Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Card no. 9: The Hermit

Upright meaning: contemplation, search for truth, inner guidance 
Reversed meaning: loneliness, isolation, lost your way

The night was cold as ice, the approaching spring nowhere to be found in the howling wind. It wasn’t storming yet, and the gale danced merrily around Minho as he stepped into the garden, shivering in the dark of the night that bid him to join it. 

There was a promise of snow in the air, Minho’s breath forming small clouds when he exhaled. It would be spring soon, but seemingly winter did not care for the passing of seasons, still grasping the earth and making the grass crunch under Minho’s shoes as he left behind the warmth of his home in favor of the chilly night.

It had been howls that awoke him, lonely and desperate, one of the dogs evidently lost in the garden in the middle of the night. He had waited, hoping someone else would hear the dog and fetch it, but the howls and barks had continued until Minho’s consciousness had been blackened enough for him to slip out of his warm sheets and into his clothing. 

“Silly dog,” he muttered under his breath. The wind tugged at his clothing and played with his loose hair, gusts attempting to knock him off his feet and away from the path he walked on. “You better not have run off to chase a bird again,” he prayed, pulled the scarf closer around him, and stuffed his hands as deep into his pockets as they would go. 

Even with gloved fingers, the cold nibbled at his bones. 

The vast garden was eerily quiet, only the distant racket of nature there to fill the void, like predatory beasts crouched in hiding within the rustling bushes for any opportunity to lunge at him. Above Minho, heavy clouds shrouded the moon, and only rarely did the silver light succeed in penetrating the endless darkness. The normally pristine trees and trimmed hedges that left the gardener brimming with pride were left as grotesque shadows, clawing at the sky above. 

Even the endless rows of wild roses and hawthorn were obscured, nothing but ominous dark shapes that danced like demons out of the corners of Minho’s eyes. He hovered on the steps leading from the lawn in front of the manor and down into the rows upon rows of carefully trimmed flowerbeds and hedges. He searched the dark, partly expecting a fairytale horror to burst forth and devour him whole like his parents had so often warned him of when he was little. 

He wanted to go back to his bed, wanted the heat of his room and the safety of bricks and windows between him and the cold night, but the hound was out there, and Minho wasn’t risking going back inside and into bed just for the dog to start howling again. Unlike the rest of the staff, it was Minho’s ears that would be ringing if his parents thought that one of their precious hunting dogs might have been lost to the dangers of the night, or, in this case, most likely led astray by a hedgehog. 

Besides, it was no weather for a poor dog to be trapped outside, and Minho could live with the cold if he knew it meant he could go bring his dog back into his bed where it belonged. His parents had brought many dogs for him during their brief visits, insisting he keep each and every one of them close to him lest he get attacked at night by the monsters they consistently claimed were seeking to kill him in the most horrific of ways. 

Even though they had been given to him with a purpose, they were still his friends.

The dogs were the only ones loyal to him, the only creatures keeping him company on the long, lonely days and nights that stretched on forever within the manor, his only companions in his confinement. Minho had no one else to talk to, but it didn’t matter as much when the dogs would happily lend him their attention, keeping his bed warm, and were always willing to share his lonely meals. They were more than protectors for him, more than hunting dogs and expensive pedigrees. 

He owed it to them to keep them safe when they did the same for him.

Regardless of how little Minho cared for his own well-being, rarely believing in the tales his parents told him, he cared for the animals and wouldn’t want them to stay out at night, undoubtedly stressed about whatever was hiding in the darkness. Once he figured out who had allowed one of them out this late, well, Minho would find a way to get his revenge for having to stomp around in the dark while the servants played deaf in their warm beds. 

With a last shudder at the cold, Minho began down the winding path and moved deeper into the garden, frozen gravel complaining under his feet as the wind danced on around him, no light except for his flickering lantern to guide him. 

This was the sort of night that would have made his parents lock him away in his room, the kind of night that made them bring out crosses and holy water, sealing all the doors and keeping Minho hidden away as deeply into the house as they could. This night could have been the same as when he was a child, except his parents had long since grown bored of him, leaving him behind as they explored the world. 

The staff were his prison guards, and the house was his cell from which he could watch his life pass him by. 

The horrors of the night were nothing but superstitions. The monsters hovering above him were trees, and the howls in the distance were owls and wild animals. It all had scientific explanations, reason, and logic, and Minho had read it all from the many books in the library, understanding the world he was not allowed to step foot into better than his parents did, both of them lost to fear and fairytales. 

The whole notion was beyond Minho, but fear was not to be reasoned with, and neither were his parents. 

Night Terrors might not be hiding in the cold night, but Minho wasn’t foolish enough not to be cautious of the darkness. There logically had to be creatures clever enough that even he hadn’t heard of them, and he would be wary of those. Paranoia was a familiar friend when growing up in a house like the one Minho’s parents had brought him to after he was born.

Minho exhaled deeply as he moved further into the garden, the air burning his lungs when he breathed in, prickling at his skin under his many layers. He knew blooms of frost had to be spreading on the windows, and he noticed his feet speeding up, urgency biting at his heels. If Minho was this cold already, there was no saying how cold his dear dogs would be. 

Frozen grass crunched under his feet, and he made a shortcut that would make the gardener yell at him for stepping on his pristine lawn. He took his hand from his pocket, switching the lantern to the warm one, before he brought the cold hand to his face, heating it with his breath, the wool covering it barely enough to keep his hand from going numb. The white fabric wrapped around his wrists was visibly peaking out from under the sleeve of his coat, the sliver of his wrist resembling porcelain in the weak light from the lantern, unstained and smooth.

With a flick of his sleeve, he hid it again, stuffing his hand into his pocket and hoping it would warm back up as he kept walking, shouting for the hound, unaware of which one of them it was.

The flame of his lantern flickered, casting shadows into a riot around him, and Minho froze.

Minho swore he saw something move in the corner of his eyes, a figure fixed slowly ahead, sauntering through the garden as if it wasn’t still winter. But when Minho lifted his light up, spreading the halo of sight wider, there was nothing, just more shadows and dormant flowerbeds of wild roses. 

With a sigh and another cloud from his breath, Minho lowered the lamp before he tempted the wind to extinguish it. He shook his head at his own deluded mind. There was no one in the garden, just him and his silly dog and a few shadows. 

“Grow up,” Minho muttered to himself, and kept on walking.

The longer he stayed outside, the darker it got, the trees and bushes embracing him in their shadows as he searched for his dog, whittling and hoping it would return to him quickly so he wouldn’t have to search all of the garden since the whole thing was ridiculously large. 

Just like the house, the sprawling garden seemed to belong to a different time. Artfully cut bushes obscured the horizon, trimmed trees stretched their naked arms pitifully toward the sky, swaying at the wind’s command, and small paths meant for promenading interlaced the different locations. Everything was chained, shaped, stunted, cut back, and twisted under the gardener’s whims and demands. Nothing was growing free, not even the thousands of roses blooming everywhere from late spring and into summer. They, too, were bound, pulled taut like sinners on a cross, their heads bowed in repentance for being born wild. 

It was the gardener’s proudest achievement, but to Minho, it felt like a prison, a labyrinth keeping him concealed in the middle. Whether he was the treasure to be sought out or a monster to be locked away, Minho wasn’t sure. 

He called again, trying to listen for any movements from the dog, but the garden remained deadly quiet, only the wind howling and the soft rustling of naked branches there to keep the sound of his own heartbeat company. He knew it was rational to fear the dark, knew he was being paranoid as he felt eyes on him, knew it was simply his own eyes playing tricks on him when the light flickered and the shadows moved, but he swore he saw a man staring back at him from a few meters ahead. 

There was a rustle, a branch cracking, and Minho’s head spun to the side, nothing strange appearing in his weak circle of light as he turned. 

“Hey! Get back in!” Minho called, leaving the path behind as he hurried through the dark towards the sound, his heart pounding in his chest. “Come here, we need to go back inside,” he yelled at the dog so loud it made him grimace. 

He was louder than he had ever been allowed to be, voice reaching well beyond polite. Fear gripped him, even if he knew the only ones he was threatening to wake up were his staff, and if they had managed to sleep through all the barking and howling, then they wouldn’t be stirred awake by Minho’s yelling.

Still, shame curled in his stomach until he shoved it away. Like fear of the dark, his feelings were illogical. 

Surprisingly, there was an answer from the dog. It came in the form of a low growl that quickly tapered off into a whine before it was silent once more, but it was enough for Minho to know where to search. He was left stumbling through the dark, light flickering weakly as if the night around him was rushing closer, about to swallow him up. 

He felt like he was being watched. 

“Come on,” Minho hissed, shivering again as he moved toward the spot he had heard his dog growl, swearing he could hear a soft rustling by his side. “Come here, I’m not mad,” he pleaded, only silence answering him. 

Minho ground his teeth together. 

“Please, come here,” Minho said again, voice soft and cheery, but painfully forced. 

He glanced around, half expecting the dog to run up to him, but once again he was met with silence. He couldn’t stop himself from cursing, hissing all of the worst words he knew, something freeing about letting his anger spill for a moment. And then- 

The softest of laughter from somewhere in the garden, light and airy, and definitely not from Minho.

His breath hitched. Minho shivered, heart skipping in his chest as he heard the echo of steps behind him. It had to be the garden and its suffocating bushes and trimmed hedges throwing the sound back at him, still Minho’s steps turned quicker, the slight slope in the ground the excuse he used as he rushed to where he had heard the dog. 

“Come on in, please,” Minho whispered, shivering as the wind danced past him, tugging at the kerchief around his neck, sneaking its cold finger under his clothes flirtatiously and threatening to pull his legs out from under him. “Get in!” 

There was another peal of laughter, this time more pleased than amused, and Minho’s shoulders curled around himself protectively. The darkness felt like it was weighing him down, clouding his mind, the scent of jasmine and cedarwood filling his lungs. He couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, towards where the sound was coming from, and he swore he would see eyes staring at him from within the hedges keeping him hostage. 

“Please,” Minho said under his breath. He was deep in the garden, far away from safety, all alone. All alone. “Come here,” he added, tearing his eyes from the dark, suppressing a shudder that had nothing to do with the cold as he sped up.

The lamp’s flame flickered restlessly. 

The sound of steps followed him, barely out of synchronization with Minho. A crunch of Minho’s boots, a soft echo of a soft step from further behind, a rustle as he walked too close to a withered hedge, another soft sigh of leaves following a second later. 

Yet, every time Minho looked over his shoulder, he found nothing but shadows behind him. 

Fear wrapped its cold finger around his throat, pressing tight and trapping the freezing air in his lungs. All he wanted was his dog, his bed, and the safe haven his duvet created as he hid away under it. 

“Let’s go back inside,” he breathed, squinting at the foliage, the lamp doing very little to light up the garden. “Just, come here,” he whispered. “Let’s go back to bed and get warm.”

Dirt groaned under his feet as he moved deeper into the shadows, hawthorn and naked trees reaching for him, embracing him, pulling him deeper and deeper into the garden. Even the wind grew quiet as Minho’s heart hammered in his chest, the flame of his lantern clinging to life as there was another soft rustle, luring Minho in under the demon-like shadows, feeling like he was stepping beyond the world of the living. 

A quiet bark and the clinging of the hound’s metal collar drew his attention, and Minho turned quickly, relief flooding his veins, the flame dancing weakly in the wind before it extinguished itself, and Minho was left with only the silver moon’s light.

His heart stuttered in his chest.

Something stood between the trees, far taller than a dog. It leaned against the trunk, gentle and relaxed. The shape of a broad-shouldered man, not tall, but strong even in his relaxed stance. Dark eyes, darker than the night around them, stared at Minho, gleaming like obsidian. The white flash of teeth filled the space where his mouth should have been, a grin, gone in a second, just like his shadow. 

Minho blinked again, doubting his own eyes and sanity as he stared at the spot where he would have sworn a man stood, the clouds above drifting apart, allowing a sliver of the moon to peek through the night. 

Moonlight poured over the ground, painting everything in stark greys and bleak blacks, but revealing nothing untoward. 

Just as Minho had told himself, there was nothing in the dark but bare branches and dormant greenery. 

A memory of his mother warning him of following movements in the darkness danced through his mind, but he disregarded it and took a step forward, drawn toward the depth of the forest before him. It was as if a siren was calling his soul, his feet moving without his command, the temptation reaching for him-

There was a bark at his side, awakening him from his sudden lunacy. Minho spun away from the spot in the tree, and there, but a few meters away, was his dog, the dim light from the moon making its eyes reflective as it stared at him, tail wagging happily.

“Berry?” Minho asked, frowning down at the hound. She yipped, running closer, seeming happy to be found as she danced around his legs, yipping in joy. Minho sighed, crouching down to place the palm of his hand against her face, and she leaned into the touch immediately, tail still wagging happily.. “How did you get out?” He muttered, comforted by the dog’s wet nose pressing into his palm. 

Berry was the one who usually always took up space in Minho’s bed or in the dining room under his chair, rarely straying from her spot even if there was a guest knocking on the door. Of all his dogs, she was by far the most loyal, and Minho wasn’t surprised she was the one out in the middle of the night. Or rather, he wasn’t surprised that if anyone had been left behind on purpose, Berry was the one.

“Did the kitchen forget to close the door? Or did they just leave you out here in the cold?” He asked quietly, moving his hand to scratch her behind the ear before pulling away, Berry already stuck to his side. She was cold, but didn’t seem otherwise affected by her late-night stroll, unlike Minho, who was shivering under all his layers. “Let’s get you back inside,” he muttered, pulling his coat closer as the wind ran past him again, trying to sneak under his clothes.

No doubt one of his staff would be angry tomorrow when they saw Minho had not lost one of his few joys to the winter cold. It was cruel, but Minho wouldn’t put it past any of them. He had seen all of them be much crueler after all. 

Berry followed him happily back towards the house, staying at his side and guiding Minho now that he didn’t have any source of light. Ironically, Minho seemed to have walked in a circle in the dark and was much closer to the house than he thought he had been. Perhaps it was because Minho was on his way back to his bed, but the night seemed warmer and also a lot less foreboding with Berry at his side, the dog making the shadows lighter and less grotesque as the moon won the battle and stayed uncovered by the blanket of clouds.

Minho eventually reached the house with a tired groan. It rose up before him, dark and ominous, its eyes empty as it stared blindly into the night. There was no light in the windows, barely a hint of smoke drifting from the many chimneys. It was silent, asleep, Minho nothing but an intruder in his own house as he turned to face the back of the house where the kitchen staff’s door was. 

Surely, they hadn’t grown tardy now after all these years of ensuring all doors and windows were locked before sunset, with only the key to the front door being in Minho’s hands. If his parents found out, they would all be sacked before they could take a single breath. No one was allowed entry without their approval. The staff knew that very well. 

“Come on, girl,” Minho said, eyes darting around the garden one last time. 

It rested calmly beyond the lawn, shadows and the howling wind living a life of their own, one which Minho did not belong to. He could feel it still, eyes resting on him, a hint of jasmine filling the frosty air. 

Much to Minho’s surprise, he found the kitchen door closed and locked like always. He stared at it, pulling at the heavy handle a few more times while Berry whined at his feet, clearly beginning to feel the cold. The door stayed locked no matter how much Minho pulled at it, and the house remained silent, no one rousing at the noises he was making. 

“Odd,” he whispered, frowning at the door before he started the trek back to the front door. “Really, I was sure you were all inside before I went to bed. Counted you all, twice, and you were there, little girl,” he muttered at the dog who pressed closer to his side. “I think mother and father’s scary stories are getting to me.”

He was tired, and had been so even before he laid down to sleep a few hours ago. Sleeplessness wasn’t a stranger to him, even if he was an early riser by nature. Minho knew he would be exhausted when he would inevitably wake up mere hours from now, unable to sleep no matter how his body would be begging for the extra rest.

“Get in, silly,” Minho said, taking the key from his pocket as they reached the front door. “Good girl,” he smiled and wrapped his hand around the metal of the handle, the metal freezing cold even through the thick knitting as Minho pulled the handle down, feeling the latch being released as the door opened with a groan. 

With a bark, Berry took off, leaving Minho on the doorstep. 

“Couldn’t even wait for me to take off my boots?” Minho shook his head and slipped in through the door himself, the weak flame from a petrol lamp he had left on a thin-legged decorative table his own source of light in the grand entry hall. “Rude,” he muttered, about to close the door so the heat wouldn’t escape, except he never got that far. 

Someone cleared their throat behind his back, almost pointedly with how loud they were.

Minho flinched, his heart skipping a painful beat as he turned around and came face to face with a young man wearing an elegant top hat. 

He was standing right behind Minho, a couple of steps down from the front door, a curious and gentle expression on his face as he looked Minho over. Besides the hat, he was terribly underdressed, wearing only a red vest and a black jacket and no overcoat despite it being winter and in the middle of the night. There was no trace of a scarf or mittens either, which made Minho’s gloved hands ache in sympathy.

The stranger was deadly pale in the faint light from the house, and Minho felt worry stir in his chest, the natural need to nurture quelling any fear he knew he should be feeling. The stranger didn’t seem bothered by the cold at all, no clouds forming as he breathed, no violent shiver traveling through his body, nor were his lips blue. 

Minho frowned, eyes straying to the darkness behind the stranger. With how the wind was picking up, it truly wasn’t a night for anyone to be out, not even uncanny beautiful men like the one before him. 

“Excuse me,” the man said softly, words so gentle and tender that Minho found them odd to be spoken by a stranger. Only his lips were visible from under the shade of his hat, rosy and plush, twisted into a shy smile in the flickering light of the lamp. “I seem to be lost,” he said, tilting his head, revealing a pointed chin and a firm jaw. 

Minho swallowed, swearing he had never seen anyone so beautiful, and he could barely even make out the man in the weak light. He had broad shoulders, firm legs, and was only a little shorter than Minho himself. His hair was chopped unevenly short just above his shoulders, wavy curls caressing his chin and throat as they fell from the shade of the hat. He looked strong, firm, yet there was a softness to him that Minho found alluring. 

Minho was half convinced he had conjured the man from his imagination, only the biting cold telling him he wasn’t dreaming. 

“You’re excused,” Minho managed to get out, the impolite bite in his tone too noticeable for his own liking, but manners were left for guests during the daytime. He stared at the man, pushing away his worry and trying to use some of the reason he was normally so proud of. “And I don’t know where you should have been going to end up lost here,” he said, words escaping him before he could stop himself. “There isn’t anything out here worthy of visiting.” 

“Oh, I can’t agree with that,” the stranger said amused, cocking his head to the side and letting the moonlight reflect off a pair of dangling earrings hidden behind his hair. Diamonds and rubies pressed into a gold cross caught the light, shining brighter than the moonlight. “I find that you can sometimes find the wonders of the world in faraway places. In my experience, one only hides what one loves and treasures. Whyever else would pirates bury their treasure or the ancient Egyptians hide their pharaohs away?” He wondered, the gravel under him barely making a sound as he stepped closer into the light, towards Minho, casting a shadow as the light embraced him. “This seems like the perfect place to hide something precious.”

Minho blinked at the stranger, fear prickling at his skin. Uninvited guests at night were more likely robbers or those stuck in unfortunate events than anything nefarious like his parents had warned him about, but one thing was certain: the man before him was strange. The lilt to his voice was too soft, too gentle, and too familiar. It was very odd to talk about treasures with someone you just met, even if you intended to rob them. 

Minho could imagine that in such a scenario, knocking him unconscious would have been a better start to that endeavor. 

He couldn’t help but look around the dark corner of the avenue leading up the road to the house, expecting to be filled with thieves, but the handsome man in front of him was the only person, safe for himself. 

“What do you want?” Minho demanded, clutching the door, ready to slip through it and slam it in the stranger’s face if need be. Dressed in finery and precious stones as he was, he was either dangerous or a very successful thief. “It’s well past midnight.”

“I’m aware,” the man answered, taking a staggering step towards Minho, his hand shooting out to grasp the railing of the steps leading up to the door. The sudden change in his demeanor took Minho off guard, and he released the door, taking a short step closer to listen to what the man was trying to say. “Forgive me, but-” His knees suddenly buckled under him, and he sank to the ground without an ounce of elegance. 

The hat toppled off his head, rolled across the quartyard, and disappeared into the night. 

Minho’s eyes widened, his lips parted in a silent gasp, and before he could even weigh his options, he was down the few steps leading to the house, kneeling at the man’s side.

As Minho lifted the stranger’s head, the light from his lantern illuminated his face, bathing him in golden light, caressing his pale cheeks and pouty lips. 

Minho gasped quietly as he took in the man’s features. Even in the golden light, the stranger was still deadly pale, more so now that Minho was close. His plump lips were a pastel pink, but he didn’t look unhealthy or sick. There was nothing weak or frail about his cheeks, no signs of hunger or starvation; instead, his skin looked smooth like polished marble. Unable to keep his hands to himself, Minho pushed a strand of his hair out of his face, which looked to be carved by god himself with how gorgeous he was. 

His long and dark lashes rested artfully on his porcelain white cheeks, skin soft and unblemished, without any hint of human imperfection. His nose was straight, his jawline sharp, cheekbones perfectly defined without being too strong, and there was a softness to him. He looked like a gentle creature despite his firm, masculine features, like the kind of man who would shine as bright as the moon when he smiled.

Minho felt something turn in his chest as he held the man close, hating how his gloves kept his fingers from sensing if his hair was as silky as it looked, the wool almost too rough to ever caress something so perfect. 

The stranger wasn’t bleeding from what Minho could see, which was a relief, because while Minho’s healing abilities were decent, they were nothing compared to his kitchen staff, who would return again in the morning. 

Minho stroked the stranger’s cheek as if compelled. He had to be more than lost to simply collapse so suddenly, and he had to be very unwell if he had fainted without any hint of a warning. Minho knew he should leave him here, knew what he was thinking was a bad idea, but he couldn’t just leave the man out here to die in the cold. 

That was too cruel. 

“Are you alright?” Minho asked, his voice softer now that he knew for sure this man wasn’t in any position to harm him. Minho wasn’t even sure the man was even alive with how still he was. “Excuse me?” He shook the man gently, but got no response. 

He reached up, using his teeth to pull off his glove, one finger at a time.

“Wake up, stranger,” he said, shivering when his warm fingertips brushed over the man’s ice-cold cheeks, worry digging its merciless roots into his heart. “Stranger?” He repeated, rebellious fingers brushing the hair out of the man’s face again. 

His hair was softer than the most luxurious silk, smooth and wild as it tickled the tips of his fingers. Minho kept touching him, to warm him up, he told himself. A pitiful excuse for the shameless touching he was doing.

The man was cold, as cold as the night around them. So cold, Minho felt it through his own layers of clothing. What was worse was how he was barely breathing. The stranger didn’t open his eyes, nor did he respond to Minho’s hand cradling his cheek. Minho had always been complimented on how youthful his appearance was, even as he grew older and started shaving to retain the smoothness of his cheeks, but the man in his arms was timeless.

Perfectly youthful, yet with a maturity to him that told Minho he couldn’t be much older than himself. 

And now he was helpless in a way that made Minho’s nurturing heart ache. 

“Are you-” Minho cut himself off with a sigh, unsure why he was even trying to speak when the man was clearly unable to answer. “Here I am being silly again,” he said instead, caressing the man’s cheek in his hand, pulling him closer, as if Minho’s measly body could protect the man from death itself. 

“Who are you?” Minho asked softly, his fingers running alongside the man’s jawline, his pale pinkish lips parting in a soundless exhale. Minho’s heart throbbed, relieved to know the man was alive at the very least. “Why are you out here so late?” He added, lifting his eyes to Berry, who had returned from inside the house, all the other dogs with her, all busy sniffing the man’s shoes curiously, uncharacteristically calm despite the stranger between them. 

Making up his mind, Minho looked up to the house, happy he had at least let one lamp burn in the drawing room, a single glimmer of light to guide him home. 

“I’ll bring you inside, but only if you promise not to make me regret it,” he said, eyes returning to the beautiful stranger beneath him. His heart ached, his cheeks flushed in a way they had never been before, blood rushing through his veins with fear, excitement, and something else Minho couldn’t name. 

As expected, Minho didn’t get an answer. 

The stranger was as still as a corpse in his arms. 

Minho exhaled sharply, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that told him to be cautious as he carefully lifted the man up into his arms, somewhat happy he was used to carrying the dogs around as his knees trembled slightly under the weight of the stranger. He left behind the spot where the man had fainted and with it, also the garden and the wind, letting it howl in the lonely and desolate cold. 

Without a moment of hesitation, ignoring all the lessons of his childhood, Minho carried the stranger across the threshold and into the manor, into the safety of his home. 

Berry looked at him, her eyes following his movements with uncertainty written on her expressive face.

Minho winced at the dirt he was no doubt trekking into the house with his shoes, but he couldn’t slip off his boots with the weight of another person with him. Instead, he followed the lonely lamp he left burning on the dresser, legs trembling under the weight in his arms, and entered the living room near the entry hall. 

He didn’t even question his decision as he laid the unconscious man to sleep on a chaise lounge in the living room, covered in blankets. He didn’t allow himself to think as he slipped the stranger’s shoes off and placed them with his own next to the door when he got around to it. Minho didn’t think as he lit the fire and made sure the curtains were drawn shut to shield the stranger from the morning sun, and he didn’t think as he left the room at last, taking the dogs with him so the stranger could sleep in peace while Minho went back to bed, sleep embracing him far too easily when he finally slipped back into his cold sheets. 

On the dresser, a draft from the tightly locked front door sent the lamp’s flame flickering before it extinguished, dousing the hallway in darkness as the night finally became happy with its sacrifice. 

***

Minho woke up early. 

His body protested when his mind returned to consciousness slowly, the sun still hours from kissing the horizon when he tumbled out of bed. He didn’t have to look outside the window to know how early it was; he could feel it in his bones. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the dim darkness, and collected himself for a moment. The wind had quieted during the night, no longer howling as it rushed past the old manor, but the cold lingered in the air. 

Part of him wanted to go back to bed, to at least just lie and relax in the warm sheets with his dogs, but Minho needed to make sure that the unconscious man in his living room was dealt with. 

He dreaded what the staff would tell his parents if they found him. 

His body ached as he lit the candle at his bedside and clumsily pulled some pants on, shivering, mournfully sparing the dead fireplace a glance. He should have remembered to feed it before he fell asleep, but he had been so focused on the stranger he hadn’t thought about keeping himself warm.

It seemed unreal: the dark garden, the laughter he heard, the eyes he had felt watching him. It was all like a hallucination, and with Berry sleepily following him as he buttoned his pants, it seemed even more illogical that she had been gone at all. 

His nighttime walk in the garden had been like a nightmare haunting his sleep. Minho had almost fooled himself into believing it hadn’t even happened at all, if not for how his jacket was not in his closet, how his clothing was thrown with more carelessness on a chair than Minho ever allowed himself, and how his scarf and gloves were on his dresser. A litter of proof scattered about his room telling him that it had not been a dream, that he had indeed let a stranger in, that he had broken the most important rule his parents had made. 

He stared at the clothing, trembling once more as he slowly put himself together, trying to suppress his fears that all that was left in the living room below was a corpse warmed by Minho’s fire. 

With a last remorseful look at his woolen gloves, Minho started unraveling the strips of cotton that had always been wrapped around his wrists, even in his sleep. He exchanged them for clean strips of fabric, pressed and ironed out to lie flush against his skin. 

Under the soft fabric, blue veins streaked like roots under his skin, and Minho took a moment to examine them, brushing the tip of his finger over them. Compared to the rest of him, his wrists were unnaturally pale, unblemished, and unscarred. To see them exposed was a rare sight. As long as Minho could remember, his wrists had been hidden, wrapped up, and covered like they were something horrid, shameful, and dangerous. 

He was the only person besides his parents permitted to see them uncovered. His throat, too, was to be hidden under a separate piece of cotton, twisted around his windpipe and pulse point like a bandage. A high collar couldn’t do it, because according to his mother, a collar could be undone too easily compared to the cotton strips that took time and care to unravel - unless the goal was to strangle Minho, of course.

Once upon a time, he fought it, tugged at the fabric, and choked himself in an attempt to stop his mother from covering him up, but he had since grown docile and accepted whatever demands a woman who rarely saw him had. Going against his parents meant pain, pretending he accepted his fate, and following their rules meant he was simply left alone. It was easier that way, to be controlled from afar and played like a puppet without a puppeteer. 

Loneliness, in the end, was less painful than his mother’s palm. 

Minho sighed heavily and got to work, twisting the thin lines of fabric around himself, over and over, covering up his wrist and making sure the tiny silver cross he had worn since he was a small child was pressed tightly against his skin, the cain so small it barely fit him anymore before more rolls of fabric went around his throat and he could tie a tight knot, pushing in under the fabric to hide it from sight. 

Only once he had completed that chore did Minho finish getting dressed, tugging his finest shirt over his arms, hiding the fabric around his throat and wrist with the high collar and a broad tie,his wrist easily hidden by the tight cuffs. He picked his second-best waistcoat, leaving his jacket behind like he always did, hating the feeling of having to be so formal in his own home. 

While the unconscious man was a stranger to him, Minho didn’t doubt they would part as acquaintances after this morning. After all, collapsing in front of someone in the middle of the night was an interesting way to make a first impression. Minho wanted the man to see him, to notice him, to see him as a treasure hidden away like he had said, and not a horrid beast trapped far away from society where he could do no harm. 

Minho ignored the part of himself that seemed painfully plain next to the inhuman beauty of the stranger. He was a man, after all, so Minho shouldn’t care. Had the stranger been a woman, Minho would have understood the conflicting emotions twisting in his chest. The need to preen and show off before a woman was logical, but to do so before a fellow man seemed nonsensical. 

There was no gain from wooing a man; no book Minho had read had even described such a romance, and yet, Minho couldn’t stop thinking about the man sleeping under him. His lips and his soft hair haunted his thoughts. He couldn’t stop wondering how his eyes would look, if they were light or dark, if his shoulders were indeed as strong as they looked, or if he simply had a good tailor, how it would feel to be held in arms like his… All things that made no sense for Minho to even want. 

The stranger below was very much a man, there was no doubt about that. There was no part of him that could fool Minho’s lonely mind into even thinking of him as a woman. His chiseled features left no doubt about that, but Minho still wanted to look good, still wanted to waggle his tail feathers like a peacock, to look appealing, at least a little, for the stranger. 

He didn’t know him, and yet Minho wanted nothing more than to keep it that way, to ensure whatever horrid tales there were about him in the nearby town stayed far away so he could present himself in the best of ways. To be handsome or desirable… at least in theory. 

An inkling of doubt made itself known, that Minho wasn’t sure he would have felt like this had the stranger actually been a woman, the pure male physique of the other man clearly part of his appeal. Would his handsome stranger even find Minho attractive and enticing, or would this end like every other attempt he had dared make towards other men? Minho knew it was taboo, knew it was wrong to want as he did, but no one had ever enchanted him like the stranger below.

With a sigh, Minho straightened his clothes and unlocked the door to his bedroom. The dogs rushed out around him, ready to be let out. Berry was the only one not excited, instead staying right by his side as they made their way towards the stairs after locking the door to Minho’s room.

Like always, the key returned to Minho’s pocket, where he could feel it and keep it safe. 

The house was quiet, still asleep and drowsy. It would be a while before the rest of the servants would descend. The cook and the butler were the only ones living in the house with Minho. The rest of the servants stayed in the village or slept in the groundsman’s cottage further at the edge of the property. It would take a few more hours before they turned up, giving Minho a little time to figure out what to do with his handsome stranger. 

He dearly hoped he wasn’t about to desegregate the garden by having to dig a hole to hide a body. Only the lord above would know how he was going to keep such a thing from the gardener. 

The stairs creaked under his feet, but Minho paid them no mind as he walked past several gilded mirrors, only a few landscape paintings breaking up the reflections of himself. If the stranger heard him, well, he had been unconscious for hours, and if he was awakened by Minho’s entrance, then it would only benefit Minho. At least Minho would know the man was alive and not fear that he had carried a corpse inside which was a much more horrifying thought. 

The living Minho had dealt with before, but the dead were still unfamiliar to him. 

Despite his hopes, when Minho entered the living room, there was no sight of the man. 

Minho stared at the chaise lounge, blinking in surprise. He remembered carrying the stranger inside, putting him down and covering him with a blanket by the fire, taking off his shoes and leaving them at the door before he tugged him in, making sure the other man would be warm. 

The blanket was neatly folded up at the end of the chaise lounge. 

With a speeding heart, Minho turned to the fireplace, the glowing embers begging for more firewood to quench their hunger, the only proof that Minho had indeed not dreamt about the night before. The drawn curtains kept out the last hints of the night, bathing the whole room in darkness. 

Minho picked up the matches and lit the many candles and lamps scattered about the room. He was sure there would be comments about him wasting the sunlight by lighting the room so early, but he couldn’t handle the dark, couldn’t handle how lonely he felt standing in the slowly cooling room. 

He left the curtains drawn shut, knowing nothing but more darkness was hiding behind them, the winter sun still hours from rising. 

Closed curtains were bad luck, at least according to his mother. Keeping sunlight out of the house for too long was a bad omen for Night Terrors and evil beings. She was close to being neurotic about it, always keeping the curtains drawn, not caring that the sun would wake her up. In this house, his mother’s word was law, so Minho never closed the curtains. Only his bedroom was shrouded in darkness all hours of the day because it was the one place he was in control of, the only place he could be himself and rebel as he pleased. 

“Well, then,” Minho spoke to himself, brushing out the wrinkles of his vest. His eyes flickered to the corners, seeing no one hiding there, even the huge golden candlesticks he was sure would have been a robber’s dream were still there, leaving Minho no clue who the man could have been and why he had been all alone all the way out here. “Problem solved, I presume.” 

With no man to usher out, Minho had had no reason for being awake so early. 

“Annoying,” he whispered, ignoring the part of him that was more sorry for having missed the man leaving than the part of him relieved he didn’t have to deal with a stranger in his house. 

Minho walked over to the door leading to the garden and let the dogs out to roam for the morning, Berry only leaving once Minho urged her on. He returned to the living room, finding it as empty as before. He sank into the couch, a sweet scent filling his lungs, and he closed his eyes, humming softly as he tried to place the smell. 

It felt familiar, yet nothing like the food he had no doubt was being prepared in the kitchen.

Opening his eyes again slowly, Minho let go of a startled yell when he saw the man he had dragged inside standing by the door, silent and still, simply watching Minho half clad in shadows. His eyes gleamed in the light from the gas lamps, dangerous and foreboding. 

“Hello,” he greeted, lips lifting into an amused smile as he looked over Minho, his gaze unable to be described as anything but hungry. He held up a half-empty glass of water to explain his absence. “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself,” he said, voice soft and gentle. “I was ever so thirsty as I woke up.” 

With a smile, he took a step closer and moved into the light. 

There were no signs on him that told the story of how he had collapsed the night before. His eyes were bright, dark brown and beautiful, and if the room had been dimmer lit, Minho might have presumed the color of his irises was black, endless pits where Minho could lose himself completely. His face was full of color and no longer dull, with a healthy flush to his cheeks. He smiled, his teeth white, sharp, and without a single discoloration. 

Minho bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a gasp, delighted that he had at least gotten one chance to caress his handsome face. Who knew? Maybe he would never get the chance to do it again. 

“You’re lucky I’m not a creature of the night, young lord,” the stranger said when Minho remained silent, clutching his poor hammering heart. A smirk decorated the man’s red lips. “You could have been hurt dragging in a stranger in the middle of the night. Who knows if I wanted to steal something… irreplaceable,” he added, eyes flickering over Minho again, lingering on Minho’s throat that was hidden under his tie. 

“It would have hurt me more to leave you outside in the cold,” Minho countered, crossing his legs and leaning back on the couch. The cushions sighed under him, the weak hint of sweet jasmine clinging to them and permeating the air around him. “It would have been a misfortune for both of us if something happened due to me thinking too highly of myself to help someone in need,” he said, feeling wrongfooted by the other man. “And nothing has been stolen as far as I can see.” 

“Others might call it naive,” the stranger said roughly, though the pleasant smile on his lips never dimmed. “Even if it is an admirable way of living,” he shrugged, seeming more than happy just to observe Minho from a distance.

“What do you call it then?” Minho asked, used to being seen as immature. It came with being a musician who denied playing for an audience and only for the walls and paintings to listen to. “Stupid? Foolheaded?” He implored cheekily, not knowing where the courage to allow his more biting side to appear came from. 

The stranger kept smiling, lips drawn wide but not in a way that made Minho uncomfortable. He seemed genuine, bemused by Minho’s words rather than angry. 

“It was a gratuitous move,” he settled on, quickly crossing the room and settling down beside Minho on the couch, too close considering they weren’t acquainted. By the lord, Minho didn’t even know the other man’s name, and now their thighs were almost touching. “Kind, I suppose, would also do,” he said, eyes finding Minho again. 

Now that they were closer, they did indeed look almost black. 

Minho’s heart swooped in the way the heroine’s always did once the hero appeared in his novels, and he found himself wanting to know the stranger’s name so he could taste it as it left his lips, feel it like a caress. 

“I’m Bang Chan,” the stranger introduced himself, almost as if he had read Minho’s mind. He held his hand out for Minho to take. “I owe you my name as you have been my benefactor for the night,” he said, tilting his head and allowing his wild fringe to fall into his eyes. 

Minho glanced from the pale, perfect hand and up to Chan’s eyes, the irises as dark as the night sky. The red vest from the night before wasn’t even muddied or dirty from when he had fallen to the ground, nor did he show any signs of fatigue. 

Like Minho, he looked like he had just gotten up, newly dressed and ready for the day, with his collar slightly unbuttoned in an artful manner. A hint of imperfection, to make him seem even more breathtaking. Minho didn’t bother musing over why, too caught up in admiring the sharp slope of his nose and the length of his lashes to care for much else. Chan was more beautiful in the day, the glow of the candles making him close to ethereal. 

He did indeed look just like the hero of a novel, handsome and charismatic. 

“Lee,” Minho said, keeping his first name hidden for now. Names had power. He grabbed Chan’s hand and shook it, feeling the soft heat of the almost stranger’s palm against his own. Even his hand was soft, his grip firm but careful, closer to a caress than a handshake. “I’m the son of the lord of the house.”

“And is the lord of the house home?” Chan asked, his voice smooth, though there was a mocking hint to his words that Minho couldn’t quite decipher. “I would like to extend my gratitude. After all, I have been permitted entry to such a lovely estate,” he added, with a short laugh, learning back into the couch like it was his home and not Minho’s. “It would be considered rude of me not to -” he stopped himself, eyes flickering from Minho’s lips and back up to meet his gaze again. “- leave my thanks to the man in power.”

Minho swallowed and licked his lips, giving Chan a kind smile, if not one that felt slightly forced due to the erratic beating of his heart. 

“My father is out of town, so for now I am the man in power,” he explained, not wishing to divulge that it had been the better part of half a year since his parents had been in charge of the household. 

Some days, it felt like they had already passed away, leaving Minho to haunt their home in their place. 

“Oh, my, is that true?” Chan gasped, the mocking tinge back in his voice, but before Minho could call him out for it, he turned and held a hand out for Minho to place his own in. “In that case, you’re the one I need to thank, young lord. Or is it, young master?” He asked playfully, clearly enjoying the way Minho squirmed in his seat and shook his head. “I feel honored to have fainted in such- ” his gaze flickered down to Minho’s hand, eyes lingering almost suggestively. “- Beautiful hands.” 

“Lord is quite alright if not too much,” Minho said sheepishly and allowed his hand to be cradled carefully by both of Chan’s soft and cold hands. “I have yet to inherit my father’s title so-”

The rest of the words vanished from the tip of his tongue, Chan’s soft lips pressing a kiss to the back of his hand enough to quell any meaningfulness Minho might have been attempting to convey. 

The lips were cold against Minho’s hand, yet the touch burned like fire, making all of Minho’s skin tingle, and his heart almost ceased beating. Chan held his hand so tenderly, like he was cradling something endlessly precious.

“I don’t doubt you will soon be a lord. I have faith, my lord,” Chan said, his lips moving against Minho’s hand with each and every word enunciated, dark eyes keeping Minho prisoner. “You will become a gratuitous and noble man, one many will wish they could get a taste of,” he added, his smile pressed into Minho’s hand, both thumbs caressing Minho’s hand as he held onto him. “Keep your doors closed and don’t invite in any handsome strangers other than me, alright?”

Minho blushed, nearly choking on his breath of air at Chan’s directness. It was like he could sense that Minho was attracted to him and wished to admire his beauty both from afar but also up close. 

“Don’t be shy, my lord,” Chan said with a chuckle, leaning away only a bit to look up at Minho with his spellbinding dark eyes. “I know why I specifically got the honor of being under your roof for a night. You admire beauty, the entire house tells that story clearly enough. It’s no wonder you threw reason to the wind and dragged the cat inside for the night.”

“The cat? Am I the mouse then?” Minho asked. His hand remained in both of Chan’s, his gentle touch an almost intimate caress. “Even though it’s my house? Even though I prefer being the cat?” He asked, arching an eyebrow as he looked back at Chan, somehow feeling empowered by the other man to play coy. 

Chan regarded him for a second, something shifting on his face, however, it was quickly overtaken by the perpetual smile on his lips. Minho’s stomach twisted, the pitiful leftovers of his survival instincts telling him to be afraid, but it was in vain. 

Minho had been lost to Chan the moment he had turned around, his eyes catching their first look of the not-quite-stranger. 

“You can be whatever you want,” Chan said carefully, barely blinking as he kept staring at Minho. “Though, a mouse, in my humble opinion, would be a shameful word for someone as… special as you,” he added, straightening his back and releasing Minho’s hand with an air of reluctance. “Consider me a wolf then, and you the cat. Both predators, except one is of a different caliber than the other.”

His hands hovered in the air for a moment, Minho still spellbound by the man in front of him. He eventually collected himself, and his hand fell to his lap, the movement pulling back his sleeve and uncovering the fabric wrapped around his wrists.

Chan’s sharp eyes caught onto it, a flash of wry amusement crossing his face, but it wasn’t enough to dim his smile.

“You invited me in willingly, right?” Chan asked, eyes still on the cotton around Minho’s wrist like he understood exactly why Minho’s wrists were covered, even if Minho himself had never figured out why. “Out of your own free will, correct?” He added, stressing the word as he looked up and trapped Minho in his dark gaze. 

“No one made me do it, so, yes, I invited you in willingly,” Minho answered, for some reason deciding against covering his wrist with his sleeve like he usually would have done. There was something in the way Chan was eyeing it that made him refrain from doing anything, let alone moving a bit so he was more comfortable. “Why else would I have carried you all the way in here all by myself?” 

Minho flinched when Chan’s focus changed and he looked up, gaze falling to Minho’s neck, and he got the feeling Chan knew that under the high collar of the shirt, Minho had also covered up.

“I said it before,” Chan started warmly, the intensity of his staring not wavering, but he appeared to settle on something in his mind because it wasn’t directed at Minho anymore. His eyes were soft when they met Minho’s, a desire directed at Minho that he hadn’t experienced being the receiver of before.

Minho’s blood boiled, a yearning he had never felt before blooming under his skin, and his cheeks flushed. A breathless hitch escaped him silently, but the twitch at the corner of Chan’s mouth told Minho everything he needed to know. Chan was like him, wrong and twisted in his desires, and Minho was not the only one who seemed to feel the energy shift dangerously between them. 

Minho swallowed, his throat dry as Chan’s demeanor turned dark and hungry, almost predatorily. 

“I’m grateful you let me in,” Chan continued, startling Minho who had already forgotten he was in the middle of speaking. “I’m always delighted when I’m invited inside so kindly by a stranger when I myself am a stranger in need,” his eyes drifted over Minho again, lingering suggestively all over his body. Minho felt like a sinner just being close to Chan, the whispers of the serpent so clear in his ears. “And even more so when it’s a handsome lord as well.”

Minho felt his cheeks flush deeper, not missing how Chan inhaled deeply through his mouth, as if he was tasting the air. 

“You’re always welcome here,” Minho said, more out of habit and formality than anything else, but the reply pleased Chan. Even if his voice no doubt sounded strangled. 

“Thank you. I will make sure to take you up on that as many times as possible,” Chan promised, his eyes still drifting over Minho’s body, staring down at him. “It would be a shame not to visit something so breathtakingly beautiful,” he said, taking a single step back and reevaluating the action and quickly undid it, surging in close to Minho. 

The sudden motion forced Minho backward, his chest heaving as Chan was suddenly face to face with him, the tips of their noses nearly touching. 

“Will it delight you if I do that? If I come by as many times as I wish in the middle of the night to keep you company in this large, cold, and abandoned manor?” Chan whispered, seeing through all the pretenses Minho sometimes doubted were acting, and was really just who he was; Lonely, freezing, and in desperate need of physical contact. 

Minho blinked, those dark eyes feeling like they were staring into his very soul. 

“I wouldn’t mind it, perfect stranger, to be with you for as long as you wish. All you have to do is ask,” Chan said, no mockery in his voice, just painful honesty. “I will give it to you, you know? All you dream of, all you desire. Whatever it might be, it shall be yours.”

Chan was so close that Minho could count his eyelashes, so close that Minho might just get swallowed up by his pitch black eyes and the air of sin and seduction that clung to the perfect man before him. 

“Why?” Minho asked breathlessly, though he struggled to collect himself. Jasmine and cedarwood permeated the air, cluttering up his lungs and seeping into Minho. He could feel his body flush, blood rushing through his veins, warm and alive. “Why would you do that for me?” He asked hoarsely. 

“It’s ‘cause you look delectable,” Chan answered with a teasing tilt of his head, hair falling back into his eyes, the curls wilder now he had slept. “And because you’re interesting, my dear,” he said, admiring Minho’s face for a second, eyes lingering on Minho’s cheeks before they settled on his lips. 

Minho expected him to withdraw, to leave the attraction between them left unsaid as both religion and manners demanded, but Chan did the opposite. 

Hot lips met Minho’s own, and a startled sound forced out from his mouth. It was quickly swallowed by Chan pushing his tongue past the weak seal of his lips, deepening the kiss into something harsh and lustful long before Minho registered what was happening. Strong and cold hands were in his hair, messing up the lazy work he had made of it moments earlier, threading through the strands and dragging nails across his scalp, making Minho’s body shiver and his heart pick up speed. 

Oh. 

This was it.

Kissing a man felt right. Kissing Chan felt perfect. 

Minho had nothing to compare it to, but he gave in, molded under Chan’s touch, and he drank up the sweet scent of the other man. His mouth filled with the taste of berries and dark, rich wine, and under it all, a hint of metallic copper. 

Minho shuddered, all his precious reason struggling with his sinful nature. He drew his leg up, to push Chan away, he assumed, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he felt himself lean back and give in under Chan, growing lax and pliant. One hand left Minho’s hair to push his leg to the side, spreading him open and making room for Chan to move fully into Minho’s space. 

Like two fitting pieces, Chan slotted into the space between Minho’s thighs like Minho had been shaped around the other man, their bodies fitting together in a way that felt sacrilegious. Minho’s legs parted easily, giving Chan room to sink deeper, their bodies pressed indecently close. 

Out of instinct, Minho took hold of Chan’s waist, the fabric of his waistcoat silky under his palms. Minho moaned as Chan licked into him deeper, stealing his breath and moving Minho’s inexperienced lips into shape. He bunched up the fabric of Chan’s waistcoat and pulled him closer, desperate to have him nearer and feel more of him, the warmth of his body almost unnaturally high. Minho felt it through his clothes, like a burn that touched his very soul and lit a fire within him unlike any other. 

Minho wanted more, needed more. He wanted to drown in the scent of Chan, wanted to burn on the pyre of his heat, wanted to taste nothing but the dark and rich wine he tasted in Chan’s mouth. Minho stopped existing, most of his thoughts directed at Chan’s tongue moving against his own, the focal point of his mind being Chan’s nimble fingers undoing the buttons of his collar.

He could only moan, arching back and opening himself fully to the desire Chan had so effortlessly brought to life within him. Eternal damnation was an easy price to pay for the euphoria Minho felt at Chan’s touch. He felt himself grow hard, filling shamefully in his pants and pressing against Chan, who had no choice but to feel just how affected Minho already was.

With a harsh tug, Chan freed Minho’s throat from the high collar, the broad tie fluttering to the floor beside them,as Chan uncovered the white cotton underneath. He scratched at it and made a displeased noise, close to a growl. 

“A crime to keep you covered up like this, my dear,” Chan complained, his hot breath on Minho’s cheek pulling another pleasurable sound out of him. “I will rectify that one day,” he said roughly, his hot lips drinking Minho’s whines right off his lips. 

Minho could only sigh, opening like a flower under Chan’s touch, his whole body straining for more… Only, Chan seemed to have other plans.

Without warning, Chan sank his teeth into Minho’s bottom lip, biting hard and bruisingly into the tender skin. The flesh of Minho’s lip gave easily, splitting under Chan’s sharp teeth and filling the kiss with the coppery taste of blood. Pain bloomed behind Minho’s closed eyes, and they shot open. Pushing at Chan’s shoulders, he tried to shove him away, seriously this time.

Chan let go easily, smiling down at Minho when he drew back, his eyes shining almost red in the flickering light from the candles, Minho’s ire and pain amusing to him. 

“Oh, my little darling,” Chan practically sang, hands still roaming hungrily over Minho’s body. “There is no need to fight,” he said, leaning in again and taking Minho’s bleeding lip between his own and sucked it into his mouth. 

It elicited a pained sound from Minho, pleasure mingling with the sting of discomfort. Chan laughed into his open mouth, licking up the blood from the cut he had made with his teeth, his tongue sliding brazenly over Minho’s as he kissed him deep and messily, devouring every drop of blood that had spilled from Minho’s lip. Only once Minho was sure he would soon lose his sanity, or his dignity from how his whole body ached for Chan’s touch, did he stop, giving Minho one last peck on his bruised lips.

He withdrew gently, their bodies still pressed closely together, Minho’s desire not wavering despite the pain as he still shamefully pressed against Chan, hard and aching. Chan held onto Minho’s gaze before granting him a dazzling smile, his eyes glimmering. 

A speck of blood remained in the corner of his mouth, but was quickly licked up by Chan’s tongue peeking out.

“I was right,” Chan said, completely unaffected compared to Minho’s wide-legged and disheveled appearance. Minho knew how he must look, his eyes wide and wild with lust, his wrist and throat exposed, bandages laid bare, chest heaving and legs spread as if he was ready to be taken right there on the couch, with no shame or decorum. “You are delicious,” he added with a sinful lick of his lips, eyes drifting over Minho as if he was etching his disheveled state into his mind. “I can’t wait to find out how the rest of you taste.” 

There was something more to those words than Minho could decipher. As it were, he was far too busy calming down his erratic heart and body as Chan pushed off of him fully, getting back to his feet, legs far more steady than Minho’s would have been if he were the one getting up.

“Thank you for the meal,” Chan said, the words thrown carelessly at Minho as he tugged at his clothing, turning on his heel and making his way to the door. “I hope I didn’t cause too much of an inconvenience for you, but do extend my compliments to the chef. I’m thoroughly rejuvenated now,” he laughed as if he was telling a joke both of them were in on, except Minho was still stuck on the kiss, unable to make sense of anything else. 

“And don’t worry, my darling, I’ll be back soon,” Chan called from the other room, Minho’s head turning as if called by his master. “Be a good boy until I do,” he ordered, a chiming laugh filling the house, and Minho shuddered, blinking lost and cold on the couch. 

The front door opened and closed, the house once again thrown into solitude with its sole inhabitant panting on the couch, lips red and puffy, legs spread, clothes ruffled, and his collar completely undone.

The glass of water Chan had left behind appeared untouched, not even a stain from his lips around the rim of the glass. It didn’t stop Minho from emptying it, soothing his dry throat and hammering heart, before staring listlessly at the spot where Chan had disappeared.

In his poor and empty chest, Minho’s heart broke slightly, loneliness embracing him as the familiar friend it was. He remained within his prison, more beast than treasure, behind the thick walls of the house.

***

Hours later at breakfast, still rattled from the early morning encounter with Chan and still slightly convinced it was all a dream, Minho was poking at his food. His lips hurt with every bite, the wound threatening to open if he dared speak a single word, a painful reminder of how easily Minho had given in to temptation. 

Minho thought he had been better, that it would take more than a pretty man and a kiss to unravel him, and yet there he was, lost to daydreams about dark eyes and hot lips, cold hands ridding him of more of his clothes and doing thing to Minho he had only dared to think about while his door was locked and he had only himself and his hand to seek relief with. 

A part of him wished he could regret it, but he most of all just wanted Chan to return, to quench the hunger he had erected in Minho that no mere food would ever be able to satisfy. To cool the fire in his blood and soothe the ache left behind in his body from his touch. 

He was sipping his tea, wincing at the cut on his lip, when he overheard the staff muttering amongst each other about how a young woman had failed to show up for work. Their words were hushed, but not enough that Minho couldn’t hear them complain about how they were now forced to do her tasks, hissing about how they already had plenty of work to do themselves without the butler just adding work onto them while he downed tea and in his office. 

Breakfast had been served a couple of minutes late, the giant clock in the dining room having ended its tolling by the time a cup of tea was poured for Minho. He hadn’t much cared, but now that it was mentioned, it was an irregularity in Minho’s otherwise perfectly scheduled life. 

However, none of it concerned Minho, so he simply continued sipping his tea, permitting the quiet gossip of the servants to wash over him as his thoughts once more returned to Chan and his sudden disappearance. 

Minho didn’t feel rejected, it would be silly if he did. Chan was a stranger, but he did feel oddly restless, unsure what to make of the other man. Bathed in the pale winter light falling in through the huge windows, the night and early morning felt even more like a dream, the kissing on the couch in the living room even more so. 

Minho chose to believe it was, because that was easier to accept than admitting he had allowed a stranger to enter his home, kissed him, and wound himself up so indecently just to be left breathless and aching. 

The mere thought of it all left Minho’s ears burning from embarrassment. 

He didn’t think about the missing servant again until later in the day when Minho received word that the servant was found dead. 

She had been discovered by the gardener, drained of blood, down by the hill leading to the house. Her body had been carelessly hidden in a hawthorn bush, her body half frozen by the time she was found. It caused quite the uproar, but all Minho could think of was Chan’s lips against his and the speck of blood he had licked clean from the corner of his mouth, eyes dark and gleaming dangerously in the light from the candles. 

Minho knew he should have been afraid, that his heart should have been pounding in fear, that he should have been filled with disgust, but all he felt was serenity. 

He instructed the butler to send the girl’s family money, even if the old man protested and threatened to tell his parents. Minho paid him very little mind, knowing that him sending strangers money wasn’t enough to make his parents return. Perhaps they would be pleased that he cared for their reputation, but in truth, it was too little of a matter to draw them from their frolicking in the city. 

The family could use the money, and Minho, as much as he hated it, felt no real loss. He had never liked her. She had been rude, snappish, and Minho was pretty sure she had stolen a few pieces of the silverware while the butler hadn’t been looking, so the estate wouldn’t miss her either. And as awful as it was to admit, Minho knew the money her death made for her family was more than she would have been able to steal and earn herself. 

Now, she would die young, perfect, and unblemished by her awful personality. If Minho was right, then she could have died painlessly, which was a much better fate than was gifted to most. 

In the evening, Minho ate his dinner alone while the house wept for the woman who had been taken by a Night Terror and daydreamed about the stranger he had invited into his house. While he ate, he planned a feast, just for Chan, thinking of rare delicacies and wines he would serve him, about how he would dress, how he would impress the other man, preen like the silly bird he was, luring the predator closer and closer with his pretty feathers. 

Hopefully, Chan would keep his promise and return soon.

Until then, Minho’s imagination could entertain him for hours on end.

***

Minho wasn’t sure what awoke him. A creaking floorboard, the wind howling, the crying about the approaching spring, or one of the dogs dreaming and scratching at the floor. Something had awoken him, though, and he blinked his eyes open and sat up in bed, glancing about the room in search of what had disturbed him.

The fire was almost dead, the room cold and dark, and Minho hugged the heavy duvet closer around himself. He was dressed in both a night shirt and sleep pants, both of thick cotton, but somehow he was still freezing. He shivered again, looking at the dogs. Most of them were lying in a pile by the fire, huddled up for warmth, while Berry and a few of the smaller ones huddled up at the foot of Minho’s bed, snuck under his duvet so they could leech off his heat. 

Berry glanced at him, blinking sleepily before she laid back down, unwilling to get up so late in the night. 

“Why is it so cold?” Minho huffed, teeth clattering as he slipped from the sheets, stuffing his feet into his slippers and grumbling the whole way over to the fireplace. “You’d think I had left the window open,” he muttered, and picked up new pieces of wood and threw them on the fire. 

The embers flickered, glowing as they were fed. It took a few blows of air, but soon smoke rose up from the wood, and they began to devour their late-night sacrifice. 

Minho sat at the fire, laughing as the dogs poked at him and knocked him over till he sat on the floor together with them. Deciding he wasn’t tired anymore, he stayed behind and cuddled them until the fire was burning fully again and the room was heated to a comforting level.

However, he couldn’t sit on the floor for ages. He groaned when he pushed himself up from the floor, tired from sitting curled in over himself for too long. 

“I’m getting old,” he told his dogs, though it was a lie. 26 wasn’t old, and yet Minho felt ancient sometimes, like time moved slower in his forced solitude than it did outside his prison. “What will you all do when I can’t sit on the floor anymore?” He teased his dogs, shuffling back towards his bed.

He sat on his mattress with a sigh, loneliness heavier than normal. It was like after Chan had been by a few days prior the house felt emptier. The cut on Minho’s lips had healed, leaving no scar, except it felt like Chan’s teeth had cut deeper, sliced into Minho’s soul, exposing it for what it truly was: wanton and needy. 

“Maybe I am losing my mind already,” Minho said to the dogs that were already rolled back up, happily on their way back to sleep now that the room wasn’t freezing anymore. “Maybe he never existed at all,” he added into the dark, feeling more like he was confessing his sins than admitting his own lunacy. “Maybe it was all just in my head.”

Berry suddenly growled and Minho turned to look at her, finding her eyes on the window. He followed her gaze, seeing nothing but the curtains drawn shut, keeping out the last of the moon’s light outside. 

“Easy girl,” Minho said, carefully stood back up and reached for the lamp at his side. It took him two tries to light it, and by then Berry’s growls had lessened, her head back down, but her eyes still firmly at the window. “I’m sure it’s just the wind.”

He slowly made his way towards the window. His heart picked up pace. Hammering hard in his chest. He grasped the curtain. His hand trembled. And with a harsh yank, he pulled it aside. 

The window was empty, the vast garden stretching out down below with nothing out of the ordinary. Minho raised the lamp, staring down below, but nothing was amiss. Minho blinked, staring at the dark shadows below. He wanted to laugh at himself. He wasn’t even sure what he expected. Chan? A bird? A Night Terror standing ready to consume him?

“I am losing my mind,” Minho muttered to himself, about to tug the curtain closed again when some caught his eyes. He froze, staring at the hatch. There were two hatches on the window, one above, one below, but the upper one was open, hanging loosely. “Or am I?” He added, reaching up and pulling it closed, a sliver of wind being cut off as it tried to sneak into the room. “No wonder it was cold.”

Minho couldn’t help but look down again, once more expecting a pair of eyes to stare back at him, but there was nothing. With a sigh, he pulled the curtain closed, making sure to tug it in to cut off any draft as he made his way back to the bed. He put the lamp down on the table and was halfway under his sheets before he saw it. 

It being a card on the bedside table. 

Minho’s heart picked up as he reached for it, frowning as he noticed it was upside down. 

The card was thick, carefully painted with a horned devil standing on an altar, a reversed five-pointed star on his forehead. There were two smaller beings, both with tails, chained to the altar upon which he was standing. The words ‘The Devil’ were written in detailed letters on the bottom, though Minho needed no explanation of what he was looking at. 

The Devil stared back at him, eyes red in the flickering light from the lamp, and Minho’s chest felt tight as he placed the card back down. It wasn’t his, of that he was sure, but whoever else had access to a locked room filled with dogs… Well, Minho didn’t dare think that far. 

He put the card away inside a book so the Devil couldn’t watch him sleep, but even as he blew out the light, he felt its eyes on him, the warning hard to miss. He didn’t fall asleep until hours later, the storm still raging outside, angry that it would be the last before spring would come to cull it. 

***

The weeks dragged on, the nights growing warmer and shorter, and the trees slowly began to redress themselves as warmth began to fill the air, the spring sun becoming stronger and stronger, pulling Minho up earlier and earlier. There was no sign of Chan. Minho sat up late into the night, watching the garden for shadows while the moon circled from full to waning and back to full again. 

No more cards appeared either, the Devil hidden in a book on Minho’s shelves where he could see nothing, and his warning presence was easily ignored.

He had almost given up, allowing himself to think that night had been make-believe, but not even his dreams would let him rest. The few hours of sleep Minho managed to get in before he was dragged from his bed were filled with fantasies and illicit desires of what he wished Chan had done to him that night. 

Minho had almost decided to do his best to forget the other man when they finally met again. 

It was moments after the sun had set, just after Minho had told the kitchen he didn’t intend on eating. The food would go to them instead, and Minho could live with that just as well as he could live without getting drunk all on his own in the dining room to a meal worthy of twelve people and not just one.

He hated eating all alone, hated having to sit at the dining room table made for a family, and be waited on by five different people while he struggled through his food. It made him lose his appetite, and tonight he just hadn’t had the heart to get through it. 

He knew where the kitchen was if he got hungry later. 

Thus, he found himself in the conservatory, bathed in the light from the many candles lit around him, in the midst of cutting a bouquet of early blooming roses, when Chan made his entrance as soundless and sudden as if he had never been away at all. 

“You look out of place here,” Chan said in lieu of greeting Minho. 

Minho startled, dropping the knife in his hands, almost slicing his palm open. The knife fell to the ground with a hollow thud, too loud in the room. 

“And cutting roses with a knife, a dull one as well, is poorly thought out, my lord,” Chan said, his soft voice filled with amusement. “Shouldn’t a rarity such as yourself entertain more rare flowers than simple roses?” He added, looking around the room, admiring the many flowers that were too frail to grow out in the wild. 

Minho’s heart sped up, barely daring to move in case it was all in his head. 

“I- I don't know,” Minho stuttered as Chan watched him almost cautiously, clearly waiting for him to speak. He frowned at himself, mulling over the words in an attempt to find an answer that didn’t make him sound like a fool. “Aren’t roses romantic? Rare on their own,” he muttered, blinking rapidly, almost believing he was going mad because was that really Chan? “They’re all imported. Expensive.”

Chan looked good, perfect really. He wore a stark red jacket, his waistcoat black and shiny like silk. Boots wrapped around his shapely calves, ending just before his knee, pants black and tight, fabric clinging to him like second skin. He was vibrant and gorgeous in the last light of the day that lingered on the edge of the horizon. 

“True rarities don’t need to be imported or expensive,” Chan said, eyes moving over Minho, lingering like a caress. “True rarity is grown from the impossible, surviving against the odds, and grown on native soil,” he added, finally moving as he stalked past Minho, finding a place on a stone bench mere meters from the spot Minho was kneeling at. 

The gorgeous man smiled at Minho, robbing him of reason and all thoughts as he glanced him over. He had thought he had made up how beautiful Chan was, but the other man proved how flawed Minho’s memories were. Lacking a tophat this time, Chan’s outfit was more befitting of a wild fox hunt than a late dinner. 

It suited Chan, fleeting as he was. 

Chan wasn’t a man you kept, Minho imagined. He wasn’t a man you trapped or held down, no, he was much too wild and elusive for that. Like a wild wolf, he was there because he wanted to, because Minho fascinated him, and hopefully because Chan had tasted something on Minho’s lips he wished to taste again. 

Minho’s ears burned as he remembered a few of his secret, illicit dreams. 

“I know nothing of rarities,” Minho said, shyly looking down at the flowers in his lap. “What I do know is that I happen to make poor decisions sometimes,” he muttered at his pale hands and the dull knife.

The bouquet of roses looked in worse shape now than when they had still been attached to the plant. They had just seemed so lonely, all alone in the sunroom, the only ones flowering while the rest of the garden was barely awakening, sprouts shooting from the ground, and the trees only just having formed buds.

He had hoped they would keep Minho company in his lonely room until they withered and died.

“Who will keep you from making poor decisions?” Chan asked, crossing his legs and planting a hand on each side of him against the stone of the bench. “Who keeps you safe, my dear?” He added, his gaze heavy on Minho. “You can’t tell me someone was foolish enough to leave you all alone. You need more care than roses to bloom, more love and tenderness than a mere plant.” 

“I don’t think I need much,” Minho lied, and shrugged, collecting the bouquet and ignoring the way the thorns bit into his skin. It wouldn’t matter if he bled, wouldn’t matter if he was scared and torn. At least it would make him feel something. 

Unlike Minho, Chan was wearing gloves. Black, leather, and tight fitting, hiding his hands from Minho’s curious touch. It would be easy to reach over, to feel him, to indulge Minho’s desires. Not that there was a guarantee that he would even get the chance to feel Chan’s skin against his own again, just like the kiss they shared the last time might have been conjured up by Minho’s imagination. 

Seeing Chan again only reminded Minho of how otherworldly and beyond Minho the other man was to begin with, how plain and simple Minho appeared. It was hard not to feel pain when Minho was dressed in gray pants, a matching waistcoat, and his jacket stuck in the closet where it was whenever his parents weren’t home. Even his tie looked old-fashioned and dull next to the vibrancy of Chan. 

“The servants, my staff,” Minho answered hesitantly, turning away from Chan to gather up the knife as well, almost wishing he had had the sense to dress himself nicer. “My parents,” he said, knowing it was proper to do so. He supposed they had protected him once, when he was very small. “There are plenty of people who tend to me. And unlike these flowers, I do not wilt.”

“I am not sure about that,” Chan said, voice dark and laced with protectiveness. “It’s been a little more than a month, and look how you’ve paled. Are they truly capable of protecting someone like you?” Chan asked, tilting his head to the side, diamonds gleaming as they dangled from his ears. His eyes drifted over Minho, dark with hunger. “Are they worthy of taking care of someone as precious as you?” He added, softly patting the spot on his right side, except he was already taking up most of the space on the bench. 

Sitting where he was inviting Minho would mean they would be touching in one way or another. 

Minho didn’t think. Slipping the knife into the holster at his side, he went to the bench, pausing only to take in Chan’s appearance like the greedy man he was. 

Chan sat in the shade, hidden from the last of the sun. His eyes were dull and lips pale and pink, his skin had faded into a deadly pallor, making him look exactly the kind of Night Terror his mother had always warned Minho about. He appeared tired, worn out, and yet he was smiling at Minho like he was his whole world. 

It reminded Minho about how Chan had looked the evening he had fainted before Minho.

“They have to be worthy to take care of me,” Minho said, sitting down right by Chan and fighting the urge to lean into his personal space too quickly. “Who else will do it if not them?” He added, holding back a shiver at the feeling of Chan’s colder body pressed right up against his own. 

It was wrong to relish in the closeness of another man like this, yet Minho felt his whole body come alive at the mere presence of Chan next to him. 

He wasn’t sure why Chan affected him like this, clouded his logic, blinded his reason, and made him rash and senseless like a maid from the novels he knew wasn’t befitting for him to be reading. Perhaps he was simply lonely, Chan the victim of his forsaken heart. 

It wasn’t like Minho and others to talk to. 

His parents weren’t there, and the staff either loathed him or feared him, keeping their distance. He didn’t have friends; all his tutors had left as soon as Minho had mastered their teachings. 

Leaving was the only option for those who came near Minho. He didn’t know why, but his parents were right when they told him that he was born to be alone, regardless of how many lives he had tried to attach himself to like a parasite. No one stayed at Minho’s side long, no more than a few months. It was just enough for Minho to grow attached, enough for him to mourn their absence, enough for his heart to be covered in scars. 

Chan would leave, too. He knew that logically. Once he had gotten what he wanted, of course. 

If Minho was lucky, the other man would leave one morning, and just never come back, if Minho was less fortunate… Well, then, Minho supposed he wouldn’t have to worry about being lonely anymore. 

“No one else can or will,” Minho tagged on after a moment, Chan’s eyes turning sad as the silence stretched. He held the bouquet in his hands, keeping all the stems tightly together. “It’s what they’re here for,” he said with a deep sigh. “Biology and loyalty demands them.” 

“What are you here for then, my lord?” Chan asked, tilting his head and looking at Minho, and Minho took note of his neckerchief. It was a peculiar choice, outdated as well as unfashionable, but Minho liked it. It suited Chan. “Are you driven by biology? Loyalty? Family?”

Minho spared the door leading deeper into the manor a look, needing a brief reprieve from Chan’s dark eyes. The huge stone walls were already cooling, struggling to keep hold of the heat of the day, even as they grew longer and longer. 

The house was a tomb, a mausoleum built for the living with its huge windows and endless light. Yet, it was his home, the only place he knew. 

“I live here,” Minho said, the answer both obvious, but also partially untrue. “Isn’t it right that this is the place I should feel safest, to be protected?” He asked, thinking of the dark rooms beyond the door. The house was quiet as always, the servants safe below them, feasting on food Minho couldn't bear to eat. “Call it family, loyalty, filial piety, or obedience, it’s all the same in the end. I am here because this is where I belong. This is my native soil, I must thrive here.”

In truth, Minho wasn’t living, he was waiting. Always waiting and expecting someone to show up. He was like his dogs, waiting patiently for attention, behaving in the hopes of achieving praise and attention. But unlike his dogs, Minho only rarely got blessed with his parents’ company, and even more rare was when his parents even graced him with their attention. 

He was a ghost to them, a living dead they had long since stopped grieving and were now simply waiting to pass to the beyond. 

They would be back soon, if they kept their promise, not that they ever did, but as Chan said, Minho was naive enough to still believe. They never stayed for long, just long enough to throw one of their gaudy dinner parties for their many influential friends to show off their riches, and then they would leave again, abandoning Minho and the house once more.

The beast in his garden, the ghost haunting the house, the monster prowling the labyrinth. They were all the same, and Minho was all of them.

“You should feel safe in your home, yes,” Chan said, words heavy despite his light tone. “But who says this is your native soil? Who says they are the only ones willing to care for you?” He asked, gaze heavier than mountains on Minho’s shoulders. 

He never allowed Minho to reply before he continued.

“My home is my castle, a refuge for me and my family. Anyone there is as safe as they can be, and I will protect them against any danger they might face,” Chan said carefully, his gloved hand reaching out to gently touch Minho’s. “But it’s not just my home, it’s my family’s home. It’s our home. It’s where we sleep, where we sit together, where we share each other’s company, where we unite and become whole. It is where we have chosen to keep each other safe.” 

Minho blinked down at his hand, marveling at how perfect Chan’s hand felt on top of his own.

“But a home is more than a house, more than servants brought to loyalty, more than biological obligation. More than obedience,” he continued, long fingers playing with Minho’s hand. “Love and choice are more important. I keep my home safe because it houses my family, and I protect them because I love them and would not see them harmed. I punish everyone who dares to try to do so because fear will keep them safe. A house can be rebuilt, but a life lost once is lost forever.” 

“Your family is lucky,” Minho said, not quite able to keep the envy out of his voice. He couldn’t even imagine being loved like that, from choice alone, to be protected out of want and not of duty. “You love them,” he said, even though love was still a stranger to Minho. 

He wasn’t sure he had ever been loved.

He knew what it was, felt it towards the dogs, had read about it in books, but he wasn’t sure it had ever belonged to him. He kept his eyes on their hands, and Chan neatly folded them together. Minho couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be loved like Chan the way Minho had only read about in books, deeply, unconditionally, and forever. How it would be to live in a home that wasn’t just made out of bricks and light, but of people and laughter. 

“I am the lucky one, truly,” Chan said, blind to Minho’s thoughts. “My family is vast, filled with odd pieces that didn’t fit in anywhere else. I love them all dearly, even if a few of them drive me up the wall,” he added, a wry amusement to his words that didn’t hide that he still loved whoever he was talking about dearly. “They are part of me, and I am part of them. Losing one would be like losing part of myself.” 

“Well, you’re all lucky, then,” Minho said, cringing as his voice came out forced, envy filling up his lungs and making it hard to breathe. “Though I’m sure I’m as safe here as your family is in your home. I am very much cared for, so you shouldn’t think more about that,” he added, finally daring to look up and meet the pitch black eyes of his special stranger. “I am perfectly content.”

The lie tasted bitter as it slipped off his tongue, but it was easy. He told himself the same often enough to make it feel almost true. 

Chan didn’t say anything, his silence telling Minho more than his words ever could. He just watched Minho with a knowing look and a sad smile on his lips. 

“Would you like some tea? Coffee? Wine?” Minho asked, desperate for them to talk about something that was not about him or his lonely house. He wanted Chan to see him as a man after all, as someone worthy of desire, not like a pitiful child who had been left alone too long unattended. “It’s a weekday, so I can’t promise that the kitchen will permit me to drink wine, but I’m sure they would make an exception for you. We do so rarely entertain guests,” he offered, the heaviness of the moment shared between them having grown too much for him. 

He turned away, gazing out over the little indoor garden and the bush he had trimmed of its first blooms. 

“You’re welcome inside if you’d like,” Minho continued when Chan remained silent, cheeks reddening at the thought of what had happened the last time he had invited Chan into his living room. He pondered if it was too forward to invite the man directly to his bedroom, knowing it was the only place they could be truly alone. 

Even now, they risked the servant walking in on them, telling sordid tales to his parents. Not that whatever tales they might make up wouldn’t be right, but Minho, for once, wished to sin before he was condemned. 

“You already invited me in once, my lord,” Chan reminded him as if there was something significant to be found in that act. “You can’t uninvite me now nor ever,” he said, holding on tighter to Minho’s hand as if he were afraid the other man might disappear. “My intrusion into your life can not be undone, my dear.” 

The term of endearment was said as sweetly as all the other ones, making Minho’s heart flutter helplessly.

“Inviting you inside one more time won’t hurt any of us,” Minho said with a shrug, fidgeting with his free hand. 

It had been a long time since he had been given the opportunity to converse with someone who wasn’t ordered by his parents to be polite to him. It seemed silly in a way that he wanted to talk to Chan, of course, he still wanted to be kissed again, but Minho was longing for more than carnal pleasure and sinful desires. What he really needed was a confidant, someone who looked at him as if he were more than a wealthy heir, somehow who saw more than a peculiar person, someone who looked upon him and didn’t see a living ghost.

Minho could easily see Chan becoming like that for him.

“I won’t be too sure about that,” Chan said, uncaring about the chill down Minho’s spine his words elicited. He stood up, letting go of Minho as he brushed out the wrinkles in his clothes, before politely holding his arm out, indicating for Minho to take it and let himself get guided to the house as if he were some dainty maiden. “Though, since you have extended your welcome twice, I shall accept it for a second time as well. Let’s walk,” he said, eyes filled with hunger as he stared at Minho. 

Minho blinked up at him, the last rays of the setting sun long gone behind the horizon. Whoever he was and wherever he came from, Chan was an elegant creature, moving without a sound and talking with a smooth and even voice, rarely allowing any rough patches to be seen through the glossy exterior. 

If he was the dangerous stranger Minho had been warned about in his long life, then he didn’t care. A part of Minho had always known he would die young, so why try and stay safe when the end had been near his whole life? 

“I need to bring the flowers with me,” Minho said quietly, getting up from the bench and down on his knees to gather the listless roses that had slipped from his hands while Chan had captured his attention. “It would be a waste to cut them and not bring them with me…” He trailed off as he looked up at Chan, the man towering over him and shrouding him in his shadow. 

“It’s a waste that they’ve wilted, but such is the will of nature. Very few creatures get to live eternally,” Chan said, holding his hand out for Minho to take. He did, forgetting all about the roses on the ground in favor of being the center of Chan’s attention. 

Certainly, he was wearing gloves, but it was better than not being blessed by the close contact.

“If only they could stay frozen in time for all of eternity,” Chan said, words heavy as he lifted his hand and drifted his gloved hand over Minho’s cheek. “Then their beauty wouldn’t be wasted and forgotten. A perfect rose, bloomed under subpar conditions that has managed to emerge breathtaking and perfect, now that, my dear, is special. For such a rose, it’s a crime to let it wither, but even a bigger crime to hide it away in greed. Worse yet, to neglect it and deny its rarity. I’d hate to see perfection perish. The true testament of your God’s perfect creations deserves to be immortal.”

“Your words are blasphemy,” Minho said, his heart twisting inside his chest again. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt like he knew Chan, like the two of them had always been meant to meet. 

“So are most of the actions of some of the most god-fearing people,” Chan said with an amused grin. “And, truly, can your God punish me for speaking the truth?” He asked, the cold soft leather of his glove brushing over Minho’s skin. “You are certainly one of his most gorgeous creations, and yet here you are, all alone without anyone to admire you.”

The way Chan’s eyes drifted down to Minho’s neck, lingering over his chest before lowering to his legs, left no doubt in Minho’s mind what kind of admiration Chan was talking about.

“I might not be god-fearing,” Minho said breathlessly, his whole body feeling warm under Chan’s attention. “But I hope you know I would never… act this forward with others,” he added hoarsely. He wasn’t sure why it mattered, his past actions considered, but he wanted Chan to know Minho wasn’t like this, wasn’t as wanting and needy with others. 

Chan was special to Minho as well.

“Hmm, I would hope not,” Chan said, leaning in and taking a deep breath. “I would have to kill anyone who had touched you. You are mine and mine alone,” he whispered, his breath cold against Minho’s ear as he closed his eyes and shuddered in anticipation. “I do not find you easy prey, my dear, more a pleasure to be enjoyed slowly. Like the wine you so rarely get to enjoy, or a sweet after-dinner. You are to be savored, sipped, and nipped till you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” Minho asked, confused, letting Chan move even closer to him.

“You’ll see, my dear,” Chan said, a gentle kiss pressed to Minho’s temple before he drew back. “One thing you should know is that I will not hurt you, no matter what your sweet mother might have said,” he added, smiling widely and dangerously. “You know my feelings for rarities. And you, my dearest, are the rarest of rarities. The sort of thing one only ever gets to see once in an eternity. I will always treasure you, my dearest Minho.” 

A sharp canine peeked out from under his tempting lip. The sight should have concerned Minho since all his parents had done was warn him of fanged creatures of the night, but Chan wasn’t dangerous. 

Not towards Minho, at least, he believed Chan was telling the truth about that. 

“These people, your parents, are not the only ones willing to care for you, my dear,” Chan said, thumb stroking over Minho’s cheek, eyes straying to his lips. “If you would open your eyes, you would see there are others who will do the same, I dare say even do it better,” he added, almost breathless. “You do not need to be neglected, my dear, you could choose to be treasured instead.” 

Minho blinked, heart hammering hard at the implication of Chan’s words. 

“So about that wine-” Chan started, but was rudely interrupted by a loud yell behind them. 

Minho spun around, losing the tender grip he had around Chan’s hand, and saw the gardener rushing towards him, yelling at him for messing with his precious conservatory and shouting that Minho’s rotten hands deserved to be nowhere near the rose bushes. 

Insults fell from the man as he fought his way through the many green plant an expensive pots shielding Minho and Chan from the rest of the house and like a statue, Minho stood still, more terrified of Chan seeing this pathetic side of himself that just took the verbal beatings without a fight than he was about the gardener screaming at him.

He didn’t seem to notice Chan behind Minho. 

He continued to yell at Minho, one insult after another slapping Minho in the face. The gardener, after all, had been there longer than anyone else, had spied on Minho since he could barely walk, and had hated him just as long as it would seem. 

He was certain in his power over Minho, certain that his words would weigh more than Minho’s own should Minho ever protest and tell his parents of the verbal abuse. Like the butler, he knew Minho was powerless in his own home, lord of name only. Once he had sated his anger on Minho - most likely roused by his confrontational wife like it normally was when he sought Minho out to vent his anger on someone who wouldn’t fight back - he left Minho with one last scornful scoff and a warning to never touch the garden least he wished to loose his hands. 

And like that, Minho was left alone, trembling like a leaf under the evening sky, stars staring down at him with pity as they blinked away one by one. 

When he turned around, Chan was gone. Only a single rose remained on the ground at his feet. Minho could only smile wryly, leaning down to pick up the still blooming rose, some of the petals already starting to dry and wither.

He doubted he would ever see Chan again, even if his words and empty promises were prettier than any Minho had heard before. 

Later, as he twisted and turned every word spoken between them, Minho remembered that Chan had called him by his name. He shouldn’t have known it since Minho hadn’t given it to him yet, but he couldn’t lie. 

His name sounded the loveliest when shaped by Chan’s lips.

***

Minho was dreaming, but the terror was real. It settled in his sleeping muscles and bones, biting into him like the canines of a wild animal . His heart was pounding, his chest heaving as he breathed hard. He felt eyes on him as he ran through the dark, something chasing him, the forest floor wet and muddy beneath his bare feet . 

Branches broke under his feet, thorns clawing at his skin, tearing him open. He could feel blood dripping down his arms, his clothing in tatters , but all he knew to do was run, run, run before he got caught . 

The scent of copper and blood hung heavily in the air, making Minho nauseous as he fled. 

His hunter was silent as he moved behind Minho, barely breathing as he tracked him. Laughter rang through the air, melodious and familiar, and Minho kept running. He wasn’t sure why he needed to run, wasn’t sure why he was terrified, but he knew if he got caught, his life would end. 

A light flickered at the edge of the forest, luring Minho close. He chased it, his hunter on his heel, and just as Minho reached the light, relief filling him, he was trapped, strong arms wrapping around him, stopping him from falling. Minho was yanked back against a hard chest, pressed flush against his hunter.

“Caught you, my dear,” a familiar voice whispered and Minho’s eyes flew open. 

Minho sat up, heart hammering against his ribs. He stared into the dark, seeing nothing but his familiar room. Around him, the dogs perked up, sleepy and confused, bare shadows in the dark. Minho blinked, reality settling back in, and he clutched his chest. 

He breathed in deeply, catching a hint of jasmine as he registered a faint hint of wine on his tongue. He breathed in again, eyes flickering to the windows, curtains drawn tightly as ever, the sun yet to rise behind the heavy drapes. 

Minho reached over to his bedside table, hand trembling as he lit the candle, his room illuminating with a flick. 

He was alone, the dogs his only company, but there on his bedside table was a glass, traces of wine at the bottom, and an orchid, strange and rare, resting next to it. Minho reached for the glass with shaking hands, heart heavy in his chest as he took the last sip, mouth filling with the taste of wild berries and deep red wine. 

A taste he had only ever tasted once, straight from Chan’s lips. 

***

Three days later, the gardener failed to show up at the agreed time. 

Minho heard it from two of the servants who were whispering outside the library. They sounded annoyed, mostly because it wasn’t the first time the gardener had disappeared after a row with his wife. Last time he had been found outside the tavern, drunk beyond belief, and it had taken the butler paying a hefty bonus to the rest of the servants to keep it from Minho’s parents. 

From their ill-hidden whispers, they all assumed the same would happen again, though they were still upset by having to do work that wasn’t theirs. The cook still refused to leave the kitchen, forcing the poor servants to get dirt under their nails as they had to go put the potatoes in the ground before it would be too late. 

Five days later, the gardener’s body was discovered in a nearby river, his throat ripped to shreds by a ferocious beast, legs and arms broken, hands torn right off, and nowhere to be found. According to the gossip Minho picked up, the body had been horrid, even the officers from the nearest village had been shocked when they fished him up, barely able to recognize who he was. 

Suspicion quickly replaced shock, a few hidden whispers and long looks sent Minho’s way. A tragedy happening to the same estate once a year was terrible, but two so close seemed too ominous. As Minho was the lord of the place, surely he must know what was killing the staff. Once thing was a young girl getting killed on her way to work, but a man, healthy and strong, torn to shreds was preposterous. 

Minho had to struggle not to seem relieved when the butler told him the gardener was gone. He kept his frown in place, acting like the perfectly bewildered lord as he sent the butler away, asking for some time he didn’t need. 

He knew it was wrong to be happy, distasteful even, that he was grateful. 

Seven days after Chan had last visited him, Minho arranged for a bouquet of carefully selected flowers from his own garden to be sent to the family of the gardener with his regards and a stack of coins large enough for his wife to finally move away and find somewhere where she might be happy.

Minho never looked out in the garden at night again, knowing there would be no kind stranger waiting for him. Even with his bloody blessing, Minho knew Chan wouldn’t return, what reason would there be? 

Minho was simply a rare blossom, there and soon gone again. Not something worth coming back for repeatedly. 

Or, perhaps, time would prove him wrong again.