Chapter Text
Gyuvin props his head on his hand, elbow pressed into the arm of the chair. When he turns, he’s met with a sight that’s becoming familiar—comfortably so, in a way he hasn’t decided how to feel about yet.
“What?” Ricky asks, quiet as he shivers once. The back porch offers zero protection from the cold, and it shows. He directs the question at Gunwook, who’s lounging in his own chair.
“It’s like our form of Christmas,” Gunwook explains. “The Moon Goddess visits each pack, listening to our prayers. We give each other gifts, too. Well, more like offerings? I guess. Pack offerings?” He turns to Gyuvin for confirmation.
But Gyuvin is too distracted, so he looks clueless. “Huh? What did you say?”
Gunwook is unimpressed. “Are you serious?” Gunwook squints at him for a second longer, then exhales through his nose. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, waving a hand like he’s dismissing the problem entirely. “We’re talking about the Long Night.”
“Oh, yeah. That,” Gyuvin clears his throat, before addressing Ricky, “It’s coming up. Hanbin has been wanting to keep it lowkey though. More on the wolf instinct type of traditions this year. Did you explain that to him?” he asks Gunwook.
Taking in all the information, Ricky’s eyes bounce between both of them curiously.
He’s melded himself quite well with them. Since game night, Gyuvin has managed to get him to come downstairs more often. It’s more of a cure to boredom, especially since Hao has taken to reading in the library a lot more.
What Hao is reading is a mystery. Gyuvin doubts it’s romance—Hao does not give off romance energy. A thriller? Maybe. Horror? Probably. Romance? Gyuvin would bet actual money against it.
“He did,” Ricky interjects softly. “It sounds… nice. I didn’t know werewolves had stuff like that.”
“Witches, too. Though it’s a bit different,” Gyuvin mentions excitedly. He tilts forward, elbows nearly slipping off the armrests, hands moving as if he needs them to keep pace with his words. “It’s not exactly the same, but—yeah. We usually do it together. All of it. The moon, the food, It’s more of a pack thing.”
Ricky listens without interrupting. “Are witches… usually part of packs?”
“Yeah,” Gunwook answers easily. He stretches his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed. “Not as common anymore. But it happens. Some witches find a pack that fits. Make it home.” He flicks a glance toward Gyuvin. “Like hyungs.”
“Oh,” Ricky says, staring down at his lap in thought.
“It must be weird to you,” Gyuvin says after a beat. He leans back this time. “Being dropped into all this as a human. I mean—none of it’s subtle.”
Ricky hums. “More or less.” He studies a spot on the porch floor. “I think I was just surprised.”
Gunwook peers at him, “Of what?”
“That witches,” Ricky trails off like he’s thinking hard about whether to say something or not, “aren’t really like the movies.”
“Like the greedy, power hungry ones?” Gyuvin finishes for him, the edge of his mouth pulling upward even as something dull passes through his eyes. “Those are still real. Just not all of them.”
The Jeons—the thought flashes through Gyuvin’s mind as fast as it leaves.
Gunwook snorts. “You think this one’s scary?” He tips his chin toward Gyuvin. “Wolf or witch, he’s not even close to as intimidating as the movie versions.”
“Hey!” Gyuvin cuts in, shifting forward in his chair. “I can be intimidating.”
Gunwook gives him a once over, scrutinizing, “First thing in the morning, maybe.”
Even Ricky entertains the idea as he tilts his head, observing Gyuvin—like he’s trying to picture it. Gyuvin shoots Gunwook a look of betrayal. Of all times.
Great. There goes the intimidating mystique he’s been cultivating. Unsuccessful now!
Then, abruptly, Gunwook pushes to his feet, arms lifting in a loose stretch. “Well,” he tries to redirect with a deliberately casual tone, “Matthew’s calling me.”
Seeing straight through him, Gyuvin hums. “Yeah, sure,” he simpers. “Better go see what your favorite hyung wants.”
Gunwook shoots him a warning look that lacks any real bite. Ricky catches it—and the way Gunwook’s ears tint despite himself—and he smiles.
“Shut up,” Gunwook mutters, dragging a hand through his hair as he steps back toward the door, shoulders just a little stiff for someone pretending not to care. “Look who’s talking…” he mumbles.
With his wolf hearing, Gyuvin catches it. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” Gunwook muses and slips back inside quick enough that Gyuvin doesn’t have the time to interrogate him on what he means.
And just like that, Ricky and Gyuvin are left alone.
It’s quiet, save for the faint sounds coming from inside. And Gyuvin suddenly feels a bit awkward and risks a glance. Unaware that he’s being watched, Ricky shifts in his seat when the wind cuts through again, shoulders tightening before he catches himself.
“Still cold?” Gyuvin questions, keeping a careful eye on him.
Ricky’s been like this the entire time they’ve been out here—perched stubbornly on the porch despite the blanket Matthew had thrust at him and the extra layers he’d been talked into wearing. Every suggestion to go back inside had been waved off with insistence.
Gyuvin can understand: something about being outside is soothing. Or more like Ricky can finally watch the trees without the pane of the window obscuring them—feeling the rush of the night breeze on his face.
Contemplatively, Ricky presses his lips together. “A bit,” he admits, then immediately backtracks. “Wait—it’s fine—”
Gyuvin doesn’t know what possesses him, but he is already shrugging out of his jacket before Ricky can stop him. He slips out of the sleeves remarkably easily, and when his gaze lands on a sheepish Ricky, his hands pause.
“Hey—” Ricky’s hands come up instinctively, stopping short of actually touching anything. “You’ll be cold.”
“I told you. I’m usually warm,” Gyuvin reminds him, like this settles it.
Their chairs aren’t close, but they aren’t far either. Close enough that Gyuvin can hear the hitch in Ricky’s breathing when the wind brushes against them again. Close enough that the moonlight catches in Ricky’s eyes when he looks up, silvered and too bright against the dark. Close enough that Gyuvin notices the faint tremble at Ricky’s mouth before Ricky manages to still it.
Gyuvin steals a peek at the porch steps, then returns to Ricky and makes a decision before he can overthink it. “Come on,” he urges, already standing.
Ricky’s line of sight tracks the movement, confusion written plainly across his face. “Where?”
“Out of these uncomfortable chairs,” Gyuvin elaborates while holding onto his own jacket.
They both know it’s a lie. Those chairs are stupidly comfortable. Neither of them says it.
From where he looks up at Gyuvin, Ricky seems to mull the idea over. It takes only a few seconds before he plants his palms on the armrests and pushes himself up. He is still shaky on his feet, careful with his injury. But he’s stronger than before.
He doesn’t need as much help as he used to. Which is a good thing, Gyuvin reminds himself. Good. It means Ricky’s healing.
Soon enough, they’re standing across from each other. Not quite eye level—Gyuvin has to dip his head a fraction to meet Ricky’s gaze. It’s not enough to matter, but he registers it anyway.
“Can’t have you catching a cold,” Gyuvin reasons. Carefully, he drapes the jacket over Ricky’s shoulders, adjusting it once so it actually stays put. The human shivers once, stiff as he accepts the help.
“Thanks,” Ricky expresses sheepishly.
Gyuvin nods, already stepping back, hands dropping to his sides. “Come on.”
The porch steps are right there—just a few down—but the angle opens everything up. Less roof, more sky. Gyuvin hadn’t consciously planned it that way, but the moment they reach the top step, he knows right then and there it is the right call.
Ricky follows. Before he even lowers his foot, his hand finds the railing, fingers curling around as his attention lifts immediately, gaze catching on the stretch of night above them.
“Woah,” he breathes,“I…”
The stars are bright tonight, scattered generously, the moon hanging high enough to cast everything in pale light. It’s a sight the narrow bedroom windows never manage to capture, and Gyuvin catches Ricky staring at it, clearly out of his depth for words. A quiet, amused curl tugs at Gyuvin’s mouth.
“Sit,” Gyuvin says quietly as he drops onto the porch steps. He leaves a wide gap beside him—an intentional invitation, positioned right where Ricky is still resting against the railing.
Ricky blinks at the offer, gripping Gyuvin’s jacket with his free hand. After a moment of quiet consideration, he makes his choice. Slowly, he copies him, and finds himself almost a foot away. Choosing to stay in silence, Gyuvin plants his elbows on his knees and tips his head back, letting the stars blur into patterns with his eyes tracking nothing in particular—merely taking it in, one constellation at a time.
“It looks different from here,” Ricky remarks in that serene tone of his. Gyuvin can’t help looking over—and he ends up wetting his bottom lip without even realizing.
Ricky’s hair falls forward when he tilts his head back, strands slipping loose from where they’d been tucked behind his ears, brushing his temples, his lashes. He doesn’t seem to notice much of anything beyond what’s above them.
“It does,” Gyuvin settles with that reply.
But then, almost as if something pulls him, Ricky lets the sky go and shifts his gaze to the trees instead. They’re beautiful in their own way—tall, dense, blocking half the horizon. Ricky doesn’t seem bothered by that. Gyuvin can’t help wondering what’s moving through his thoughts right now.
“How far do you think I’d get before Hao comes out to bring me back inside?” Ricky mentions suddenly.
“What?” Gyuvin says, repositioning himself. “What do you mean?”
“The woods,” Ricky clarifies, chewing on his bottom lip in thought. “Do you think I can walk in far enough?”
Gyuvin does a double take—peering at where Ricky’s eyes are transfixed. “Sure,” Gyuvin humors him.
Ricky hums, foot nudging a stray rock on the steps below where he sits.
“You’d make it past the first few trees at least. I’m pretty sure you can walk fast. Hao hyung doesn’t seem like a runner.”
Hearing Gyuvin’s poor attempt at a joke, Ricky turns to look at him then, eyebrows lifting a fraction. “Thanks for the confidence,” Ricky says. He tries for a smile, but it isn’t as genuine as he must want it to be.
“At least I can buy you time,” Gyuvin inclines his head. “Best distractor of the pack, you know?”
“Helping me run away,” Ricky smirks. He tugs the jacket sleeves down until they cover his hands. “Didn’t think you’d want to get rid of me that easily.”
Gyuvin pauses. Was that… a joke?
Okay. Wait. It’s not like Ricky doesn’t joke. It’s just that he hasn’t. He usually is the quiet one, silent and willing to listen and laugh rather than interject himself.
“Well—” Gyuvin clears his throat. “I never said I’d help you run away. Maybe get some alone time. The house can get pretty overwhelming.”
“That’s reassuring,” Ricky tips his head, the movement small, and the curtain of his bangs falls further into place.
Whatever expression he’s wearing slips out of reach, swallowed by shadow. Even with the moon high and bright, it doesn’t quite find him.
“I’ve never really watched the sky like this before,” Ricky notes even though he isn’t really watching it at all.
Gyuvin considers correcting him—pointing out the times Ricky’s looked out windows, staring out—but decides against it.
“Different view. It looks even prettier from the roof,” Gyuvin accounts. “Hanbin hyung used to take me and siblings up there all the time when we were little. My little brother knew all about the constellations—probably still does. He’d point out each one,” Gyuvin mimics the act, his arm reaching out to trace the constellations he had attempted to learn by heart all those years ago—just so he could talk to his brother about it. “He’d tell us all these cool facts until my sisters fell asleep from boredom.”
“You have other siblings?” Ricky questions.
Gyuvin smiles, hand falling back down to his lap. He doesn’t look away from the sky. “A bunch of them. Hanbin is my only older sibling though. Then there’s Areum. She’s fifteen and honestly the wittiest one of them all. Super smart. Then from my father’s side, there’s Gyuri, the same age as Areum. The two used to team up against all us brothers growing up…”
Gyuvin hesitates, the story stalling on his tongue. Ricky doesn’t say a word, just keeps staring sideways at him, and that quiet attention knocks the air out of Gyuvin’s lungs. He exhales, decides to push on.
“Then, there’s Gyuhyun. He just started middle school. That’s our little astronomer. Amazing at spells, too. Though, Gyuri is better at illusion-work than him. His twin, Gyumin, on the other hand is the athletic one. Uses all the spells that get him in trouble,” Gyuvin laughs as he recalls the memory—how one harmless hexing spell misfired and trapped him and Gyuri in a ridiculous wrestling match for almost an hour, all because she wanted revenge. “Then the baby of them all: Gyuhan. He’s four now. He’s Yujin’s favorite, and the pup never hides that. Though the two fight like… all the time whenever my siblings visit.”
Ricky hums. “That must be nice,” he vocalizes. But it sounds almost sad.
“Is it just you and Hao?” Gyuvin probes. He notices the way Ricky is now fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves—Gyuvin’s jacket’s sleeves.
“Yeah. He practically raised me if I'm being honest. It’s always been just us two,” Ricky confirms. “It must be nice having a big family. Our house always felt so empty growing up.”
His past.
The phrase makes Gyuvin straighten slightly, attention snagged instantly. Hao and Ricky have kept their histories locked down so tightly that even a hint feels rare. So the moment Ricky brushes up against the subject, Gyuvin’s focus sharpens, eager to catch even the smallest scrap of information.
“At least it wasn’t crowded,” Gyuvin returns. “I would’ve killed for a little quiet whenever I went to my appa’s. There were always people everywhere. Someone talking, someone arguing, someone dragging me into something. I don’t think I was ever alone unless I hid.”
“You wanted the quiet, and the quiet is all I had,” Ricky tries to tease. “It was worse without Hao.”
Gyuvin glances over. “He wasn’t always around?”
“Sometimes. I’d be away, staying somewhere else, or he would be. But back home, when it was just me…” He trails off, then shrugs. “A big house stays big. Doesn’t matter how many rooms you’re in.”
Ricky shifts his foot against the step, testing the edge with the toe of his shoe.
“You start talking to yourself after a while,” he adds, like it’s an offhand detail. “Or you don’t talk at all. Depends on the day.”
“That tracks,” Gyuvin acknowledges awkwardly. “I talk too much when I’m nervous. Guess that’s the opposite problem.”
Ricky glimpses at him, the corner of his mouth lifting briefly. “I’ve noticed.”
“Rude,” Gyuvin huffs playfully. He waits a beat—long enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s pouncing, short enough that the thought doesn’t evaporate. “So… when you were living in places like that, did you ever… I don’t know. Get restless at night?”
Ricky’s fingers pause where they’d been worrying the jacket sleeve. “…Yeah,” he agrees after a moment. “Something like that.”
“I figured. Quiet houses make nights feel longer. My brain goes feral if I’m up alone for too long.”
Ricky exhales through his nose. “They don’t really end,” Ricky says, then adds quickly, like he’s correcting himself, “The nights. When it’s like that.”
Gyuvin turns his head, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“I just mean—” Ricky stops, recalibrates. “You lose track of when you’re supposed to sleep. Or wake up. It blurs.”
“I see,” Gyuvin fakes his understanding, still not getting it. “Yeah. I guess our house is… loud in comparison then.” He hooks his heel on the step below and rocks his foot once, twice, a habit he never remembers starting.
Ricky repositions his weight sideways, shoulder brushing the porch post behind him. He leans back just enough for the wood to take some of his balance, head tipped slightly as if he’s triangulating the sounds drifting out of the house.
A door thumps somewhere inside. Someone laughs. Footsteps cross the hall above them. “It’s nice, though. Hearing people all the time. You always know where everyone is. Even if you can’t see them. You don’t have to guess.”
Gyuvin swallows. “Guess what?”
Ricky hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing.” His fingers lift, hover near his chest, then drop back to his lap like he’d just been burned without touching anything.
It feels like Gyuvin just struck a nerve—though he’s clueless as to where.
Clearly trying to evade the topic altogether, Ricky escapes Gyuvin’s observant look and keeps his own eyes on the trees, where the darkness swallows the path after only a few steps in.
Gyuvin watches the edge of the tree line too. He knows those woods well—knows where the ground dips, where the roots catch, where the paths stop pretending to be paths.
“I could take you there,” Gyuvin blurts.
“What?” Ricky asks, finally turning to him.
“Into the woods,” Gyuvin clarifies—not sure what he's even getting at. “If you want to. It helps. Being around nature, I mean. Better than the city, I hope.”
“I love the city,” Ricky asserts with a faint smile. “But I think the woods could maybe convince me otherwise.”
Maybe I could convince you otherwise, Gyuvin’s traitorous mind says.
He clears his throat, a little too forcefully, and fixes his attention back on the tree line as if it had personally wronged him. Right. Normal reaction. Totally normal.
“Well,” he restarts, choosing the safest words available to him, “the city’s got its perks. Woods are just… different. Less honking. More tripping hazards I’m guessing.”
Ricky lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh, fixing the jacket tighter around his shoulders. “I’m not very coordinated,” he admits.
“Oh, I noticed,” Gyuvin reveals, then winces. “I mean—during recovery. Not—just—”
“I know,” Ricky chimes in with amusement. “Though I think I’d be just as uncoordinated once I’m healed.”
“You never know,” Gyuvin says. “Might end up being a faster runner than even me.”
“Faster than a wolf? In this body?” Ricky vocalizes dryly. “Yeah, right.”
“You never know!” Gyuvin repeats with a smirk. “You could surprise us all.”
Ricky smiles again. “We will see,” he utters.
“I look forward to it,” Gyuvin replies. He dips his head, meeting Ricky’s eyes.
Ricky doesn’t last long in that eye contact. He escapes Gyuvin’s gaze, and turns to the woods again.
“Thank you.”
Gyuvin’s brows raise a fraction. “What?” he lets out.
“Thank you,” Ricky pushes through the words, more serious than he has been in the past few minutes.
“For what?” Gyuvin wonders, tone hushed. From where Gyuvin can see, Ricky is biting his bottom lip again.
“For… everything,” Ricky says, before continuing, “For helping me. I ap-appreciate it. Genuinely. I-I don’t know what I can do in return to repay you for all the help—”
Gyuvin feels at a loss for words for all of three seconds before he does something so stupid, his entire body freezes the moment he realizes.
“Don’t,” Gyuvin says at the same time his hand reaches out, placing it on top of Ricky’s cold one.
Ricky stiffens under the contact. Gyuvin contemplates his entire life choices.
But he doesn’t pull away. And that makes it worse. Because when Ricky’s eyes lower to where their hands touch, there’s a shared realization neither of them bothers to interrupt, both choosing—consciously or not—to stay right where they are.
Gyuvin interprets it as an opening and, under the harmless pretense of warming Ricky’s chilled fingers, adjusts their hands until his own encloses Ricky’s. He hopes it conveys that Gyuvin understands; he knows what Ricky is feeling.
Ricky blinks slowly, like he’s resetting his focus, and shifts his weight on the step so his balance isn’t pitched forward anymore. Gyuvin can hear his heart louder now; whether that’s because Ricky shifted closer, or because his ears are betraying him by listening for it, he can’t tell. What he does notice—can’t not notice—is the slight tremor in Ricky’s fingers where they rest inside his hand.
Gyuvin adjusts his thumb again, waiting to see if the shaking eases.
It doesn’t.
But it changes.
Ricky hesitates, fingers suspended for a breath, and then he eases one between Gyuvin’s, the movement slow enough to reveal every doubt behind it; another finger follows, just as tentative, their touch so featherlight that it suggests Ricky might take it back if anything feels wrong.
Gyuvin gives him nothing to retreat from. He stays perfectly still, choosing to let Ricky determine every bit of the contact. If anything, Gyuvin becomes acutely aware of how much effort it takes not to react at all.
When their fingers are completely interlaced, resting on Ricky’s thigh, and their eyes meet, Gyuvin feels his own heart speed up.
That feeling again.
Clueless as to what it means, Gyuvin knows he’s never felt like this before. He does know the shape of fear, of hesitance, of unease. And… this is none of those.
Gyuvin shifts his wrist so the angle doesn’t strain either of them. Up close, Ricky’s eyes are darker than they look from across the porch, the moonlight catching at the edges instead of flooding them. His lashes cast thin shadows against his cheeks. And Gyuvin feels absurdly exposed under Ricky’s doe eyes, like he’s being read in a language he never learned to speak.
Ricky swallows, his thumb brushing a single line across Gyuvin’s knuckle, and that tiny stroke becomes the longest stretch of touch they’ve ever shared. That’s when Gyuvin notes how Ricky never flinched, never tested an escape. Instead, he even wove their fingers together.
The grip is soft yet tight enough that disentangling would take a conscious effort on Gyuvin’s part.
He registers that fact and, just as clearly, realizes he has no desire to try.
Then, Ricky’s attention dips, almost unnoticeably, and fixes on Gyuvin’s lips, landing exactly where Gyuvin has no defenses to explain it. Gyuvin’s pulse climbs in response, and even though none of the conflicting thoughts in his head show on his face, internally… oh, he’s so confused.
Gyuvin doesn’t know what to do. Not when Ricky is studying him. Not when Ricky’s hand tightens once around his noticeably that Gyuvin feels it all the way up his arm.. And most certainly not when Ricky leans in just a fraction.
Gyuvin stays perfectly still. He can’t find it in him to shift back, or, mortifyingly, move forward? Ricky is flicking his eyes to Gyuvin’s own and his lips a few times. And Gyuvin has no framework for this, none—is this…?
Ricky leans in another inch until their noses graze, breath brushing against Gyuvin’s upper lip. It is a distance that could be erased with the slightest tilt. And then Ricky does, but instead of connecting where Gyuvin’s traitorous mind has been circling, he lets their foreheads touch instead.
And that’s when the porch door creaks open.
Gyuvin barely registers the soft groan of the hinges before Ricky pulls back like he’s been burned. The space between them rebuilds in an instant, hands separating so fast Gyuvin doesn’t even feel the exact moment it happens—one second warm, the next gone.
Gyuvin studies Ricky automatically. Ricky’s already tucked his hands into his lap, posture neat and composed.
“Gyuvin? Ricky?” Hanbin calls from the porch.
Gyuvin clears his throat before turning, “We’re over here!”
Hanbin stands at the threshold, shoulder braced against the frame, not stepping out fully into the cold. His eyes flick over both of them, “It’s freezing,” Hanbin says. “Come inside. Yujinie wants to watch a movie.”
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
Throughout the entire movie, with Ricky tucked next to Hao at the opposite end of the seating, Matthew and Gunwook repeatedly glance toward Gyuvin.
Each time Gyuvin notices, he shoots them a baffled look, then gestures pointedly at the screen, at the animated movie Yujin chose. He becomes even more confused when he spots them sharing a look between each other like they just said something through their bond—and Gyuvin is irritated that he isn’t part of it.
What is the problem? Gyuvin sends to both of them.
At the sound of his voice, the two of them straighten and finally look away; though not before sharing a pair of knowing smiles. They ignore him after that and, at last, give the screen their attention.
When the movie ends, Yujin launches himself at Gyuvin and announces that they’re sleeping together tonight. Gyuvin catches him easily, pulls him close, and presses a kiss to his forehead, doing his best not to track the movement of Hao guiding Ricky back upstairs.
Later, after the house settles and everyone disappears into separate rooms, Gyuvin finds himself lying beside a sleeping Yujin, sprawled across half the bed, while his own mind refuses to quiet.
The porch keeps replaying.
Ricky’s hand in his.
Ricky leaning in.
Their foreheads touching.
Gyuvin exhales into the dark, careful not to wake the pup beside him.
He doesn’t know what it meant.
He only knows he’s never been so wide awake.
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
Things get even weirder over the next two days.
One thing about Gyuvin: he can be fearless when it counts, reckless even. But he’s also a coward.
He used to be the designated food deliverer for Ricky.
No one questioned it or tried to rotate the task once it belong to him.
But ever since the porch—ever since that nearly-something that keeps replaying in his head at the worst times—Gyuvin has been… avoiding the responsibility. Subtle enough that someone else always gets there first.
Matthew grabs the tray before he can.
Taerae wanders upstairs with a casual “I’ll take it.”
And Gyuvin lets them, pretends he was about to head out anyway, waves them off with a too-cheerful “Thanks!”
Every time he does it, Gunwook zeroes in on him with a raised brow and suspicious blinking.
Today, Gunwook doesn’t even bother being subtle. The moment Matthew leaves with a bowl of soup meant for Ricky, Gunwook swivels toward Gyuvin and stares.
It’s so unbearably, painfully obvious.
“What?” Gyuvin says as he pours Hanbin’s coffee.
Nursing his own cup of coffee, Gunwook squints over the rim, lips pushed into a thin, unimpressed line. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” Gyuvin evades.
“Right,” Gunwook nods, playing along. “So, how about we play another board game with Ricky later? I have the day off today and he seems pretty cool.”
Gyuvin closes his eyes, facing the counter. How does Gunwook know everything?
Play it cool. Play it cool!
“Sure! That’s fine.” He blurts it so fast it barely counts as human speech.
Gunwook raises an eyebrow so high it threatens to exit the house. “Is it though?” he asks, taking a long, slow sip from his coffee
“Yes,” Gyuvin insists, pushing his brows together defensively. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Gunwook opens his mouth—definitely to say something Gyuvin won’t survive—but the universe intervenes.
Hanbin walks into the kitchen.
Gyuvin practically springs toward him. “Hyung! Coffee?”
Hanbin smiles, accepts the mug from Gyuvin, and ruffles his hair in the affectionate way that makes Gyuvin feel five and twenty at the same time. “Thanks. Gyub, are you able to help Jiwoong hyung and Taerae with some orders today? Matthew and I are going to town for some things.”
“Of course!” Gyuvin answers too quickly, grateful for the task, grateful for any direction that is not Gunwook interrogating him.
But Jiwoong chooses that exact moment to walk into the kitchen, which is the worst possible timing for Gyuvin’s stress levels.
“Not needed,” Jiwoong says. The words alone are enough to set off a faint dread in Gyuvin’s chest.
Hanbin frowns instantly. “Hyung, if you need help, we can help.”
Jiwoong lifts his hands placatingly. “It’s okay. Promise. With my eomma coming soon, there are spells she wants me to set up, and they’re… tricky. Taerae can’t help with those. He’ll focus on the easy ones.”
Gyuvin straightens. “Even more reason to help. I can do the easy ones with him.”
“Don’t worry,” Jiwoong reassures with a sad smile. “He… he needs the alone time.”
Gyuvin sympathizes. And even though part of him would’ve leapt at the chance to retreat into the witch’s workspace—anything to put distance between himself and… well—he knows better than to insert himself where he isn’t useful.
“Of course, hyung,” Gunwook speaks up before peeking at Gyuvin. “The two of us were planning on playing some video games or watching a movie with Ricky, anyway.”
Now they’re going to watch a movie?
Okay. Wait. Gyuvin inhales softly. He shouldn’t be thinking like this.
It’s not like Ricky has done anything wrong. He just—
Gyuvin stops himself there, refusing to chase the thought any further. He knows the truth already. Ricky needs people, needs someone his age who won’t talk down to him or disappear when things get complicated. That night, Ricky chose Gyuvin.
And Gyuvin’s response? Avoiding him like proximity itself is the problem. What kind of message does that send?
He knows the answer and he hates it.
It turns out he’s taking a bit too long to add in his two cents when Hanbin gives him an intrigued look—but doesn’t accompany it with any words.
“Yeah!” Gyuvin agrees once he realizes.
Gunwook sees right through it.
“Well, Matthew and I will be on our way,” Hanbin sighs, rinsing his empty mug and setting it in the sink. Gyuvin blinks at the speed—did he inhale that coffee? “I’ll see you later, yeah? We can bring food from that place near the high school.”
“Sounds good,” Jiwoong replies warmly.
Hanbin disappears down the hall, already calling for Matthew.
The moment their footsteps fade, Jiwoong turns back to the two remaining wolves. “Go enjoy your days off. Please. Heaven knows we all need it.”
“You do, too,” Gyuvin counters before he can stop himself.
Jiwoong’s grin curves. “Not yet,” he rejects softly. “I have a feeling things will die down soon. Hopefully.”
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
The entire climb up the staircase is spent cataloging ways to get back at Gunwook, each step adding another revenge plan possibility to the list. By the time Gyuvin reaches the landing, he’s refined it down to five solid options.
Yujin would be easy to recruit. Matthew might take more persuasion, but it wouldn’t be impossible.
After all, Gunwook never actually told him to go get Ricky.
He just lifted a brow, asked one too many harmless-sounding questions in front of Jiwoong, and backed Gyuvin into a corner where saying no would’ve looked suspicious.
He inhales, steels himself, and heads toward Ricky’s door.
Gunwook is going to pay for this. Eventually.
Gyuvin knocks—barely, more of a hesitant tap—and pushes the door open before fear can glue him to the hallway.
The look of raw surprise on Ricky’s face is enough to twist guilt tight in Gyuvin’s stomach. What he takes in all at once is Ricky perched on the edge of the bed, shirt half pulled on, his arms still free of the sleeves, bandages exposed across his chest. His hair is mussed, his eyes wide in a way that expresses how caught off guard he is.
“Qubing,” Ricky blurts out suddenly, dropping his gaze as he fumbles to pull his shirt the rest of the way on. The movement is too quick; pain flashes across his face and he winces.
The sound draws Gyuvin farther into the room. Concern overrides the awkwardness as he says, “Careful. Take it slow.”
He stops himself from moving forward more and helping Ricky himself. It’s not like that kind of touching was something they did often before—only when Gyuvin had been the one to change his bandages. And judging by how clean and newly wrapped Ricky’s chest looks now, Taerae has already taken care of it.
Ricky doesn’t reply to that, and slowly manages to finally settle the shirt on his frame. He keeps his eyes cast down, unwilling to meet Gyuvin’s.
Gyuvin stays rooted where he is, useless and painfully aware of it, his thoughts scrambling without producing a single workable sentence. It’s obvious there’s a tension between them, and he knows it will stay that way—left untouched because neither of them is ready to address it.
Eventually, Gyuvin manages to cobble together a weak excuse for a response. “Gunwook asks if you want to watch a movie.”
Ricky looks up at once, eyes locking onto him. “Gunwook?”
“Uh. Yeah,” Gyuvin answers, the word coming out strained as he holds Ricky’s stare.
“Oh,” Ricky licks his lips as he nods in thought. “Sure.”
“Okay.”
Oh goddess. It’s so awkward.
“I, uh…” Gyuvin gestures vaguely toward the hallway, a motion so useless even he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to convey. “We can… go down whenever you’re ready.”
Ricky stands, one palm braced on the mattress for leverage. Gyuvin forces himself not to hover—even though instinct begs he do the opposite. He watches Ricky straighten, adjust his shirt, and reach for… Gyuvin’s jacket.
Right.
He forgot he hadn’t taken it back—draped over Ricky’s shoulders on the porch, warm then, cold now.
“H-Here,” Ricky holds it out to him nervously.
Gyuvin steps in, fingers suspended over the jacket without touching it. Ricky’s mouth tightens, his posture betraying the expectation that Gyuvin is about to reclaim it. But it only takes the quivering of Ricky’s hands for Gyuvin to make a decision.
He isn’t sure if it’s the nerves or the cold making Ricky shiver like that, but Gyuvin gently guides the jacket back into Ricky’s space. “Keep it,” he suggests. “You can wear it. It’s pretty cold today. Even inside.”
The shock returns to Ricky’s face, almost like he doesn’t know what to do now. “Qubing…” Ricky looks at the jacket, then at Gyuvin, then back down again as his fingers tighten around the fabric, pulling it in closer. “I’m…”
“It’s okay,” Gyuvin cuts in. “Please. It’s fine.”
Then, like it had been an impulse that passed by rationality before Ricky could stop himself, he steps in closer, leans up, and presses a soft kiss to Gyuvin’s cheek. It’s innocent and doesn’t last more than a singular second but Gyuvin freezes.
“Thank you,” Ricky whispers as he pulls back a fraction. But they aren’t far from each other, nearly the distance from that night on the porch. But this time, there’s light from the window to illuminate Rick’s features beautifully.
Wait. Beautifully?
But Gyuvin finds himself cementing that as a truth in his mind. The light from the window catches him cleanly, without shadow or distortion, and Gyuvin becomes acutely aware of how rarely he’s looked at Ricky like this in full daylight.
Ricky’s face is close, near enough that Gyuvin catches the warmth gathering along his cheekbones, the brief dip of his lashes before they lift again. The details register with uncomfortable clarity.
Goddess. If you’ve been waiting for the right moment to send me strength… Please give it to me now. Please.
And Gyuvin can’t tell if his heart is beating too fast or not at all.
Ricky draws in a breath and steps back, creating a sliver of space between them. He looks down at the jacket, then slips one arm through the sleeve, then the other. The fabric settles over his shoulders without trouble. He tugs it into place, smooths the front once, and lifts his chin.
Gyuvin watches, relief flooding his senses as soon as the distance has grown between them again.
“Perfect,” Gyuvin says quietly.
“Perfect?” Ricky parrots, both curious and shy.
A coward: Gyuvin steps aside to give him space. “C’mon. If we don’t move now, Yujin’s gonna start without us.”
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
Gyuvin decides that committing to just one revenge plan from his prepared list isn’t nearly satisfying enough—he’s going to run Gunwook through all of them.
They barely step into the den before Gunwook notices them, and whatever Gyuvin was about to do dies immediately. Gunwook swoops in first, settling Yujin into the seat beside him, stuffing the remaining space with two blankets and an excessive number of plush animals, then caps it all off by pressing a kiss to Yujin’s forehead.
Gunwook doesn’t bother pretending to feel bad. He runs a hand through Yujin’s hair, satisfied, then sprawls farther across the main couch—heels hooked over the armrest, fingers interlaced behind his head, every inch of him radiating self-satisfaction.
There isn’t even a sliver of space left for Gyuvin.
Which, predictably, leaves Gyuvin and Ricky relegated to the smaller couch.
That little….
“Gunwook,” Gyuvin nearly seethes as they walk further in.
“Yes, hyung?” Gunwook smiles and he cranes his neck back to look at him. “Are you ready for the movie? We can play a game after.”
“Yes! Yes!” Yujin exclaims, hugging his Bluey plushy. “I want to play uno. Please!”
Gyuvin momentarily forgets the headache Gunwook just gave him to grin at Yujin. “Of course, pup,” he melts, pushing forward and kissing his cheek. “Which movie did you want?” Beside him, Ricky shifts on his feet and decides to finally settle on the empty couch.
“Scary movie!”
Oh hell no.
“Nope,” Gyuvin shakes his head immediately. “Your appa will kill us.”
“Hyungie! Please!”
“Absolutely not,” Gyuvin remains firm. He is not going to deal with Hanbin’s lecture. Well… unless he pushes it off onto Gunwook.
“Here,” Gunwook tosses the remote softly onto Yujin’s blanket, who grabs it fast before anyone can take it. “Look through the options.”
“Thanks,” Yujin says before turning on the TV.
Gyuvin purses his lips then, turning around to realize his only option is to sit right next to Ricky. The space between them wouldn’t be that small. It’s still a space. But…
Ah. Okay. He’s overthinking this.
Gyuvin sits down without another thought.
“So,” Gunwook starts. “How’s your day been, Ricky?”
From the corner of Gyuvin’s eyes, Ricky perks up at the mention of his name. “Oh. Uhm. I’ve just been resting, a-and uhm… Taerae gave me some spell for the pain I have and it was bitter a bit—“
“Pain?” Gyuvin blurts, surprised. “You’re in pain? I thought everything was better. Should you even be moving around?”
“No, no. It’s okay,” Ricky appeases hurriedly. He holds the jacket tighter to his body. “I kind of almost slipped last night. I was getting changed and uh, didn’t see where I was stepping and I hit my elbow against the wall. Pain isn’t even that bad. But I have a little bruise and Taerae hyung just gave me some tea anyway.”
“Okay,” Gyuvin nods, eyes flicking to Ricky’s arm like he might spot the bruise through fabric.
In an attempt to become more comfortable, Ricky shuffles in his seat, but his sleeve brushes Gyuvin’s wrist for half a second before he pulls it back, apologetic without saying so.
Gyuvin pretends to be very invested in whatever Yujin is scrolling through.
Is he wearing your jacket again?
Gyuvin’s attention snaps to Gunwook. Huh?
Your jacket, Gunwook’s brows are raised, absolutely not in the mood to stall. Him. Wearing. It. Again.
Wait. Again? How does Gunwook know that?
Gyuvin doesn’t realize he actually asked that until Gunwook cuts in, Because he wore it the other night, too. Remember?
Of course Gyuvin remembers. He can’t seem to forget.
During the movie. He was cold. Gyuvin turns back to the screen.
Most certainly not just during the movie…
Huh?
Gunwook shows no visible indication of wanting to continue talking.
So they watch the movie.
₊˚⊹ 𖥔 ˖ ࣪
When Gyuvin was little, he asked his appa Minho a simple question.
What do witches believe in?
Wolves had the Goddess. Humans had so many answers it depended on who you asked. But witches? Witches always seemed harder to pin down.
Minho had been sitting at the kitchen table then, sleeves rolled up, hands stained faintly with ink from spellwork. He didn’t answer right away. He stirred his tea once. Twice.
“We believe in what listens back,” he’d said eventually.
Gyuvin hadn’t understood it at the time. He remembered frowning, chin propped in his hands, dissatisfied with how vague that sounded.
“So… magic?” he’d asked.
Minho smiled at him. “Sometimes. Sometimes people. Sometimes the world itself.”
Remembering that answer, Gyuvin presses his shoulder into the frame of his windowsill, knees tucked in, hands folded loosely in his lap the way he’s done since he was small enough to fit here without effort.
This is usually the part where the strength comes.
But the Goddess doesn’t seem to be listening now.
He doesn’t look away from the window. He doesn’t try another prayer, either. Asking twice has never worked. You wait, or you don’t.
Has he not waited long enough?
Gyuvin sniffs, swiping the back of his hand across his cheek to catch the tear before it goes any farther. He’s annoyed at it more than anything. Things are confusing. So, so confusing.
His life was never smooth. He learned that early. Noise, chaos, too many people, too many expectations—he adjusted. He always adjusted. He never assumed the future would be simple or clean or easy.
But this isn’t a version Gyuvin ever pictured.
He’s felt fear over something he never thought he’d have to encounter: Jeon witches that were more of a myth than real to him until now. He’s felt the fear of change. Of danger. Those things came with instincts. With rules.
This feeling that he can’t even explain doesn’t. He can’t point to it and say this is the problem. He can’t separate it from himself long enough to examine it properly.
How does he pray something away when he can’t name it?
How does he fix anything when his own head won’t line up neatly enough to work through?
Gyuvin drags his sleeve across his face again, movement harsher as frustration bubbles inside him.
This is the second time he’s sat here like this—and nothing comes out. Mortifyingly, not a prayer. Nor even the automatic greeting he usually offers. It’s petty, maybe. Gyuvin doesn’t want to speak about something he can’t even define yet. Saying it out loud feels like admitting responsibility for fixing it, and he doesn’t have a plan for that. He doesn’t even have the right questions.
A shuffling comes from the hall. Gyuvin’s head dips immediately, chin tucking toward his chest as he scrubs at his face with the heel of his hand. He blinks hard, breathing through his nose, willing the tightness away before whoever it is rounds the corner.
Then his senses catch up. Gyuvin freezes mid-motion, hand hovering uselessly near his cheek as the person’s scent finally reaches him.
Ricky.
What is he doing up? And here, of all places? This side of the house stays empty even on busy nights. You don’t pass through it unless you mean to. Ricky’s room is nowhere near it.
Ricky finally comes into sight, pajamas hanging a little loose on his frame, hair sticking up in directions that suggest he gave up halfway through fixing it. His eyes widen when he spots Gyuvin, surprise flickering across his face. He looks like he didn’t expect Gyuvin there either.
“Ricky?” Gyuvin whispers, hushed.
The human presses his lips together, his side leaning against the wall to steady himself. “Sorry,” he starts, then stalls. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He probably thinks he will get another lecture for moving around on his own “recklessly”.
Gyuvin chooses not to give him one. “Why are you up?” he questions instead.
Ricky’s eyes drift toward the window, following the pale spill of moonlight across the floor, then back to Gyuvin. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Hm,” Gyuvin hums softly, neither agreement nor dismissal, and shifts his leg to the side to make more room by the sill.
Even with how inconspicuous as Gyuvin wants it to be, Ricky still notices it. Ricky glances at the window again, then back at Gyuvin, the corner of his mouth lifting, “Is this spot… taken?”
Gyuvin exhales through his nose. “No,” he humors. “It’s not.”
“Mind if I sit?” Ricky asks, nervous.
Held by the weight of Ricky’s stare, Gyuvin can’t bring himself to object. Gyuvin shifts his leg farther aside instead, a quiet concession, and gives a small nod.
Ricky takes that as permission. He lowers himself onto the sill slowly, and the nook forces him close enough that there’s no pretending they’re not sharing the space; he leans back against the inner edge, knees angled slightly toward Gyuvin, attention turning fully to him.
They sit in silence then. It is still as awkward as it was earlier. But maybe that’s because Gyuvin is still too confused to process this all maturely—whatever this is. His thoughts don’t straighten out the way they’re supposed to. They circle, overlap, stall. Whatever he was waiting for earlier still hasn’t arrived.
“It’s beautiful,” Ricky speaks up then, the remark airy.
Gyuvin lets his gaze linger on him, a faint hum escaping. “The stars?” Ricky keeps looking at him, and something about the lack of urgency in it makes Gyuvin forget to look away.
“But it’s not the same…”
Gyuvin pulls in air through his teeth. “Not the same as?”
“Outside,” Ricky answers, crossing his legs in the limited space available to him. “You were right. You can see more of it.”
The porch rushes back into Gyuvin’s mind before he even invites it. He bites the inside of his cheek as the memory rebuilds itself piece by piece: Ricky’s breath skimming his mouth, the way Ricky halted a breath away—as if waiting for a signal he wasn’t sure he was entitled to. Continue what, exactly?
Gyuvin feels a reckless part of him wanting to find out.
With his thoughts scattering instead of organizing, he pushes away from the wall and forces himself upright. “This is one of my favorite views out of the whole house,” Gyuvin reveals in a whisper, head lowered so he has to lift his eyes to meet Ricky’s.
Ricky considers him for a moment, tongue sweeping once across his lower lip as he thinks. “Do you come here a lot?”
For some reason, it sends Gyuvin smiling in amusement. “Yeah,” he admits. “Though not as often lately.”
Ricky nods at that, a quick, almost bashful motion. He rests the side of his head against the window, the glass cooling his temple, but his eyes stay on Gyuvin. “In the middle of the night?”
“When else?” Gyuvin humors him offhandedly. “It’s nice sitting here, being alone to talk to the stars.”
Ricky suddenly straightens. “Oh, if you want to be alone, I can go.”
“No,” Gyuvin rejects the notion immediately. “No, it’s okay.”
“Okay,” Ricky concedes and relaxes again, though the brief jolt of alarm still lingers in his posture. “So… you talk to them?”
For a second, Gyuvin thinks Ricky’s messing with him, but the open curiosity on Ricky’s face kills that idea fast. He nods. “Yeah. I… talk. Complain. Say whatever I can’t say to anyone else. Maybe the Goddess tosses me a hint if she’s feeling generous.”
Ricky tips his chin toward the narrow band of sky overhead, but his attention doesn’t stay there long. “Does it help, then?”
“Sometimes,” Gyuvin admits. “But many times, it kind of stays the same. My mind goes a little crazy,” he smiles.
Ricky returns it. “I can relate a bit to that.”
Gyuvin finds himself escaping to the view outside. He still doesn’t dare look up, counting the trees along the treeline. One by one, he breathes heavily to shake off his unease.
“Your mind always seems to be going crazy, huh?”
“What?” Gyuvin turns to Ricky.
Ricky watches him with a gentleness that feels too knowing, like he’s been mapping Gyuvin’s thoughts and found the parts Gyuvin tries hardest to hide. Heat creeps up the back of Gyuvin’s neck at the idea—if Ricky can read him that easily, maybe he could sort out the chaos in Gyuvin’s head, because Gyuvin sure can’t.
And then, as though arriving at a decision he’d been circling for a while, Ricky straightens and inches forward just a bit. His knee comes a touch closer; the gap between them shrinks without fully closing.
It feels too familiar. Too much.
In a panic, Gyuvin reaches out to the Goddess. Please. Help me figure this out. I… I don’t want this. Please, not this. Not like this. I’m not—
The thought stops there, hitting a familiar wall. A wall built years ago, stacked brick by brick from every warning he’s ever heard, every look he’s tried to ignore, every lesson about what wolves should and shouldn’t want. He’s never tested those boundaries out loud, but they’ve lived under his skin for as long as he can remember.
Shame floods him so quickly it leaves a warmth behind his ears. Ricky hasn’t done anything wrong—hasn’t even touched him—but the closeness alone feels like a spotlight, like Gyuvin has been caught breaking a rule he didn’t admit he was following.
It hits him fast, the same familiar contradiction he’s never been able to name cleanly.
His brother? No problem.
His best friend? Gyuvin didn’t even blink when Gunwook told him.
Gyuvin knows how to support them. He never questioned their place in the world.
But himself—?
Even the possibility of putting his own name anywhere near that same idea sends a surge of panic through him. It’s irrational; he knows that. He repeats it to himself. It isn’t wrong. It isn’t. He’s said those words for years—to Hanbin, to Gunwook—and meant them every time.
So why does it twist in his chest the moment he turns the lens inward?
Then, Ricky’s knee bumps into Gyuvin’s leg. That contact stays there. And Gyuvin bites the inside of his cheek hard, because it’s absurd—how such a tiny point of touch can send every buried thought in his mind clawing upward. He prays it isn’t written on his face, though some traitorous part of him suspects Ricky sees more than he lets on.
And just when Gyuvin had begun thinking he’d be granted some more quiet to calm himself, Ricky’s hand finds Gyuvin’s, fingers brushing along his knuckles before closing around them.
Speech abandons Gyuvin entirely. A reply should exist; the moment practically demands one. But his mind refuses to line anything up. Only his body responds—pulse jumping, breath flattening, muscles caught in a strange half-hold.
Ricky must sense his panic because, although he doesn’t let go—his thumb even starts softly running along the back of Gyuvin’s hand—he tries to redirect Gyuvin’s focus.
“Back home, the gardens were my favorite view. Everything arranged, nothing out of place. I used to sketch them until the shadows got too long. But the sky here…” Ricky trails off for a beat, considering. “It’s a close second. Maybe even tied.”
Gyuvin tries to follow the image—gardens, neat paths, carefully tended beds—and contrasts it with the sprawling night outside.
Ricky glances sideways, a brief flick of the eyes. “I keep imagining how I’d paint this view during the day. The sunset would be the hardest. It always is. The colors change too fast.”
Too fast. Too much. Something about that resonates more than it should.
Gyuvin feels Ricky’s thumb settle again along the side of his hand. Instead of moving away, he tries to focus on the image instead—orange bleeding into gold, then dipping toward pink, all of it shifting faster than any hand could keep up with. Ricky would try anyway; Gyuvin already knows that much.
“And the trees are darker than I thought,” Ricky goes on. “If I tried painting this, I’d probably mess up the shading a few times. I always do when there’s too many shadows.” Ricky tilts his head a little, still looking out the window. “Actually… maybe the stars would be better to paint.”
Gyuvin presses his tongue to the sore spot on his cheek. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Ricky speak for that long. He seems so passionate, too.
“I’d love to see it,” Gyuvin notes quietly.
“Maybe one day,” Ricky replies, his eyes seeming to sparkle at the idea.
“One day…” Gyuvin nods almost unnoticeably. Then, he gains a surge of courage and squeezes Ricky’s hand back.
Ricky watches him, perhaps searching for any hesitation. Though crawling under Gyuvin’s skin, that hesitation exists, Gyuvin must not show it on his face now. Instead, Gyuvin brings their joint hands further into his own lap. Ricky follows the movement with his eyes, tracking from their hands… to Gyuvin’s mouth… and finally, to his gaze.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” Ricky blurts suddenly.
“For what?” Gyuvin asks, genuinely baffled.
Ricky closes his mouth, choosing not to elaborate.
“Ricky,” Gyuvin calls softly, angling closer, searching his face. “What are you saying sorry for?”
Ricky seems reluctant to answer and he withholds the reply entirely, leaving Gyuvin to reconstruct the meaning alone. He means… Gyuvin peeks down at their joint hands and notes their proximity.
“Oh. It’s-It’s okay,” Gyuvin assures lamely, unsure how he feels about it himself. All he knows is that he doesn’t like that nervous expression on the human’s face. A smile suits him more. “Ricky, it’s fine. I promise.”
Ricky dips his head, his hair hiding his face, leaving Gyuvin clueless as to what he’s thinking. Gyuvin’s heart is still pounding even just looking at where they’re touching—even more so now that Ricky is acknowledging what this might mean. Which is what exactly?
Gyuvin isn’t dumb. Well…
Gyuvin has never been one thing. He can charge forward without thinking, speak too much, and take risks that scare everyone else. He can also read a room down to its smallest fractures, notice what others miss, draw lines between moments that don’t look connected.
In a moment like this, those traits fold into something volatile.
Because Gyuvin knows, on some level, what Ricky is suggesting. He just doesn’t let that knowledge reach the front of his mind, where it might demand a response. Instead, he buries it under excuses, under misdirection.
Maybe Gyuvin actually is dumb, because before his thoughts can stop him—before the shame and embarrassment and doubt can step in—Gyuvin’s other hand finds itself under Ricky’s chin. Gyuvin’s fingers lightly encourage Ricky to look back up at him again.
“Ricky,” Gyuvin repeats. His hand is trembling as he cups Ricky’s cheek.
“Qubing,” Ricky returns, worry present in his expression.
Gyuvin’s thumb glides along the edge of Ricky’s cheekbone as his own courage flickers in and out like a weak signal. But this time, Gyuvin is the one to lean in. Ricky blinks, his eyelids lowering and lifting in a quick, uncertain motion.
Now their foreheads are close enough that Gyuvin can sense Ricky’s breath brushing his upper lip. His fingers tighten around Gyuvin’s where their hands remain locked together in Gyuvin’s lap.
Ricky tilts his chin up a small amount, following Gyuvin’s guidance from earlier. And before Gyuvin can close what’s left between them, Ricky bridges it himself.
Their lips meet and Gyuvin feels everything in his mind explode at once. Every hesitation Gyuvin carried a second earlier drops away faster than he can track. He loses the ability to sort anything at all, every feeling accelerating toward the single place where their mouths press together.
Ricky’s mouth bears no resemblance to anything Gyuvin knows. They’re soft with hesitant movements as they press against Gyuvin’s. Then, Ricky’s mouth moves with more force, and Gyuvin answers immediately, pressure matching pressure as his free hand slides to Ricky’s side to keep him close.
Gyuvin registers the thud of Ricky’s heart, the quiet release of his breath, and thinks that there is probably nothing that feels as good as this. His hand remains at Ricky’s cheek, palm curved, thumb set near the edge of his mouth, and beneath it he senses the small shifts of Ricky’s jaw with every breath he takes.
“Ricky,” Gyuvin exhales against his lips, though he isn’t sure why.
Ricky hears his name and immediately softens the pace. The following kiss lands fast, then another, just as brief. He trails a chain of small pecks along Gyuvin’s lips. Gradually, even those taper off until their mouths only skim each other, eyes closed as they breathe the same air.
Oh shit is the only thought blasting through Gyuvin’s brain. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
Another peck—barely a kiss this time, more a careful landing of Ricky’s lips against the corner of Gyuvin’s mouth. Then Ricky pauses there, bringing his forehead forward until it meets Gyuvin’s, their mouths nearly touching but not quite.
Gyuvin releases a breath, and Ricky’s lips catch the faint trace of it.
Ricky draws in air, and Gyuvin feels the pull sweep across his own mouth.
The world compresses into that single exchange.
Gyuvin’s thoughts scatter in all directions. Every thought he tries to grab burns up mid-rise, overridden by the same urgent chant beating through him with zero pause: oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
His body moves before his brain can relay instructions. His thumb slides beneath Ricky’s lower lip, lifting it a fraction. Ricky responds instantly, closing the distance with another soft press. Gyuvin’s stomach flips. His breath skips. His fingers clench in the fabric at Ricky’s side because his whole body feels unsteady, absurdly so, given he’s not even on his feet.
Another thought pushes through:
I just kissed Ricky.
The realization hits hard—so hard that his eyes snap open before he can stop himself. His gaze lifts for half a second, just enough to catch the bright curve of the moon through the window. Cold light spills across the sill. It lands on their joined hands, on Ricky’s cheek, on Gyuvin’s own trembling fingers.
The sight cleaves through him.
A hot rush shoots up his spine, shame arriving so abruptly it feels like his lungs misfire. His breath stutters. His hand freezes where it’s fisted in Ricky’s shirt. Every muscle in him goes rigid, like he’s been caught in something punishable.
The moon—the Goddess—right there.
Looking straight in.
The teachings he grew up with throw themselves at him in a single violent wave: forbidden, wrong, unnatural, condemned. Every whisper from childhood, every warning, every ritual, every rule—his mind dredges them all up at once.
Ricky shifts, still close, still kissing lightly at the corner of his mouth, unaware of the sudden crash happening inside Gyuvin’s body.
Gyuvin can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t think past the single idea drilling into him: She saw. She saw. She saw. Gyuvin forces his gaze down again, tearing it away from the moonlight, but the damage is done—his entire body is lit up with panic.
The kiss just happened.
The moon was watching.
And the two truths collide so hard he can barely hold himself upright.
Ricky retreats the moment he senses the sudden halt. It’s a slight shift—just enough for him to take in Gyuvin’s face without obstruction. Their noses part. Their foreheads ease away. His grip around Gyuvin’s hand loosens but doesn’t fall away.
One second is all Ricky needs to register the change. Confusion crosses him first: his brows draw together, his lips hitch apart. He traces Gyuvin’s posture—the rigid shoulders, the faint tremble in his fingers. His eyes scan Gyuvin’s face, quietly trying to locate the cause.
A beat passes. Confusion softens. Sadness replaces it. The hand still touching Gyuvin’s curls back slightly. His shoulders lower in defeat; it’s obvious he thinks he did something wrong.
“You’re… beautiful,” Gyuvin gets out—shutting his mouth in penance once he hears himself.
Ricky blinks. The sadness on his face doesn’t vanish, but it stutters, disrupted by the unexpected confession. Gyuvin can’t stop his eyes from dipping, charting the shape of Ricky’s mouth before lifting again.
“Thank you,” Ricky whispers in return.
“Y-Yeah,” Gyuvin says, realizations hitting him all at once. His hand slips from Ricky’s cheek, retreating to his own lap as if he’s been burned by the contact.
“Hey,” Ricky tries to call for his attention. “It’s okay.”
Gyuvin’s voice drops, almost to nothing. “I just can’t—” He stops himself, breath snagging.
“Can’t?”
Gyuvin releases a strained breath, lids falling shut. His fingers fold into his palm, nails marking the skin just enough to sting. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment longer, as if staying in the dark might delay the consequences of his own body’s choices.
“Do yo-you want me to leave?” Ricky asks, though it sounds like it pains him to.
Suddenly, Gyuvin’s throat cinches tight. That possibility hits him like a blow—something he can’t bear, even while feeling skinned open, as if he’s been caught in the middle of something he shouldn’t have done. “No.”
Ricky’s eyes lift to his face. “Then what do you want?”
Gyuvin stares down at the floor, jaw tight. “I don’t know,” he admits lamely. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize," Ricky repeats back to him, though it’s sad almost sadly. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”