surprised by the gesture. you were never one to initiate affectionate and even less likely in public. he places a kiss on your temple. “you okay?”
“i had the worst day at the plant.” you mumble into his coat.
“do you wanna talk about it?”
“no,” you hesitate as if deciding what it is that you do want. after a moment you answer: “i just want you near.”
--
“do you feel that?” minghao hears you ask.
“feel what?”
“the rain?”
he holds out his palm and stares at the darkness above. how could it possibly rain in a place like this, minghao wonders to himself.
“no.” he finally answers. “i don’t feel anything.”
“it’s pouring!” he can’t tell. he doesn’t hear the rain, doesn’t hear the thunder you claim to have heard. but he hears your voice, and it sounds warbled as if coming from behind curtains and curtains of pounding rain. he can tell you’re yelling to be heard over it. “you still don’t feel it?”
“no!” he yells back.
“i’m tired.”
“we’re almost there.” he says to the darkness that stretches before him, praying that it bounces off the emptiness of this world and finds you. “we just have to make it through the night.”
“no, minghao, i’m tired.” you repeat frustrated. and with the way you say it, minghao isn’t sure what exactly you’re tired of.
“do you remember your first storm in ironport?” he asks, a desperate attempt to take your mind off the current storm, and another, more hopeless try to make you miss home.
“yeah,” you murmur, voice no longer a desperate yell. and yet somehow, minghao hears you better now than he did before. “how could i forget?”
--
the day of your first ironport strom is also the day of you and minghao’s first kiss.
in all transparency, minghao hadn’t noticed the dark clouds gathering above and the distant rumbling coming from the farmlands in the west. he’d been too distracted with watching you nod off during the trolley ride back from the warehouse, too distracted trying to make sure your head stayed perfectly balanced on his shoulder.
but by the time the trolley does squeak and stutter to your stop, it’s pouring. you slowly get up and hover by the exit, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “i bet you hadn’t insisted on taking me home now.” you say between a yawn.
minghao shakes his head and joins you by the exit, wearing a smile that feels too bright against the weather outside. “make a run for it?” he suggests.
you scrunch your nose and crack your knuckles. “yeah, okay.” you find his hand, and fit it against your own. “ready?”
minghao swallows the fluttering in his stomach. “ready.”
despite the running and shocked yelps, you’re drenched before you even make it to the end of the street. and it’s sometime after the second turn that you both give up entirely, jumping into puddles at the corner of rosebud and kicking water at each other.
“look,” you exclaim, pointing at the sky, “there’s a break in the clouds.” minghao looks up at where you point. ironport is known for its ferocious storms with dark grey and angry clouds that tumble across the sky and linger there for days on end. minghao, living in ironport his whole life, has seen his fair share of the town’s storms, but this, minghao has never seen. over the farmlands, the clouds part across the sky and a golden light comes pouring over the grassy hills. and for a small moment, gazing upon the sky’s golden spotlight, minghao lets himself believe that the heavens are real. your voice comes out low. “it’s beautiful isn’t it?”
his eyes land on you. “yeah, it is.”
and minghao’s so lost, mindlessly staring at you that he almost doesn’t register the way you stare back at him with a lopsided smile, grab his color, and pull him towards you until his lips meet yours.
almost.
--
“still raining?” minghao asks, just to check if you’re still behind.
“yeah.”
“you must be drenched.”
“i am.” you pause. “and cold.” it must be a test, minghao thinks. or a trial of some sort, because how is he supposed to not turn around right at this moment and give you something to make you warm. with a sinking feeling that never seems to diminish in the underworld, minghao trudges on through the dark. he’s pulled out of his thoughts when you ask: “how do you know you’ve made a mistake?”
he tilts his head at the question. it’s an odd question, yes. but something to pass the time he assumes. “you know the sensation you get on the air lift right before the drop by the watchtower.” he waits for some affirmation that you’ve heard. it never comes. “it feels like that for me. like a rock in my gut. i know i’ve made a mistake because i feel the wrongness of it.”
you let out a small cough. “do you feel that right now?”
“no.” something akin to fear settles underneath his tongue. “do you?”
--
it’s after you’ve been in town for a month that soonyoung asks if you and minghao are friends. minghao doesn’t think to mention the way you two have been hanging out at the warehouse every day after work or how much he enjoys talking with you. it doesn’t phase minghao to describe the lack of air in his lungs each time you’re so much as mentioned or the smile that appears whenever you’re near. instead, he shrugs, and says, “yeah, i guess we’ve gotten close.”
--
“it stopped raining,” you murmur softly, sounding close. so close minghao thinks he can smell the rainwater dripping from your clothes and hear your arms flailing in the darkness. it takes a moment for him to realize, you actually are.
“when did you get so close?”
“oh, minghao,” you smile, or at least he imagines you do, “i’ve never been far.”
--
the second time minghao sees you is not a coincidence. he’s been spending every evening at the warehouse since your first conversation together, hoping at some point in the night you’ll walk in with the other plant workers. until finally one night you do.
“small world.” he begins, meeting you at the bar.
“yeah,” you reply, and a sudden warmth fills minghao when you purse your lips, as if there’s a private joke hiding behind your teeth. “we’re all closer than we think.”
--
the first thing minghao thinks when a sort of warmth fills his body, is that there’s a fire growing in the dark abyss that is the road between the underworld and the real one.
it’s only when he hears you say, “minghao is that the…?” does he realize that the warmth lingering in his fingertips is from the sun. the world around him is still entirely dark, the only light being from the lantern still. but before minghao sees the light of the sun, he can feel the sunlight and taste it on his tongue.
“it’s almost over,” he says to the new warmth in his knees and to you who’s now so close behind him.
you don’t respond. and some small part of minghao that’s buried under oceans of grief and love, knows what the silence means. a miniscule, almost negligible, part of minghao knows how to interpret your lack of response.
but the larger, more intruding part of minghao that can’t bear the idea of letting you go, selfishly asks, “what about your dream? what about center circle?”
you sigh, and it’s the first sound you’ve made since noticing the sun. “oh minghao, i stopped caring about center circle the day i met you.”
--
the first time minghao sees you is at the warehouse. and as soon as you enter with the other plant workers, minghao knows you’re new. he can tell by the way you talk, with an accent that sounds too western to be from around here, and from the way your face is the only one he doesn’t know. curiosity is what he tells himself and soonyoung when asked later that week. minghao approaches you at the warehouse bar because he’s curious. although, curiosity doesn’t begin to explain the churning in his gut and the chill running down his spine as he does.
“hey,” he greets, resting his elbows against the bar. “i’m minghao.”
you study him before answering, as if determining whether you should even bother with giving him your name. lucky for him, you do.
“you new around here?” he asks, despite knowing you are. the polite thing to do, he figures.
“what gave me away?” you snort.
“ironport’s a small town.” he shrugs, with a degree of nonchalance that doesn’t at all match the current pace of his heart. “the people that are born here tend to die here as well.”
“not me.” you mutter, shaking your head. “i’m certainly not dying in ironport.”
minghao seats himself on the barstool next to you. “is there a preferred place of death then?”
“center circle.” you tell him, as the barkeep slides you your drink. “it’s been my dream since forever. i’ve worked my way up from the wallows to the plains and now finally to ironport. if i die before getting to the center circle, i’ll walk there from hell myself.”
“that’s a bold dream.” he responds half-teasing, half-not.
you take a long sip from your drink. “i know.”
“and yet?”
you meet his eyes steadily. “and yet i can’t let it go.”
at the bottom of his gut minghao again feels curiosity tug.
--
“minghao,” you breathe, so close he can feel it on his shoulder. “come back to me.” he doesn’t respond, acts like he doesn’t even hear the words. instead, he steps forward, feels the warmth of the sun on his cheek, and then sinks back into the cool sensation of your forehead knocking against his neck.
“come back to me, okay?” you repeat into his back. “but don’t come back too soon.”
“and you’ll wait for me?” he asks, yearning for nothing more than to turn around and kiss your eyelids and nose and cheeks and lips. wanting nothing more than to turn around and memorize your face in all the ways he forgot to do while you were alive and on earth.
“well yeah,” you smile against his shirt, “what else is a dead person supposed to do?”
and for a small second, relishing in the sensation of your chest shaking with laughter against his back, minghao feels at peace.
“so have you figured it out yet?” you start, lifting your chin from his shoulder, and interlocking your fingers with his. “have you figured out why orpheus turned?”
“no.” he returns, with a squeeze.
“but i’m about to find out.”
--
a/n: kind of a mess of a fic at this point, but idk also i may or may not have edited this one bit ...
