Work Text:
Once upon a time, two spirits were in love.
{Part 1}
Minghao is different.
Unusual. Weird. Odd. Any of those words, really, and not in a negative way. It’s an objective statement, scientific facts. He hasn’t been normal ever since the moment he was born.
The doctors are unnerved. Minghao’s eyes are open wide, tears spilling across his cheeks. Across left shoulder is a mark like the number eight, laid sideways across his skin in two dark loops. Touched by the spirits, they murmur. Of the other world.
Beyond that, however, there isn’t anything tangible about Minghao’s strangeness. He’s abnormally quiet, maybe, with a gaze too knowing for a child, but nothing else. Minghao’s parents disregard his teacher’s comments on his lack of participation when they run into her in the grocery store, Minghao sitting next to the windows, legs dangling over the wooden bench as he colors in a drawing of the produce aisle.
He does that a lot, art. His creations are much neater than most preschoolers, taking care to keep his lines straight and his coloring inside the lines. It’s something to be praised, but a little concerning is his choice of color. He’s got a set of crayons, a box of twenty-four. Most of them look new, only a little waxed and worn, but the white one has been reduced to a short paper-wrapped stub.
---
Minghao asks when he is five. His father is in the kitchen slicing ham, wearing a plain black apron. Minghao tugs on one of the apron strings and points to his wrist. “What’s this?”
His father laughs, deep and booming and clueless. He’d asked that same question when he was Minghao’s age, too, curious about the thread that trailed off into nowhere and everywhere. “That’s the red string of fate.”
Minghao frowns, because that doesn’t sound right, because red is apple skins and roses and the small drops of blood that leak out his skin when he gets a papercut. He nods despite that. “Okay.”
His father ruffles his hair, pretends to tug a little at his wrist. “I’ll tell you more about the red string when you’re older, okay? Just know that it’s connected to someone who will be very, very important to you.”
Minghao says a quiet “thanks” before walking out of the kitchen and into the living room. His parents are never wrong; at least, this is what he believes at this age. But when he looks down, he knows his father can’t possibly be right. There’s no red string around his wrist.
Instead, what he has is a thick band of white maybe two or three feet long, the side of it a little unnatural, like it’s been cut or ripped. A scrap of fabric with a diamond edge. It flutters when he walks, trails after him, tethered to nothing and leading off to empty space.
---
Minghao’s mother is a surgeon and doesn’t come home until the stars are stark against the black of the sky and Minghao is sleeping, the white ribbon curled around him like a shield. By this point, he’s accepted her lacking presence. She’s gone saving lives, hailed as almost an honorary spirit in the magical community.
When Minghao does see her, it’s rarely in fortunate circumstances. There are no ice cream sundaes or lego blocks or board games with cheap spells casted upon the playing pieces. It’s always in the stale air of a moving car or within the sterile white walls of the hospital.
One day, when Minghao has been unceremoniously dumped over at the children’s lobby, he gets bored of the preachy picture books and ends up wandering around the halls. It’s a scenario that probably reflects badly on Minghao’s mother's parenting capabilities, but it’s the unfortunate reality. Minghao bumps into a kid on maybe his second turn of the hallways, a boy who’s deathly thin and pale, but what Minghao notices is the shock of flame-colored hair atop his head and the bright smile he wears on his face.
“Hi!” the boy says, nearly bowling Minghao over. “What’s your name?”
Minghao has two— Minghao and Myungho. He likes the first one better; it’s his given one. “Minghao,” he replies, hesitant. “Hi.”
“I’m Soonyoung. You can call me anything you want, though.” They stand there in the hall, Minghao with his arms awkwardly hanging at his sides, wondering if he should just let this be as a particularly enthusiastic one-time encounter or continue their fetus conversation. Soonyoung makes this decision for him, says almost shyly, “Want to go get ice cream with me?”
Minghao is— not opposed to this suggestion. “Yeah, let’s go.”
He and Soonyoung head down the hall, and Soonyoung asks, “Are you new here? I haven’t seen you before.”
And you don’t look sick.
“N–no,” Minghao admits, then smiles impishly. “I’m supposed to be in the lobby waiting for my mom. I got bored, though.”
Soonyoung laughs. “I’m never where I’m supposed to be, either. The nurses hate me for it. I’ve run out of places to hide in the diamond wing.”
“This is… the ruby wing, right?” Minghao’s been here enough to know the layout.
Soonyoung nods. “Yeah. How do you know that?”
“My mom’s a surgeon here, so she takes me here from time to time. I’ve read all the books in the lobby at this point. They’re all really stupid.”
“Ooh, you should come visit me, then.” Soonyoung bounces a little bit on the soles of his feet, looking at Minghao for confirmation that this a viable request. Minghao nods.
He likes Soonyoung, wants to be friends with him. Not all of the kids at school are this nice.
Soonyoung’s smile, if possible, gets even wider. “I’m in Ward Seventeen, which is somewhere over there.” He gestures down the hall.
“Oh, that’s where my mom works, actually,” Minghao says, surprised. “I wonder if I’ve seen you before?”
“You probably have. I was that kid screaming because the nurses wanted to stick another IV in me,” Soonyoung says. “The orange hair is pretty memorable.”
“Yeah, it really is,” Minghao says. “I wanna dye my hair someday.” His own is a plain black, not interesting at all.
“The nurses threw a fit when I did it. I had my friend, Seokmin, help me. I’ve been here for six months now,” Soonyoung tells him. “I’m supposed to stay in bed all day and do nothing. I want to go home.”
His voice dips a little sadly at that, and Minghao isn’t sure how to respond, if he’s supposed to acknowledge the change in tone. Soonyoung immediately says brightly, “But you know, it’s not so bad! I’m not very good at following directions. You probably know at this point that I shouldn’t really be out right now?”
Minghao puts a finger over his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Soonyoung laughs. He sticks an elbow into Minghao’s rib and slings an arm over his shoulder, and Minghao usually doesn’t like physical contact but he doesn’t mind it too much on Soonyoung.
The ice cream is located right in the juncture of the diamond and ruby wings, a metal soft serve machine with a little can of sprinkles on a mini shelf. Minghao and Soonyoung pull out two cones and fill them up, the ice cream messily slopping over the sides in uneven swirls. Soonyoung applies a liberal layer of sprinkles, and the two of them stand near the wall and eat. Minghao methodically licks while Soonyoung gets it all over his face. He eats the cone in two bites and wipes the entire mess on his hospital gown.
Minghao can respect that.
“There are three other people in my ward,” Soonyoung says, after he’s done. He estimates the nurses will find him after ten minutes or so, since he’s running out of places to hide. “This one girl just cries all the time and the other two always tell me to shut up.” His face gets sad, an irreparable kind of sad. “I miss Seokmin so much…”
Minghao frowns, hates the way Soonyoung’s struggling to pull a smile back on his face, clearly regretting mentioning Seokmin’s name. “Don’t listen to the people who tell you to stop talking, you’re one of the only good people I’ve met in this hospital.”
Soonyoung’s mouth curves up at this, something sad but genuine. “Thank you, Minghao.” Soonyoung takes a deep breath, Minghao making a no problem gesture with his hands. “I— I want to tell you something. You can’t tell anyone, though, okay?” He makes a come closer motion with his fingers.
Minghao leans forward obligingly, and Soonyoung cups his hand around Minghao’s ear and whispers. His breath is a mixture of natural heat and the cold of the ice cream. “There are these shadows in my dreams. They’re why Seokmin and I got sick.”
Minghao stays still for a second, before pulling back. “Do you believe me?” Soonyoung asks, somber.
“Yes.” Soonyoung must be able to see he’s telling the truth, because he nods.
“No one else believes me,” Soonyoung mumbles, looking off at nowhere, and Minghao squeezes his forearm. He knows about the shadows, too. They crawl around the edges of his dreams as he sleeps, never coming closer, but never quite retreating either.
“There you are,” someone says crossly, and Minghao whirls around. It’s a nurse. She grabs onto Soonyoung’s arm with a disapproving click of her tongue and tosses Minghao a reprimanding glare. “Come on.”
Soonyoung is dragged away, but he manages to wave a cheery bye over his shoulder. Next to the nurse, the corners of his smile going under, is when Minghao realizes how truly sick he is. Clad in a pale blue hospital gown. Thin as a stick. An unnatural pallor to his skin.
Minghao’s mother finds him in the lobby a few hours later, quietly reading one of the hospital books about a boy named Mingyu who needed to fix his hygiene habits. When she asks how he his day is, he tells her that he wants to come again.
---
Minghao, true to his word and to the glares of several disapproving adults, visits Soonyoung. Usually, he’ll try to bring gifts, little things. Mini Twix bars from his Halloween candy stash. CDs, the kind that he gets past his parents because one is never around and the other feels like he should compensate. Comic books, see previous reason.
People will look at him pityingly when they see him with Soonyoung. Minghao might be too young to understand the exact complexities of that, but he understands this: the nurses will talk about Soonyoung’s condition in harsh whispers and calculating medical terms. He sees percentages, sometimes, on Soonyoung’s documents. None make it over twenty.
Soonyoung was diagnosed with nyx disease, a new sickness that had mysteriously cropped up around the time when Minghao was born. It’s not contagious, thankfully, and there are currently only a few thousand cases around the world, but the survival rate is at zero. The available treatments are only methods of delay.
From the start, Minghao’s friendship with Soonyoung has a certain expiration date.
---
Some days, it’s easy to ignore. Soonyoung’s airways are clear and he’s up on his feet with that mischievous grin, just a nine-year-old excited to see his friend.
“Thank the fuck you’re here.” Soonyoung has discovered swear words, although not necessarily how to use them. “I’m so bored.”
They blast music from Minghao’s CDs on the shitty radio in Soonyoung’s ward, loud enough that they probably piss off the entire hospital wing, and Soonyoung dances.
Soonyoung is good at dancing, and not just relative to his age. He dances like he’s on a stage, like he’s an idol, bright spotlights and prince costumes and dyed hair. He dances like he should be in studios with shiny wooden floors and specifically composed songs, instructors rapping one-two-three-four.
He dances so well that they can almost pretend that he’s not sick.
“I made up a move while I was in here,” Soonyoung says, bouncing on his toes. “It’s called the Hurricane.”
“Teach me,” Minghao says, rolling up his sleeves. “I bet I can do it.”
Soonyoung grins. “You bet?”
Minghao recognizes that look, but he’s too stubborn to back out. “Yeah. If I can get it in five tries, you have to buy me M&M's from the vending machine.”
“And if you can’t, you have to buy me M&M’s, and not the fun size kind,” Soonyoung says, and they shake on it. Soonyoung demonstrates, this wild kick-spin thing that might legitimately be fit for professional choreography, and Minghao knows that he can’t do it but tries to follow anyway.
He trips over his feet and lands flat on his ass.
Soonyoung laughs, trying to stifle it in a way that just makes it worse. “One. Is the ground okay?”
“It is, but you won’t be if you keep laughing,” Minghao retorts, getting up and rubbing his tailbone. “It’s your dance move, anyway.”
“Yeah, it is. And when I get out of here, I’ll make it even better.” It’s the when that makes Minghao smile, albeit a little sadly, along with the utter confidence to Soonyoung’s words.
Minghao doesn’t get the Hurricane in five. “I guess you’ll have to buy me M&M's, then,” Soonyoung says lazily, and Minghao scoffs. (Soonyoung ad Minghao only ever bet for the principle of it; the truth is that both of them are broke, and when Minghao and Soonyoung do get candy they always share it with each other.)
“This is so painful,” Minghao grouses. “Is it a dance move or a torture method?”
“You know, both. Both is good,” Soonyoung says. “But seriously, you’re not that bad. You could probably get it in a few more tries. Here, just—” He climbs out of bed and scrutinizes Minghao’s form, poking him in the arm to get him to lift it higher.
Half an hour later, Minghao can do it. Well, sort of. It doesn’t look nearly as good as Soonyoung’s version, but it’s a start. Soonyoung says they should sign up for dance classes together someday.
And it’s days like this that make everything worth it, Soonyoung laughing and dancing and making references to a future that is altogether uncertain. When a doctor inevitably drags Minghao out and forces Soonyoung back into bed, scolding them both, neither of them care.
---
And then there are the other days.
Soonyoung’s tenth birthday is one of those. A sad blue balloon is tied to his bed, shaped like an octopus, a cheap spell making it drift around on its string. Soonyoung is splayed out on the white cloth, hooked up to at least ten IVs, a rattling cough shaking its way out of his lungs.
Minghao tries not to cry. That’s not something he does. But when he looks at Soonyoung, usual smile a lifeless line and his frail body enshrouded by paper hospital robes, twin rivers trace their way down his face and drip soundlessly onto the dark blue of his sweatshirt.
---
The treatments stop working. Soonyoung is ten and he’s sick.
He doesn’t leave the bed most days, and Minghao hasn’t seen him with enough energy to dance in the past month. He’s almost always hooked up to some machine, or getting hooked up to some machine. Soonyoung’s smile is still bright, but it’s tired, and there’s a certain resignation in his eyes.
“I was reading an article yesterday,” Soonyoung says, laughing. It’s not a real laugh, though, colorless and harsh. “Apparently, if your soulmate dies, the string turns black and turns to ash. I feel bad for mine.”
It’s like time stops. Minghao freezes; he can feel his throat closing up, the blood draining from his face. Soonyoung never mentions that he’s sick. He never does it.
“Hao?” Soonyoung asks, then, “Hao? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“No,” Minghao says, and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying at this point. “Don’t say that.”
“Okay.” There’s a painful silence, and Soonyoung coughs and conspicuously swerves the subject. “Do you ever think about meeting your soulmate?”
Minghao tugs at the white ribbon around his wrist. He’s never told anyone about it, actually, not even his parents; his entire family just pretends to understand each other while never actually talking. His band— it’s not normal. But he wants to tell Soonyoung, because he trusts Soonyoung with all the loyalty of any child’s heart, because he’s spent so long not telling anyone. “No… ”
“That’s a lie,” Soonyoung says, tone overly teasing and bright in a hasty cover-up of his past words. He doesn’t know the gravity of his current statements. “You’ve never wondered, even once , who was on the other end of your string?”
Minghao’s breath comes out too fast. Words build up at the back of his throat before he finally coughs out a sentence.
“I don’t have a soulmate. I never had.”
It feels like his chest is unspooling. His head spins. So Soonyoung knows, now, Minghao can’t take back the past ten seconds, and Soonyoung is staring and again Minghao wonders why his own situation is so weird.
“You—”
“I have a string,” Minghao says, the words tumbling out of him. He needs to explain, get it all out there fast into the suddenly suffocating air. “But it’s a white ribbon, and it doesn’t go anywhere. It’s maybe two feet long and stops there. Don’t tell anyone, please.”
The last sentence rings familiar— it’s what Soonyoung had said when he’d talked about the shadows in their first meeting.
Soonyoung shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of that before… but there must be a reason for it. I wonder what it means?”
Minghao doesn’t want to wonder about it. Soonyoung hums when Minghao doesn’t respond, and they sit in silence for a while. A few minutes later, and Soonyoung is asleep, breathing labored and erratic.
---
Here is what it means:
Three months later, Soonyoung’s heart stops, and he’s hooked up to life support, a cloud of spells casted over the bed. A nearby cabinet overflows with flowers and gift baskets. Minghao’s a lone figure in the lobby, head tilted against the wall.
Past the deadline, nurses say somberly, staring at Soonyoung’s lifeless figure. Amazing he even made it this far. Minghao is hoping and hoping that he’ll make it further.
On the day Soonyoung is supposed to die, the date written in black script in the spirit world, the eight on Minghao’s shoulder burns. It sears across his skin, pain rippling white-hot across his torso, and a single thread from his ribbon unravels and falls to the ground.
Minghao picks it up, uncomprehending.
There are no nurses around. He walks over to Soonyoung and winds it around his wrist, tying it with a simple knot. It’s well hidden under his hospital robes. By the time someone comes around to check up on Soonyoung, Minghao has returned to his spot in the hallway.
When Minghao goes home, he promptly blacks out.
---
Two months later, Kwon Soonyoung is discharged from the hospital, no trace of nyx disease left in his body. The first survivor. Doctors are mystified. They analyze the medications, the spells, the treatments. They take lab samples of his DNA and his magical makeup. None of it is different. The only possible clue to his recovery is the white thread that’s burned itself into his wrist, and no one knows what to make of it. They don’t even know to look.
{Part 2}
Minghao is eighteen and he’s nearly dead on his feet.
He wishes it weren’t in such a literal way. He wishes it were in the way every to-be university student is, preparing for exams, late nights hunched over computer screens, typing away. But no. The eight on his shoulder is a constant ache, and his ribbon is half-undone at this point.
After Soonyoung, Minghao’s threads come out three to five a day. It’s voluntary; Minghao can save people, so he will. He puts the threads in hospital care packages, and he becomes famous, although in an anonymous manner. There are websites dedicated to conspiracy theories of who he is. Some say he’s a scientist. Others say a god. If only they knew.
He realizes maybe three months into it that he’s giving something up, too, although he doesn’t know what. He’s tired all the time, and there’s a pain that goes deeper than bone. Like Minghao himself is being scooped up and handed away. It’s some kind of energy exchange scenario, and Minghao knows that when the last thread falls, he’ll die.
Soonyoung does not become a dancer. Maybe in another life. Both he and Minghao plunge zealously into the world of medicinal magic in an attempt to understand. The textbooks provide nothing of what they really want to answer, but Minghao twists his ribbon around his hand and continues highlighting.
Soonyoung turns to the internet for answers. He takes wrong turns— his search history is a minefield, the username kwonfire96 tracked in forums about animal burnings and magical homicide. But in the end, he finds someone worth talking to. His name is Lee Jihoon.
---
Jihoon has an online shop where he sells dream catchers, and what makes him interesting is that he knows about the shadows that Soonyoung and Minghao dreamed about. Soonyoung and Jihoon have video called a couple of times. Jihoon’s hair is the color of lemon bread, round glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. Apparently he’s attacked someone with a guitar at one point in his life.
Minghao’s talked to him precisely once before, Jihoon introducing himself as Soonyoung’s “shady internet friend.”
Soonyoung wants to tell Jihoon about Minghao’s string, but Minghao isn’t sure.
Minghao went to a doctor, once, in complete confidentiality, to see if there was anything about himself that made his string so special. The doctor had first followed protocol, but two days later he called Minghao back to “show him the results.” There he electrocuted Minghao to see if extreme physical conditions would yield any answers. Suffice to say, it didn’t, and Minghao had been so traumatized by the whole affair that he didn’t speak to anyone for a week.
Essentially, though, Minghao himself is average: normal body composition, same elements as everyone else, regular magical levels in his blood. His strings are analyzed in laboratories all around the world, but Minghao himself fades into the background.
“Jihoon’s coming to our college,” Soonyoung announces one day, grandly bursting into Minghao’s room at nine in the morning, socked feet skidding across the tile floors.
“Holy shit,” Minghao muses. He stirs a straw around in his energy elixir, which he buys in bulk. He’s developed a tolerance at this point but drinks them anyway; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. “That’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“I know, right?” Soonyoung says. “It’ll be really interesting to see him in real life.”
Minghao smirks. “If I say something wrong, do you think he’ll come after me with a trombone?”
“My bet’s on clarinet. Those things hurt.”
“I’m not even gonna ask how you know that,” Minghao says, getting up to dump his empty can into the trash. On the sixth step, his leg flames with pain and he nearly crashes into the ground. He pretends he can’t see the worried look that Soonyoung casts his way.
---
In college, Minghao and Soonyoung are roommates, to absolutely no one’s surprise, and they take maybe four hours to unpack their boxes. They don’t really have that much stuff, but Minghao and Soonyoung argue on how many Haikyuu!! posters is a good amount of posters, how many pillows one can reasonably fit on the cramped dorm beds before it stops being a bed and more a giant marshmallow.
On the third day, they go to meet Jihoon at the local coffee shop.
Soonyoung scrunches his face up as they walk there, cold autumn wind cutting through their clothes. He fidgets with his sweater, nervous. “What if it turns out he was catfishing me the entire time?”
Minghao waves a dismissive hand. “He couldn’t have come up with all those credentials and backstories just to catfish you. You’re not worth that.”
“Why does it always come back to attacking me?” Soonyoung says, but he seems genuinely placated by the time they push open the door to the coffee shop.
Minghao sees Jihoon is sitting at a side table, a pair of headphones tucked over his hair, typing away at a laptop that’s been thoroughly covered with charmed stickers. He’s also hilariously short. “He was more intimidating over Skype,” Minghao says.
But Soonyoung isn’t listening, attention wholly captivated elsewhere. “My soulmate.”
“What?” Minghao double-takes. “Did the string not register over video or—”
Soonyoung isn’t looking at Jihoon, though. He’s staring at the far end of the coffee shop, where a guy with striking dark hair and killer eyes has a book open on the table, absorbed in reading.
The universe has its moments for every person, and Minghao thinks this is one of them, a mundane world temporarily transformed into something magical. The intersection of endless crossroads.
“Wow,” Minghao comments. “The spirits love you.”
“Oh my god,” Soonyoung says, breathless and miserable. “Oh my god.”
“How has he not felt the tug yet?” But Soonyoung’s soulmate does seem a hundred-percent preoccupied by whatever he’s reading, so Minghao lets it slide. On the other hand, Jihoon has noticed the two of them and has packed up his laptop, coming over.
“Is he okay?” Jihoon says, gesturing to Soonyoung. “He looks like he’s watching his life flash before his eyes.”
“He just found his soulmate.” Minghao points over at the guy at the other table.
Jihoon shakes his head, then, without warning, shoves Soonyoung to the ground. Minghao, at first, is mildly confused, but a second later he understands. The dark-haired guy looks up from his book, then follows the trajectory of the tug to Soonyoung, who’s sprawled out on the floor.
Soonyoung stands up, brushes off his pants, and aims a glare at Jihoon, furiously blushing all the while. Jihoon just shrugs.
The other guy walks over, hands tucked in his pockets. “Hi.”
“Hi!” Soonyoung blurts out. “So, um— I guess we’re soulmates?”
Jihoon rolls his eyes and walks out of the shop. Minghao gives a good-luck wave to Soonyoung and follows, catching up to Jihoon a few meters down. Jihoon eyes Minghao a bit wearily. The two of them only know each other so far in the context of Soonyoung, whom they’ve both just abandoned. It’s not necessary for he and Jihoon to click, but Minghao hopes they will anyway.
“Might as well give them some privacy,” Jihoon mutters, fidgeting with his sweatshirt, his fingers covered with the oversized sleeves. “Why am I always privy to these meet-cutes?”
Minghao shrugs, before asking, “Wait— what do you mean, always?”
Jihoon snorts. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen at least ten of those things. I’m like some kind of soulmate magnet.”
He sounds kind of pissed off about it, but Minghao’s not going to press. “So you wanna reschedule? Since Soonyoung’s kind of—distracted, right now?”
Jihoon nods. “Tomorrow at five?”
“Yeah, that sounds good, I’ll tell Soonyoung,” Minghao says. He glances over at his shoulder at the coffee shop, wonders how Soonyoung is doing. What his soulmate’s like. Minghao’s gathered that he’s hot and he likes to read, but that doesn’t even scratch the surface of a person.
“Soonyoung’s kind of an idiot,” Jihoon says, and Minghao bristles, ready to defend his best friend. He’s the only one allowed to insult Soonyoung like that. What Jihoon says next, though, makes Minghao forgive him. “But he’s a good guy. His soulmate better be up to par.”
---
Soonyoung comes back to their dorm with stars in his eyes, and Minghao listens to Soonyoung ramble about his soulmate, Wonwoo, who’s a literature major that can rap Shakespeare and makes these jokes that aren’t supposed to be funny but totally are .
Minghao thinks, at least fate is kind to one of us, but he doesn’t say that because it would sound bitter, and he really doesn’t mean it that way at all.
They meet Jihoon the following day at five. Jihoon cuts his overpriced cupcake into thirds, hands a piece each to Soonyoung and Minghao, and says, “Congrats.” He shoots them death glares, like, call me out on being nice, I dare you.
“I can’t believe we’re at the same college,” Soonyoung says, popping the cupcake into his mouth. “It’s cool to see you off of video chat. The cam quality was complete shit.”
This is true. Half the time, they were asking whether they could hear each other. The answer to that question was mostly no. Jihoon is definitely different when he isn’t a tiny(er) pixelated version of himself, though. He has a pencil tucked behind his ear and several spreadsheets open on his laptop screen. There are bags under his eyes, but Minghao suspects they’re more from late nights than his own weird situation.
Jihoon shrugs, shifting himself away. “I picked this college because the medical program sounded okay. It’s not like it really matters, though. No one knows anything about nyx disease.”
Minghao unconsciously plays with his ribbon, winding it around his wrist. “You do, though, don’t you?”
Jihoon shakes his head, but there’s a small smile on his face like he’s pleased with Minghao’s compliment. “I’m just as incompetent as everyone else, but I’ve got a few leads.”
“Your dream catchers,” Soonyoung murmurs. “How many of those have you sold at this point?”
“Maybe a few hundred?” Jihoon says, pulling a face. He viciously drums his fingers on the tabletop. “No one using them has gotten nyx yet, but I’m not completely sure if they’re foolproof. Most people think they’re a scam. I’ll need comprehensive findings before I can get anywhere, and my theories sound pretty far-fetched.”
Jihoon has talked about his ideas before. The origin of nyx and the causes of it are still mysteries, and his theories are just one of an entire set, one of the less popular ones at that. The correlation of nyx disease and dreams hinge off of maybe a dozen people’s word.
According to old legend, dreams are a bridge between the spirit and physical worlds, as sleep is the closest a human can get to death without actually dying. The passageway is regulated by the spirit guardians, particularly the god of dreams.
Not everyone believes the stories. Even in a world of magic, no one can really confirm what goes on in the spirit world. But Minghao, for all his logic, believes it. It rings true, like it’s part of a past he can’t remember.
Jihoon’s theory is that dark spirits are using these dream passageways to infect people’s physical selves. So he makes dream catchers— it takes him about half an hour to create each one. Using that much magic drains him, although he doesn’t want to admit it. Minghao can relate.
“I want to ask you something,” Jihoon says, addressing Minghao.
“Shoot.”
“What do you dream about?”
“Hmm?” Minghao says, taken aback. He fidgets with his ribbon. What does he dream about? Empty space. A void. Shadows creeping along the sides, never daring to come closer. “I…”
“You dream about the shadows too,” Jihoon says, voice soft and dangerous in a way that Minghao knows that he’s been played, that Jihoon already knows. “You’d have gotten nyx by now, if not for that ribbon around your wrist.”
Wait. What did he just say?
Minghao whips his gaze around to meet Soonyoung, who looks supremely caught out. “How much did you tell him? Does he know my blood type too?”
He can hear his voice coming from his mouth, furious and harsh. Even though any actual anger ebbs before it even begins, little pockets of hurt stab at his insides. It hadn’t been Soonyoung’s secret to say.
Soonyoung bites his lip. “I’m really sorry, Minghao. I—”
“I cannot believe you,” Minghao says, rubbing his temples.
“I’m really sorry and I know you’re mad,” Soonyoung says, voice low. “But I trust him. And it’s really important for what he’s doing.”
That’s what Minghao’s rational side is telling him, too; Jihoon would have to know eventually, since this was definitely relevant to his research, but he can’t quite suppress his ire just yet, muttering bitterly, “Two days ago you thought he was a catfish.”
Jihoon, who’s been calmly watching the exchange so far, bristles at that. “You thought I was catfishing you?” he says to Soonyoung. “The fuck? Why would I go that far? I wasn’t even trying to coerce you into dating me or anything!”
Soonyoung holds his hands up in a defensive gesture. “Listen, I’ve met all sorts of weird people while researching nyx—”
“You know what, we can hash this out later,” Jihoon cuts in. He looks like he’s done with life. He takes a deep breath and says to Minghao, “Your string is the only known cure to nyx, and no one’s been able to replicate it. You don’t trust me, and I understand that.”
“No— I— do,” Minghao says, surprising the both of them.
“Oh,” Jihoon fumbles. “Well, that makes things easier.” He holds out one of the dream catchers to Minghao. “I want you to take this. It’s free, so you better use it.”
Minghao takes the dream catcher in his hand before taking out his wallet and paying the necessary thirty dollars. He’ll just eat ramen for the next week. It’s okay. “You put a lot of energy into these, so no way am I just taking it. But why are you giving me this?”
Jihoon says, “Your string protects you from the shadows, but I’m curious to see if this dream catcher would have any additional effect on you. Use it and tell me about your results.”
Minghao nods. “Okay.”
---
“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung says, as they’re walking out. Cool autumn breeze hits Minghao’s face, leaves fluttering from the trees in a swirl of brown and red. “For telling Jihoon about your string. It slipped out. I know you’re mad and I deserve it—”
“I’m not mad,” Minghao says slowly. “Well, I mean... I’m over it now.”
Soonyoung looks extraordinarily relieved, although wary. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Minghao says. “You’re doing the laundry for the next three weeks, though.”
Soonyoung shakes his head. “There’s the catch.”
{Part 3}
The dream catcher hangs on the doorway of their shared dorm room. It’s made up of threads of pale pink and blue, shaped like a diamond, draped with charms at the outer edges. A faint aura of magic hangs around it, and it faintly sways although there’s no breeze nearby. Sometimes, before Minghao sleeps, he’ll hear the faint hum of music.
In the first week with the dream catcher, Minghao dreams of nothing. There are no shadows lurking at the edges of his mind, just a serene, peaceful black.
“I dreamed of noodles,” Soonyoung says seriously. “But it was two in the morning and I’d been studying alchemy for four hours straight, so I didn’t know what was real at that point.”
Minghao rolls his eyes, amused.
---
The eighth night, Minghao wakes up shrouded in mist. Pain lances through his wrists and feet. He’s breathing hard and fast, completely terrified. But it’s not really happening to him, is it? It’s like Minghao’s watching from the sidelines.
He’s in a car, or at least some kind of moving vehicle. Next to him, someone is bound by rope. Magic crackles through the air like electricity. Minghao turns his head. The person beside him is a man with purple hair, and a wave of wanting so strong Minghao can’t breathe rolls over him.
The driver turns around, his face a molten pit of black, mouth a gaping hole. He speaks in a language not of the earth, but Minghao somehow understands. “Pathetic,” he spits. “Not even fighting back?”
The tied man glares, eyes filled with loathing. “You know the terms.”
The driver laughs, this horrible dead sound that sounds like the crackling of fire, the grating of rocks. The vehicle bumps to a stop, the ropes slithering away from the man, replaced with handcuffs that shackle his wrists. The handcuffs look simple but Minghao is in no way fooled; the magic present in the metal could kill. The driver and the man exit the car, and a group of the faceless men join them, weapons in their hands.
They’re standing in some kind of capital. The destination seems to be a building at the side of the city, a stronghold surrounded by an imposing iron gate and a field of blood-red flowers. The gate is unlocked, and they walk inside. The flowers slither toward the purple-haired man, thorns cutting his legs and arms. Silvery blood flows out of his skin.
Minghao feels the pain like it’s his own. The man simply grits his teeth and continues walking, refusing to show any fear or pain on his face. Eventually, they stop at a place at the back of the stronghold, a concealed vent on the ground. The vent is unlatched, and the purple-haired man is forced inside.
---
Minghao wakes up doused in sweat and his skin on fire. He unfists his hands from the sheets and crawls out of the blankets, which are tangled all around him. He feels like he’s gotten no sleep at all, and he’s shaking so badly he can barely pop the top of his daily energy elixir.
Soonyoung comes out thirty minutes later, still in pajamas and rubbing his eyes. “Holy shit,” Soonyoung says, when he sees Minghao. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t understand,” Minghao murmurs, mostly to himself. “What the hell was that?”
“Minghao?” Soonyoung says, coming around. Minghao just slumps over on the table, burying his face in his sweatshirt and taking deep breaths. “Dude, you’re scaring me.”
“I had this dream,” Minghao says, raising his head out of his sleeves. He swallows. “There was this man. He was being taken captive by these—creatures with no faces. They were like the shadows from before except a lot more detailed.”
Soonyoung takes the elixir out of his hands, where it’s spilling all over the tabletop from how hard Minghao is squeezing the can. “That doesn’t make any sense. Jihoon’s dream catchers— people would have left some pretty bad reviews if anything like that had happened to them.”
“The weirdest thing is that like, I felt like I knew that guy.” Minghao stares down at the table. “And like, seeing him in pain was the worst thing ever. I felt everything he was feeling. And—”
Minghao doesn’t know if he can say this part. His face flames.
“And…?”
“I– I wanted him.” Minghao twists his fingers around the fabric of his sweatshirt. “I don’t know how else to describe it. This sounds so weird.”
Soonyoung says nothing for a long stretch of time, just extends his arms and wraps Minghao in a hug. Minghao buries his face in Soonyoung’s shoulder, the fabric of the hoodie soft against his skin. “None of this is your fault,” Soonyoung says determinedly. “And we’re giving the dream catcher back to Jihoon and demanding a refund.”
Minghao gives a shaky laugh. “What if he’s got a no-return policy?”
“Do you think that matters when it looks my best friend got steamrolled by a vengeful octopus? Shit no, you’re first,” Soonyoung says. “You wanna skip class today? I can take notes for you.”
“No, I’m coming,” Minghao says. “I need something to focus on.”
---
After class, Minghao and Soonyoung run into Wonwoo, who looks marginally terrified of Minghao, and also a little bit concerned. Minghao’s a little bit peeved about that last part— Soonyoung had told him the eye circles weren’t that visible.
“Wonwoo!” Soonyoung says, hooking an arm around his shoulders. His smile grows brighter, like a flashlight turned a level up. “Wait, crap, I never actually introduced you guys.”
“You don’t have to,” Wonwoo says quietly. He turns to Minghao. The two of them size each other up, the soulmate and the best friend. “He talks a lot about you.”
Minghao smirks. “I could say the same about you.”
Soonyoung’s grin is huge. “I hate you both.”
“I believe you,” Minghao says dryly. Soonyoung looks genuinely happy, though, looking at Wonwoo with stars in his eyes. Minghao likes Wonwoo just for that, although he won’t say it.
“Are you guys going anywhere…?” Wonwoo says. “If not, I’ll buy coffee.”
“That’d be amazing,” Minghao returns regretfully. “But unfortunately, I’ve got a place to be. You and Soonyoung should go, though.” He nudges his friend. Come on.
Soonyoung shakes his head, taking his arm off of Wonwoo’s shoulders. “I’m coming with you. Moral support. Maybe later?” He directs the last part of his statement to Wonwoo.
Wonwoo looks disappointed, although he says, “yeah, sure,” and walks off, slinging his bag over his shoulders. Soonyoung looks expectantly at Minghao. Let’s go. Minghao stares at Wonwoo’s retreating back, before turning around and heading in the opposite direction.
It’s really not fair to Wonwoo. Nor Soonyoung. Right now, Soonyoung should be with his soulmate, falling in love over coffee. Wonwoo can buy Soonyoung a cappuccino, and Soonyoung can press a kiss to his mouth, hesitant and shy and coffee-flavored. Not this. Not escorting his crazy best friend to return a dream catcher to an equally crazy researcher. A wave of guilt rises up Minghao’s trachea.
What’s soulmate etiquette, anyway? As Soonyoung’s soulmate, does Wonwoo therefore have to deal with Minghao’s baggage? It doesn’t matter, really. Because it’s not like Minghao will share. He won’t ruin this much for Soonyoung.
---
Jihoon stares at the dream catcher Minghao handed him, running a finger through the threads. Minghao can predict the following events before they happen. “What I’m going to say next is going to make me sound like an asshole,” Jihoon says carefully.
Soonyoung scoffs. “You are an asshole.”
“That is true,” Jihoon admits. “But Minghao— I’m going to need you to keep it for a little while longer.” And there it is. Minghao knew it.
“Wait, what ?” Soonyoung shrieks, the same time Minghao says, “Okay.”
“You can’t be serious,” Soonyoung says vehemently, jabbing a finger into Jihoon’s chest. “There’s a reason we’re returning your goddamn dream catcher—”
“Soonyoung,” Minghao says. “It’s fine.” Soonyoung cuts himself off mid-rant, staring at Minghao in disbelief. Minghao presses his nails into his palms. It’s hard to explain, but Minghao’s already given up so much because of nyx. He’s willing to give a little more.
Jihoon sighs. “Shit, I feel bad when you agree so easily.”
“You should,” Soonyoung says, tone dark.
“This is bigger than any of us,” Jihoon argues. He crosses his arms. “You’re protective because Minghao’s your best friend. I get that.”
Soonyoung’s on his feet. “Do you really, though?”
They’re glaring at each other, and Minghao really doesn’t need this right now. He sets a hand on Soonyoung’s arm, holding him back. “Please. Hear Jihoon out.”
Soonyoung’s mouth is set in a thin line, fire in his eyes, but he sits back down. They’re crammed into Jihoon’s dorm room currently, which looks more like a workshop than anything. Articles are pinned onto the walls, half-finished dream catchers strewn across the room.
“Dreams are a passage of sorts to the spirit world,” Jihoon says, staring at Soonyoung, who looks away. “I think what Minghao’s seeing is important. I’m not going to ask him to keep the catcher forever, just a couple more days, to verify my theory.”
“You and your theories,” Soonyoung says, but the fight’s gone out of his voice.
“The dream spirit, Jun, has purple hair,” Jihoon says. He plays with a piece of thread, winding it around his fingers. “I’m wondering if he’s who Minghao saw. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? If Jun was taken captive by the dark spirits, they’d be able to take over the dream passageways, which matches up with my idea about nyx disease.”
“There are thousands of souls in the spirit world,” Soonyoung points out, but there’s a reluctant acknowledgement in his voice.
“What I don’t get,” Minghao says, “is why me? The ribbon thing is weird enough, but— why would I be dreaming about— Jun? Why that particular scene?”
“I don’t know,” Jihoon admits. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Two more nights,” Soonyoung says, abruptly. Jihoon quirks an eyebrow. “Minghao keeps the dream catcher for two more nights.” Soonyoung stares at the ground.
Jihoon smiles, a real one. It makes him look younger than he actually is. “Okay.”
---
Minghao stares at his bed apprehensively that night, not really wanting to sleep. But he makes himself brush his teeth and brew some tea, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Soonyoung comes back to his dorm a while later, his face flushed and a heavy book tucked under his arm.
“What’s that?” Minghao asks curiously, craning his neck. The title of the book is The Spirit World: An Investigation Compounded Throughout the Years. “Wait, holy shit.”
“I went to grab pizza with Wonwoo,” Soonyoung says. “And he just casually had this lying around his dorm. I’m not joking. His room is like a makeshift library, it’s great.”
Minghao hefts up this book, the cover soft from use, various post-it notes and annotations throughout the book. “I love him.”
“Whoa, now, he’s my soulmate,” Soonyoung says teasingly.
“Alright, that went from cute to lame really fast,” Minghao returns, no real heat to his words. He’s smiling though, flipping through the pages. Soonyoung looks so genuinely dazzled by everything that Minghao thinks he can face another night of sleep.
Maybe the worst part is that, as terrible as his dreams are, he badly wants to see the man with the purple hair again. He doesn’t want to admit that, even to himself. He has no idea what it means, only that it makes him want to rip off his own skin.
---
That night, the dream starts off in a dark cell. The man with the purple hair is chained against the wall. There’s silver blood across both of his legs. Minghao’s chest seizes up. Looking at him, he feels like he’s going to die.
One of the dark spirits comes in. He unhooks the top chains so that the man falls flat on his face, metal shackles digging into his ankles. Dry terror floods through Minghao’s mind, but he can’t look away. The dark spirit produces a blade and cuts two slashes into the man’s back, right where wings might be if he’d had them.
It’s only then that he notices the white ribbon tied around the man’s wrist, identical to his. The ends are jagged. Like it’d been cut in two.
A scream. Minghao gasps and wakes.
---
“Screw Jihoon,” Soonyoung mutters, when Minghao blinks his eyes open, a stone lodged in his throat. His mouth feels like sandpaper. When he tries to stand up, it’s unsteady, and he barely makes it to the toilet before he hugs his arms around the bowl and vomits.
“I’m going to die,” Minghao whispers, leaning his head against the side, which is probably really unhygienic. His insides feel like they’ve been pulled inside out, all the sinew and bone tumbling out of him. Soonyoung comes in, soaking a cloth in cold water and pressing it to his forehead.
“Breathe,” Soonyoung coaches. Minghao nods and sucks in a deep breath, the air shakily coming in and out. “You’re going to be fine, okay?”
Minghao tries to nod. It takes maybe ten minutes for him to return to a semi-normal state, Soonyoung by his side. When he’s done, Minghao flushes the toilet and washes his face. He goes to his room and peels off his shirt, sticky with sweat, changing into another tee and throwing a sweatshirt over it. The sound of a kettle whistling emit from the kitchen.
“So,” Soonyoung says, when Minghao comes out. “You good?”
“Is this what a hangover feels like?” Minghao asks, glad his voice is back to normal. “Except I missed all the fun parts and skipped straight to throwing up.”
“Why are you asking me? If I’d ever been drunk you would’ve been there with me.” Soonyoung sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t believe…”
“What?”
Soonyoung waves an arm at Minghao’s tired look. “ This . I don’t understand any of it.”
Minghao quirks an eyebrow; he’s been nothing but confused since the day he was born. “Yeah, that makes two of us, then,” he says, wrapping his hands around the tea and taking a sip, the unmistakable lavender smell of calming elixir brewed into it.
Soonyoung points his spoon at him from where he’s dumping sugar into his own tea. “You know what, we’re getting to the bottom of this. I’m worried about whether you can do another night.”
Minghao bristles. “I’m not fragile.”
“Fine, let me rephrase— I don’t know if I can see you do another night,” Soonyoung snaps. “I’m gonna go get Wonwoo’s book, and then you can tell me about your dream, and then I’ll try and put something together and run it by Jihoon.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Minghao mumbles back, and Soonyoung leaves the kitchen. Minghao rubs his shoulder. The eight sign is aching again, but he’s not going to complain. Soonyoung already looks like he’s half an inch away from calling emergency medical services.
Soonyoung returns with the book on the spirit world, and he cracks it open. “Alright, I guess I’ll start from the beginning.” He thumbs absently at the post-it notes that Wonwoo left on it.
“Wonwoo’s got nice handwriting,” Minghao says.
“Doesn’t he?” A pause, and then Soonyoung glares. “Don’t try and distract me.”
Minghao holds up his hands in surrender, smirking, and Soonyoung opens the book. Intro to the Spirit World . The thing about the spirit world is that everything is guesswork, and reliability is relative— the very first page is a disclaimer.
The generally agreed logistics are that it’s divided into two spheres, light and dark, a firm barrier in place to keep them separate. The light side are where most of the souls go when they die and where the guardian spirits occupy; the dark side is for the negative energy that the physical world releases, which, over time, has grown to become sentient beings.
The third chapter is where the book begins talking about the guardian spirits. The book says that guardian spirits are rotated out every half a millennium. There are fifty of them in all, each with their own domain, luck and strength and knowledge and etcetera.
“Where’s your dream dude?” Soonyoung asks.
“My dream dude?” Minghao asks in disbelief, and Soonyoung shrugs. He nearly gets a paper cut a second later from how viciously Minghao flips the page.
Jun’s name stays the same, despite the fact the actual person changes. Each section discusses a different reincarnation, ending with the latest one. There’s a drawing, his hair a brilliant shade of purple, and although it’s not completely realistic, it’s enough to make Minghao’s heart twinge. He unconsciously traces his fingers down the paper, only taking his hands off when he remembers Soonyoung is present.
The last paragraph talks about his relationship with the healing spirit, Eight, see pg. 71. Minghao privately thinks to himself that the paragraph feels like a section ripped straight from a gossip magazine, how purely romantic it is. Apparently, the two of them had fallen in love, had invented the concept of soulmates.
“Last night,” Minghao murmurs, throat dry. His voice cracks, and he tries again. “I dreamed that the man was being held in chains, and dark spirits came and slashed two cuts into his back. And then— around his wrist. There was a white ribbon like mine.”
“What ,” Soonyoung says. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Why the hell would I joke about that?” Minghao snaps.
“I don’t know? I just—” Soonyoung stares at the open book. “What?”
Minghao shakes his head, but there’s some kind of truth that resonates deep inside his mind when he reads about Jun and Eight. “I don’t even know if the man in the dream was Jun, though. Maybe it was just someone else with purple hair.”
Soonyoung tilts his head, considering. “Right.”
“Purple isn’t that uncommon of a hair color. Yours is literally a carbon pumpkin.”
“Yes, okay, but you’ve got your” — Soonyoung flaps a hand — “making excuses face on. I’m going to run an idea by you. Hear me out, alright?”
“Why do I feel like your idea’s gonna make me want to move back to China?”
Soonyoung ignores him. “Let’s say that the guy in your dream was Jun, which Jihoon would back me up on.”
“You’re taking Jihoon’s side now?”
“Shut up, that guy did his research. So if the guy in the dream was Jun, then he was soulmates with the healing spirit, right? You have a ribbon around your wrist that matches his, like another version of the red string of fate, and it’s the only known cure to nyx disease.”
Minghao stays silent. His mind has already made the logical conclusion, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it.
“The healing spirit’s name is Eight, and you’ve got an eight on your shoulder,” Soonyoung says. “Minghao—”
“Nope,” Minghao says. “Nope.”
“It makes perfect sense!” Soonyoung says, throwing up his hands.
“What, that I’m Eight?” Minghao says in disbelief.
“Yes!” Soonyoung’s face, at this point, is nearly as fiery as his hair. “Think about it.”
Minghao walks out of the room.
---
Soonyoung drags Minghao to meet Jihoon at the coffee shop an hour later. Minghao silently nurses a black Americano while Soonyoung explains his theory between sips of some kind of sugar-and-cream monstrosity. Jihoon grimaces after he’s finished.
“See, Jihoon doesn’t agree,” Minghao says, gesturing with his coffee stirrer to emphasize his point.
“No, I do,” Jihoon says, looking away with a disgruntled expression. Minghao’s eyes widen, and the coffee stirrer falls limply to his side. “I just hate that I wasn’t able to figure it out first. And that I’m taking Soonyoung’s side.”
“I need new friends,” Minghao mutters. “Are you all on crack?”
Jihoon drums his fingers against the tabletop, adopting a thoughtful expression. “Not the last time I checked. Anyway, the theory checks out. If you were Eight, you’d have a stronger connection to the spirit world and Jun than the average person, which was how you’d be able to see all this. I think my dream catcher might’ve just removed any existing barriers your mind encountered before.”
“If I’m Eight, what am I doing in the physical world?” Minghao challenges.
Jihoon opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Alright, the exact mechanics of it might be unknown” — Minghao snorts, yeah, right — “But I think you could be a reincarnation of him.”
Minghao folds his fingers together and stares down at them, hating how delicate they look. The eight on his shoulder stings, as if trying to tell him Jihoon’s right. “If I’m Eight,” Minghao finally says, quiet, “what does that even mean? What do I do?”
Jihoon says, “I- let me sleep on it.”
“That’s the worst phrase you could have chosen,” Soonyoung says with a roll of his eyes, joining the conversation. He’s been abnormally silent the entire time.
Jihoon glares at him, then turns to Minghao, softening his voice. “You don’t have to sleep with the dream catcher anymore, okay? I was”— he swallows, like it pains him to say it — “too harsh yesterday. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind,” Minghao says. “It’s for your research, right?”
“Believe it or not, research isn’t the only thing I care about,” Jihoon says, mouth curling into a bitter smile. Soonyoung stares at him with an unreadable expression. Minghao takes another sip of coffee, which has been reduced to a dark black sludge.
The tense atmosphere is broken by the chime of the door, Wonwoo walking in. Soonyoung’s face lights up, although he stays where he is.
Jihoon packs up his bag. “That’s my cue to leave,” he says. “Meet me here tomorrow, same time.” He walks out the door, and Minghao stares at his retreating back, wondering what he’s thinking.
---
“So…” Jihoon says, playing with his rings. It’s the next day, and Jihoon looks nervous . This does not bode well for anyone. “How do you feel about taking a vacation?”
“Sounds great,” Minghao says dryly, “except for the part about it being the middle of the semester, but you know, small thing, right?”
Jihoon gives him a withering stare. “Alright, no need for your sass.”
“It’s a defense mechanism,” Minghao retorts. “And a necessary one at that, from what it sounds like you’re going to suggest. I can’t just take a vacation. At least not right now.”
Soonyoung cuts to the chase. “What were you going to tell him to do, Jihoon?”
Jihoon worries his lower lip between his teeth. “I’m suggesting we send Minghao to the spirit world.” Minghao’s eyes widen. “I think we might find some answers there.”
“Jihoon, I know you’re a genius, and I love you, I really do,” Soonyoung says, working his way up to a rant. Jihoon’s cheeks flush. “But I’m not killing my best friend.”
“We’re not going to kill him!” Jihoon immediately placates. “We’re just going to put him in a comatose state. For a while. That’s why it’s a vacation.”
Minghao sighs to the ceiling. “Neither of you deserve a place in my will.”
“Yes, okay, a comatose state, that’s so much better,” Soonyoung mocks.
“I’ve found a total of five methods to send someone to the spirit world, one of which is distinctly more reliable than the others,” Jihoon says, ignoring Soonyoung. “And he wouldn’t be going right now. Winter break’s in two months. We’ll do it then.”
Minghao hugs his knees to his chest. “As long as you don’t kill me, I’m cool with it.”
“He probably found a spell on the magical equivalent of 4chan,” Soonyoung says darkly, and Jihoon sends a glare his way. “It’ll probably work, though.”
Jihoon looks oddly vindicated.
Minghao plays with his ribbon, wrapping it around his wrists. It’s both soothing and agitating all at the same time. He thinks of the way more people are dying from nyx by the minute. He thinks about how genuinely Jihoon seems to want to find a cure. And Jihoon’s right— he probably would be able to find some answers.
(Maybe Minghao could see Jun, too.)
“We’ve got maybe two months to prepare for this,” Minghao says, and Jihoon’s eyes open in shock. Soonyoung drops his face to the table, asks despairingly, why are all my friends insane. “You guys better get me a good Christmas present this year.”
---
Break comes all too soon.
Minghao’s mom is working at the hospital, and Minghao’s dad has been taken by nyx disease. It’s sad, honestly, how this will work. Soonyoung will stay at Jihoon’s home and keep watch over him, and by the time Minghao’s mom comes home every night, it will look like Minghao’s just asleep with Soonyoung by his side.
Jihoon steps through the doorway, holding a vial of bright lemon-colored potion. “Let’s do this.”
“Should I ask how you managed to obtain that?” Soonyoung asks.
“Please no.”
Minghao laughs a little at that, not doubting in the least that Jihoon jumped seventeen legal loopholes just to get half the ingredients. “I just drink that stuff, right?”
“You should probably get into bed first, though, so you’re not upright when you go unconscious.” Soonyoung says, and Minghao nods. Soonyoung pulls him into a hug. “Come back soon, okay? I’ll miss you.”
The three of them walk into Minghao’s bedroom, Minghao carefully situating himself on the edge of the bed, plays a little with the soft blue covers. Soonyoung’s eyes are creased with worry, despite the lighthearted smile he’s got on his face, and Jihoon— Jihoon looks small and awkward, like he’s not sure if he belongs here.
It’s this that makes Minghao reach over to wrap Jihoon in a brief hug. “I trust you, okay?” Minghao says to him. “I’m glad I met you.”
He uncorks the vial and downs the drink. It tastes like buttercream with a hint of something bitter underneath it. The eight on his shoulder burns, and the world goes black.
{Part 4}
When Minghao wakes up, he’s standing amidst a crowd of people, the sky a brilliant blue above him. The first thing Minghao notices is how light he feels.
Back in the physical world, he’s always tired. It’s something he’s grown accustomed to, is used to the way his skin would sear whenever he plucked off another thread, the ever-present ache in his bones. It’s not here now.
The second thing he notices is how real everything seems. A mirror version of the physical world. The place he’s in seems to be a city square, a cobblestoned pavement surrounding a marble fountain. People mill around Minghao, some curiously glancing at his wrist, and Minghao suddenly realizes— they can see his ribbon. He hastily shoves his hand in his pockets, making sure the band is concealed.
Someone taps his arm. His face is soft, kind, with catlike eyes and a smooth wave of brown hair. “Do you know where we are?” he asks.
Minghao stupidly blurts out— “I— you’re dead.”
“Oh,” the boy says, looking more crestfallen than anything. He shouldn’t look so vulnerable; it makes Minghao want to protect him. “I thought the heart monitor flatlining might’ve been a dream…”
Their conversation is interrupted by a loud voice booming into the clearing. “New spirits, follow me.” The crowd begins to shuffle forward, and the boy grabs Minghao’s wrist, trying not to get lost in the flow. Dream Girls plays in the background.
The boy says, “My name’s Jisoo, by the way.”
“Minghao.” Minghao’s still reeling— he’s in the spirit world.
“Nice to meet you.” Jisoo touches his wrist, where there’s a red string. Now that Minghao’s looking, several other people in the crowd have one too.
“Oh, I read a book on that,” Minghao blurts. “Your soulmate’s here with you, then.”
“Huh.” Jisoo looks at the string in wonder. “I hope I’ll meet them.” Minghao shoves his own hand deeper into his pockets. He doesn’t need to put off the guy he just met.
“Do you mind if I ask you how you died?” Minghao says, trying to make small talk and utterly failing. Nice going. Soulmates and death, all very lighthearted topics.
“Hmm? Nah. I died because of nyx,” Jisoo says absentmindedly, and Minghao is blown away by how casual he seems about it. “What about you?”
“I’m here— also because of nyx, but not directly. Long story.”
“Well, I’m dead, so,” Jisoo says dryly, “I guess time’s not an issue for me. If you’re cool with it, you should tell me sometime, because it sounds interesting.”
They flood forward toward some kind of downtown area. The spirit world is supposed to be a holding area for souls, so they can get their lives— deaths— sorted out before getting dumped back into the reincarnation cycle.
The crowd files into the lobby of one of the buildings, and Minghao takes a seat in an armchair as new arrivals are called over to the front desk. He’s definitely in the spirit world, yeah, but now that he’s here, he’s not quite sure what to do. He has three weeks until break ends, and he has no idea of where the purple-haired man is.
He doesn’t know anything.
---
Minghao stays in the lobby for two hours, talking to Jisoo and deciding to wait it out. Jisoo tells him about how he was a singer before he got sick, how he hopes food exists in the spirit world because he never got to try nutella pizza while he was alive (Minghao doesn’t question this.) In return, Minghao tells him about med school and about his crazy friends.
He realizes during the conversation that he shouldn’t wait for the front desk to call him up because he’s not actually dead, so it probably doesn’t work the same way for him. When there’s a lull, he says goodbye to Jisoo and goes up to the counter, nervously taking his hand out of his pocket.
The person sitting behind the desk casts a bored gaze at Minghao, clearly waiting for his shift to end. But then his gaze trails to Minghao’s wrist, and his eyes widen. He leans forward and tugs Minghao’s sleeve up. Minghao nearly has an aneurysm, if spirits can have aneurysms.
“Are you…” the boy breathes, then turns around and yells to the back. “Seungkwan!”
A guy scoots out on a spinny chair, removing his headphones in the same breath. “For the last time , Chan, we are not using Jackson’s Greatest Hits as background music—”
“I don’t see how it’s any worse than AOA, but that’s not the point here,” Chan says. “We have important issues.”
“If Mingyu got his head stuck in the trash can again, I’m quitting,” Seungkwan sighs, before he too looks at Minghao’s wrist and screams, “OH MY GOSH.” He picks up a phone and begins dialing someone’s number.
Chan’s eyes dart nervously. “Listen, I’m just the intern, I don’t know protocol for this—”
“Hello yes, can someone get Vernon on the line?” Seungkwan yells into the phone. “Hansol Vernon Chwe? Keeper of memories? It’s Seungkwan— no, I am not calling about kimbap this time, put Vernon on the goddamn line I swear—”
By this point, the entire lobby has noticed the ruckus, and Minghao’s broken out into a cold sweat. A guy comes running out from the back, with a good smile and even better hair, saying, “Nice to meet you, now let’s get you out of here.”
---
Minghao is relegated to a small conference room, where it’s very quiet and also slightly claustrophobic. There’s a little water dispenser and a shelf of magazines in one corner, so Minghao gets a drink and idly flicks through a copy, catching a glimpse of an ad for a seventeen-carat diamond and an article titled Check In, Seoul City.
About half an hour later, someone opens the door, this guy with wavy hair and gorgeous eyes. Minghao wonders, faintly, if all spirits are this pretty. “Hansol,” he says by way of introduction. “Keeper of memories. The one Seungkwan was screaming about, which I’m sorry for.”
“Um,” Minghao says nervously. “Hello?”
“Oh,” Hansol says, a look of understanding on his face. “Right, this is probably really weird for you. So how much do you know right now? Like, do you know you’re Eight?”
“I thought my friends were on crack when they suggested it, but yes.”
“They weren’t— well, probably weren’t. I don’t know what kind of people you hang out with.” Hansol waves a dismissive hand. “My job is to give you back your memories. The rest is up to you.”
“My… memories,” Minghao says, slowly. “Okay?”
“Of your past life,” Hansol explains. “We do catalog for every soul. It’s a pain in the ass trying to keep them all alphabetized.”
He produces a small vial from his pocket, which he hands to Minghao. “The most common method of ingestion is drinking, but you can take it however.” The two of them awkwardly stare at each other for a moment, and then Hansol takes a glance at his watch. “Sorry dude, gotta fly. But we’re all rooting for you, you know that, right?”
What the hell is Minghao supposed to say to that? But it doesn’t matter, in the end, because Hansol snaps his fingers and just like that, he’s gone.
The memories are purple. They swirl and shimmer inside the little vial; Minghao thinks faintly to himself this is the second questionable drink he’s been handed in the span of a day. He uncorks it and takes a tentative sip, and the world explodes with light.
{Part 5}
His name is Eight, and he’s in love with Jun.
---
The term for the last healing spirit just ended, and Minghao is flung, terrified and out of his depth, into the position. There’s too many duties to properly keep straight, but he makes a routine out of checking on the medicinal bushes that are in bloom and going through the dream passages at night to combat sickness.
It’s an endless war to keep the shadows at bay, but there are also sunlit days where both worlds are in a stasis of okay, and Minghao can breathe. He can feel human. This is a life he never asked for, but on these days it doesn’t really matter.
These days Minghao wanders around the capital. He discovers a little nook where there’s a small river that winds through a thresh of trees. Minghao likes coming here, especially in the early days of his term where he doesn’t really know any of the other guardian spirits. (He’s a little starstruck by them, even though he’s one himself.)
One day, he comes to the river and finds the purple-haired dream spirit already sitting there, feet swinging in the stream.
“Hi,” Minghao says, blunt. “I’m Eight.”
“I know,” the dream spirit says, smiling. “Jun.”
They sit there in silence with the river quietly bubbling next to them. Minghao thinks that maybe he should feel uncomfortable—after all, the river used to be his—but he finds himself not minding Jun’s presence.
And so it begins.
---
A year in and Minghao has become familiar with the spirit world. He’s on good terms with all the guardians, but there are some he talks to more than others.
There’s Seungcheol and Jeonghan, whose duo act could possibly be compared to that of long-suffering parents. Seungcheol constantly teases Jeonghan as being ill-fitted to his position as spirit of love, and Minghao privately agrees, although he remains neutral on the outside.
Really, though, Minghao’s been wary ever since Jeonghan had solemnly told him that the currency of the spirit world was abalones.
There’s also Jeongguk, spirit of strength. He and Minghao set up games sometimes and play; Jeongguk always wins no matter how many handicaps he’s given. But for someone who’s strong enough to crumple the earth if his hands were large enough, Jeongguk is surprisingly kind, always partnering with Minghao when their paths cross.
And then there’s Jun. Minghao wouldn’t call him a friend, exactly, but he’s not sure of what other word to use. What do you call someone who you want to wake up next to everyday, despite the fact no tomorrows are guaranteed? Minghao isn’t sure, and a voice in his head chides him not to go searching for the answer.
Their meetings by the river grow increasingly frequent. Sometimes they talk. On particularly difficult days, Jun will sing, and Minghao loves hearing his voice, the timbre quiet and melodic. If he were a siren, like in those myths, thousands of sailors would perish in the waters.
“Where do you get your songs from?” Minghao asks, one time.
“I don’t know,” Jun says, scrunching his face up in concentration. “You know how in dreams, people on earth will see bits of the spirit world?”
“Yeah?”
“I think it works both ways. I’ll go through the passages and the next day I’ll have a song stuck in my head. I like the one I heard last night. It’s called My I. ”
“Sing it again.” The moon is pale and round and yellow in the sky. Jun sings, and the lyrics and tune burrow deep underneath Minghao’s skin.
---
Minghao doesn’t know when the ribbon gets there. He thinks it’s a trick of the light, almost, a thin and transparent rope, but then the breeze sways it and he knows it’s real. It hangs between his and Jun’s wrists, silently mocking them. They don’t talk about it.
“Do you remember anything from your past lives?” Jun asks. The strange thing about today is that he’d specifically asked to meet Minghao by the river, apparently bearing such important news that he couldn’t let routine do it’s usual thing.
“I don’t, none of us do,” Minghao says. “But sometimes I’ll see certain things and feel really weird. Like I’d seen them before. What about you?”
Jun shakes his head. “I pick up memories, sometimes, from people’s dreams,” he says, and then puts his hand in the pocket of robes. “I talked to Vernon about it last night and he gave me this.” He holds out two vials, one a deep red and the other blue-green.
“The keeper of memories,” Minghao asks in disbelief, “he gave you those?”
“Well, he might have been a little drunk.” Jun smiles a little deviously. “These memories are spare ones, fifteen minutes worth of a lifetime. They don’t belong to any soul in particular. But what do you say? Drink or no?”
And Minghao knows he shouldn’t. There’s a reason their memories were removed, so they wouldn’t miss anything about their past lives. But it’s Jun and maybe he’s always been weak to Jun and maybe he’s curious about what the physical world so he grasps the red one with trembling fingers and says, “I’ll drink if you do.”
Jun smirks and they clink the vials together before taking a sip. It’s maybe a small mouthful, just a few drops. The liquid tastes sweet and sad. Minghao blinks, the memory burning itself into his mind. The two of them say nothing for a long moment.
“What’d you get?” Minghao finally asks, his voice a thin whisper.
“I was looking at the stars through this telescope with a glass lens. The universe is so huge, Eight, all those little moons.” Jun’s gaze is far away. “What about you?”
“I was putting these little pastries into a glass case and talking to the tailor next door,” Minghao mumbles. “I was in love with him, a little bit.”
His heart aches with a distant want, mixed in with the reality in front of him. He thinks his eyes might be a little bit wet. Jun reaches over and hesitantly twines their fingers together, and the ribbon that winds across both their wrists becomes translucent.
---
The thing is that neither of them know about love.
The memories were only fifteen minutes worth, and Minghao knows every second frayed and worn like the back of his hand. The baker he’d seen had never known happy endings, just an ache, doesn’t know about strolling under city lights at midnight or eating ice cream sundaes at noon, lips numb from the cold.
Jun is a learning curve. They’re not normal, by any standards— they will always put their duties above each other, but being with Jun feels like this: the softness of palms pressed together, quiet greetings in the mornings, a million different looks soft and blazing and hard. As spirits they don’t have much, but they have this.
The ribbon becomes white and tangible over a decade, and the phenomenon of soulmates spreads to the physical world. “We’re the originals,” Jun says.
Minghao ducks his head, embarrassed but pleased. “Don’t say such things.”
---
As love stories go, theirs has a happy middle, but not a happy end.
The shadow realm and the spirit realm keep each other in check, a constant balance of yin and yang. There’s a barrier between them, a wall that keeps them apart. But one year, a war sweeps through the physical world, and the shadows grow strong. Strong enough that one day, they create a rip in the boundary and swarm through.
The two realms fight a war that lasts for two years. Minghao is one of thousands of soldiers, sustaining a cut from a poisoned blade on his left shoulder, shaped like an infinity sign. It burns and stings and oozes and doesn’t heal no matter what treatment he’s given. He kills multitudes and sees multitudes killed, souls permanently removed from the reincarnation cycle.
The war drags long and endless. A fixed truth of the universe is that yin and yang will always balance each other, push and pull, and finally the combat stutters to a stalemate, both sides tired and ravaged. The shadows agree to leave the spirit world, but not without one last blow: they disappear, and they take the dream spirit with them.
---
Minghao deteriorates. The poison wracking his own body leaves him feverish and dazed, doubled by the pain being passed through the ribbon from Jun, who’s being subjected to his own brand of torture. Minghao’s soul flickers helplessly, the magic of healing stuck in his own broken body, in danger of vanishing forever.
Eventually, Minghao takes a knife and cuts through the ribbon, and Jeonghan and Seungcheol devise a plan: Minghao will be reincarnated in the physical world to recover. When he returns to the spirit world, they will get Jun back. Seungcheol rests his forehead on the table and sends a prayer to Jun. Hold on.
{Part 6}
For the record, it’s really weird having centuries’ worth of memories jammed back into your mind all at once. Minghao dazedly wonders if he can ask Hansol to liquify his chemistry textbook and perform the same operation—he’d never fail another test.
But the verification that Minghao is a god wholly confounds him. He doesn’t feel like one; he’s been sick for half his life, and it’s a huge concept to reconcile himself to. And also—
As someone who’d thought they were soulmate-less for the majority of his life, he’s never even bothered thinking about romantic love. Minghao’s always scoffed at those Hollywood plotlines while Soonyoung pretended he wasn’t sniffling into his ramen noodles. How the tables have turned, now. Jun. He and Minghao have kissed. They’ve more than kissed. They’ve done a lot of things in the span of four hundred years.
“Oh my god,” Minghao mumbles, heat flooding his face.
---
Minghao supposes the next course of action is to go find the other guardian spirits, who might have a clue as to what the hell he’s supposed to do now. Minghao exits the building, saying goodbye to Jisoo on his way out, and consults his new memories for how he’s supposed to operate spirit world transportation.
It works a lot like his earth, actually. Minghao finds a terminal a few blocks down and taps one of the officers on the shoulder, asking, “Excuse me, do you know how I can get to the spirit capital?”
The officer wears a brass name tag that reads Kim Mingyu, and he points Minghao over to a sprawling paper map thumb-tacked to the opposite wall. “You should be able to find it on there,” he says brightly.
“Thank you,” Minghao says, and walks over. The capital is located on Route 17, and he’s about to head over to that particular platform when Mingyu stops him.
“Wait, I couldn’t help but ask,” he says apologetically, gesturing in direction of Minghao’s wrist. “Is it true…?” he trails off.
“That I’m Eight? Apparently, yes,” Minghao says, and Mingyu’s eyes widen.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Everybody knows that you’re here, good luck with whatever!”
“I’ll need it,” Minghao says, dipping his chin, and runs off to catch the train that’s leaving in a quarter of an hour. He hates the way his heart pounds, how his stomach turns itself inside out, how his mind keeps cycling back to thoughts of him and Jun sitting by the river and then Jun held in chains, pale and sick.
He keeps his ribbon firmly hidden in his pocket and pulls his hood over his head as he boards the train, trying not to think too hard about what now?
---
When Minghao steps off the train, he’s immediately washed over with a sense of aching familiarity. He’s never been here in his entire life, and yet it seems more like home than anything on earth.
The capital isn’t ornate— it’s more practical than anything, rows and rows of buildings shooting up from the ground. This place is for the higher-up spirits, the researchers and soldiers and doctors, those who are here for a more complex reason than just swinging by before their next reincarnation.
Minghao heads over to the building at the very center, shaped like a diamond and rising into the skies. There’s no visible entrance, but the wall slips apart at his touch.
Minghao walks into a catacomb of hallways and lights, locating an elevator and pressing the button for the seventeenth floor. This was where Jeonghan and Seungcheol resided when he last saw them, and Minghao dearly hopes that they haven’t relocated their offices because Minghao’s in dire need of answers.
And they haven’t. Surprisingly, not too much has changed in his lifetime.
It’s Seungcheol that Minghao runs into first. He’s as handsome as ever, with locks of silvery hair, and it registers in Minghao’s chest that he misses him the way he would an old friend. Seungcheol’s expression is confused for only a second before it morphs into something else, something disbelieving and hopeful and soft. “... Eight?”
Minghao nods. Seungcheol opens his mouth, closes it.
“You’re dead already?” Seungcheol asks dazedly, and Minghao raises an eyebrow—that was weird no matter what. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. Time passes differently here, but you must’ve only lived a couple decades, right?”
“I’m not dead,” Minghao finally mumbles, shoving aside that little human part of him that’s wailing despairingly about addressing the spirit of time so informally. “I’m in a comatose state.”
Seungcheol knits his eyebrows. “... Is that… better?”
“According to Jihoon, yes,” Minghao sighs. Seungcheol opens his mouth again, presumably to ask who Jihoon is, and Minghao tacks on, “Jihoon’s one of my friends from over there. He’s just a little crazy. I actually wouldn’t be surprised if he had accidentally murdered me, so, uh. Maybe I am. Dead.”
Seungcheol buries his face in his hands. “I leave you alone in the physical world for one decade, what is Jeonghan gonna say—”
“What is Jeonghan gonna what, Cheol?” somebody else asks, voice sweet.
Minghao looks over Seungcheol’s shoulder and— oh. Well, this probably explains why Minghao was unaffected by pretty people back in the physical world. He’d been friends with the spirit of love at one point.
Jeonghan, dubbed in loose twenty-first century meme terms, could be what was generally referred to as the mom friend. That label kind of fell apart after the first few meetings, where the other parts of Jeonghan’s persona was revealed, but even so, there’s something distinctly kind about him that made Minghao miss a family that he didn’t have when he was a healing spirit.
“Eight’s here,” Seungcheol says quietly.
Jeonghan bursts over in an ethereal flurry of soft violet-blonde hair and a silvery aura, wrapping Minghao in a bone-crushing hug. “Eight,” he says. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” Minghao wheezes truthfully, even if he didn’t know it until a few hours ago. “How’ve you been doing?”
Jeonghan pouts. “Well, it’s a lot less fun with you here. None of the newcomers are so cute and gullible.”
“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol sighs, “leave the guy alone, he just—”
“Sorry, sorry,” Jeonghan says, clearly not too sorry at all, right up until his expression shifts into something serious. “But really, Eight, it’s good to have you back.” He pauses. “You’ve probably got a shit ton of questions, right? I can’t promise we’ll be able to answer all of them, but we’ll try.”
“Thank you,” Minghao says, and Jeonghan finally releases him from the hug— the bones in Minghao’s ribs settle back into their original places, and his trachea wheezes in relief— and the three of them walk into one of the meeting rooms.
---
The three of them sit around one of those plastic tables that would be more suited to a middle school cafeteria than a high-level office, but Minghao supposes even the spirit world has budget cuts. There’s a basket of fruit in the center of the table with fruits Minghao’s never seen before, plump pink and blue spheres.
Seungcheol says, “So, uh, how much do you know already?”
And Minghao talks. He tells them about the white ribbon around his wrist that healed Soonyoung, who’d met Jihoon, who ran a dream catcher business. He tells them about how Jihoon made him use one of the dream catchers to verify his theory about nyx and how Minghao had seen Jun in his dreams; the three of them figured out he was Eight because of it, and now Minghao is in the spirit world trying to find answers that, after a lifetime of asking, he might finally get.
There’s dead silence after he’s finished. Jeonghan’s finally wrestled one of the blue fruits apart and is now eating the soft flesh. “Wow,” Seungcheol says, kind of awed. “You know way more than I thought.”
Jeonghan scoffs. “That’s our Eight, did you expect anything else? Your human friends sound amazing, though.”
Minghao shrugs, averting his eyes. “They’re all a little insane but they’re great.”
“I’m glad you got to meet them,” Jeonghan says. “I mean, do you know how tiring it is to be with the same crowd for five centuries? You run out of people to flirt with eventually.”
“Off track, Jeonghan,” Seungcheol reminds, although he looks amused. “But yeah, this works out well, I mean, relatively well. See, the original plan had been to wait for you to exhaust your human lifespan and then take action from there, but you’re here early.”
Jeonghan says, “So we’re going to get Jun back.”
Minghao’s chest contorts at the mention of his name, but he keeps his face impassive. He highly doubts it convinces Jeonghan, though, whose gaze gets a little sad.
Seungcheol says, “The shadow realm incorrectly assumed that you were dead, and that the healing spirit has been gone forever. Actually, not even many people here know that you’re alive.”
Jeonghan says, “Well, they know now —”
“Seungkwan works fast, combined with Vernon, but—” Seungcheol shakes his head, as if to get himself back on track. “At this exact moment in time, the shadows have control of the dream passages via Jun, and they also think that the healing spirit is gone for good and that the physical world is dependent on their own cures.”
“You’re really our only hope of getting him back,” Jeonghan says, finally. “We’ve spent the past few decades strategizing for this. Seungcheol and I got our terms extended as guardian spirits so we could help out. We were supposed to leave a decade ago.”
“The spirit world has been busy rebuilding the boundaries between the dark realm and us, but we’ve left one place weak,” Seungcheol says. “The plan is to gift you all of our individual strengths and then send you through. If um. You’re up…?”
“I’ve got no problems with doing that, no worries,” Minghao says, steadfast. “Just— why me, I guess? Obviously not because I don’t want to, but I’m not that special.”
Seungcheol drums his fingers on the tabletop. “Maybe in the physical world, love means nothing,” he says, slowly. “But here, emotions are literal spirits. You’ve been loved for centuries by the god of dreams himself, and you wear part of his soul around your wrist. It can be whatever weapon you need it to be.”
Minghao says nothing, just gives a small nod.
---
The building is called for a code red meeting, fifty spirits packed into one meeting room, ceiling large and domed and gold. The entire time feels like some kind of fever dream. Minghao might know Seungcheol and Jeonghan as the slightly wacky star team, but they also command the room, Seungcheol’s firm voice and Jeonghan’s strategy a powerful combined force. It’s clear that many in the room have high levels of respect for them, the two having been guardian spirits for a full five centuries.
The spirits bestow their gifts to him one by one. Jeongguk and Yugyeom, squeeze his arm as they pass him by, Jeongguk whispering, “I believe in you.” Minghao doesn’t feel the full effects of the gifts right now but there’s an energy crackling under his skin. Powers that weren’t there before.
The rip to the dark side of the spirit world takes an hour to force open with their collective efforts. Despite the fact it’s relatively weak compared to other places in the boundary, it’s still been sealed off with age-old spells and rules of the universe. When they’ve got a small window open Minghao squeezes his way through.
When he gets in Minghao shrouds himself in invisibility and steps onto the streets. He’s seen this place in his dreams; it feels familiar. The skies are a swirling vortex of gray and red, and the air tastes like rust and copper. The occasional shadow without a face floats along the road, and while they can’t see Minghao, they can feel his presence and stop when they get close.
Cold sweat trickles down Minghao’s back.
The shadow realm has its own capital, just like theirs, and Minghao needs to find it. That’s where Jun’s being kept. The knowledge comes from a combination of information accumulated from his own dreams and an inexplicable feeling in his chest. Like Jun’s a magnet, and Minghao’s being pulled toward him.
Sometimes, in the physical world, there’d been moments where Minghao had experienced a sudden tremor of terror that he’d lost something. He hadn’t known what. It’s strange to finally understand that it was his soulmate.
---
He finds the capital in a few hours. It’s the way he remembered it, ethereal in a deadly way, all sharp edges and jagged metals. The stronghold they’re keeping Jun in is tucked way off to the side. Minghao searches several tributaries before he sees it, matching perfectly to the one in his dreams. The stronghold isn’t large, but it’s surrounded by an imposing wall, and after that, a courtyard of flowers that bloom red as blood.
He thinks back to what Seungcheol had said. His love is whatever weapon you need it to be. He turns down to the ribbon and concentrates. It hardens, turns smooth and sleek and sharp, until Minghao is holding in his hand a sword made out of some kind of white metal with a simple wooden hilt.
He concentrates again, and the sword melts back into its usual state.
Minghao squints at the wall before he takes a deep breath and jumps, digging his hands into the cracks. The stones under his hands sizzle. His sleeves turn black and melt, and Minghao can feel it, the fire burning his skin, but he grits his teeth and fights upward. The other spirits’ gifts are protecting him. He can’t let that go to waste.
He doesn’t get a break when he lands in the courtyard. The flowers grow thorns, ripping at his clothes, and when Minghao runs they erupt in his path and tear cuts into his skin.
An alarm sounds, and a million expletives fly through Minghao’s head.
“INTRUDER IN THE GARDENS,” someone shouts. Minghao forces himself to breathe; this would not be a good time to panic. Shadows come from all sides, carrying weapons. Minghao estimates there at least three dozen of them at this minute.
“Shit, he’s invisible?” one of them yells.
“You dumbass, follow the flowers!” another barks back. “Cut off his path!”
Minghao zigzags. His vision tunnels, and a wave of perfect calm washes over him, even though every nerve in his body is wound. Shadows crowd in, closer, closer.
“These fucking flowers ,” one of the shadows mumble, because they’re ripping at their skin, too, and when the shadows are meters away the ribbon ripples and changes to the sword on Minghao’s wrist. He attacks, and— it’s like dancing. That’s what Minghao thinks. He and Soonyoung never got to dance back in the physical world, but they’d do it at times, late at night, if Minghao wasn’t so tired. And that’s what fighting feels like right now, turning and slashing, like he’s the eye of a storm. A hurricane.
Minghao slashes through them and finally makes it to the edge of the sea of flowers. His body is bruised and sweaty, and he weighs his options. The entire stronghold must be aware of him by now, so he definitely can’t use the front doors.
In his dreams, he’d been lead through a small grate in the back. Minghao runs. A volley of arrows and bullets fly through the air, guessing where he is, but they miss. He supposes he can thank Taehyung, spirit of chance, for that.
Minghao wedges himself through the grate. The tunnel is dim and dark and moldy and opens up into a hallway. Minghao can sense that he’s far underground, but Jun’s further. He continues, taking twists and turns and hoping the little soulmate GPS in his gut is correct. His footsteps sound so heavy to his own ears.
Above him, he can hear pandemonium.
“Who is it?”
“He’s invisible, but I think it’s Eight?”
“Isn’t Eight supposed to be dead?”
“Well he clearly isn’t, goddammit, why aren’t the sensors registering him?”
“Wait, let me check the calibration—”
Minghao tunes it out and keeps running. His breathing is labored and the burns on his skin sting, the levels of dark magic in the air like acid. He feels like he’s going to die. And then there it is. The door to Jun’s cell, matching perfectly to the one in his dreams. He changes the ribbon on his wrist to a key, pushing open the door and steps inside.
---
Jun is pale and gaunt, his body slumped against the wall. Minghao stands there limply for a single second. He wishes he weren’t in love. Because he’s so scared, and he still finds Jun so incredibly beautiful.
And then he remembers the situation and snaps back to action.
“C’mon, Jun,” Minghao whispers, and touches Jun’s skin. It’s ice cold, cracking. Jun’s wrists are bound to the wall by chains, and Minghao sees the tubes in his back, pearly white essence rolling through them and into god knows what. We don’t have time.
Bile rises up Minghao’s throat. Jun’s not dead yet. He switches his ribbon back to a sword and slashes through the tubes and chains. Jun falls forward, and Minghao awkwardly catches him. He can hear footsteps coming closer and closer. Minghao tugs Jun into a tight hold and mutters an incantation, yanking him and Jun through the portal with the final reserves of his strength.
{Part 7}
Minghao counts the days. He has a few left before Jihoon’s spell breaks and he’ll have to return to the physical world.
Jun, in the past few years, had essentially been reduced to a power plant. He’d been unconscious for at least a week, and time is spent casting spells to try and empty the poison out of him and replace it with his usual spirit.
Minghao’s tied their strings back together. The knot doesn’t immediately smooth out, but it works; Minghao pours as much of his energy as he can through the bond. The gifts of the other spirits have long been depleted and he’s so broken he can’t even walk. He lies in the makeshift hospital wing on a cot next to Jun’s, curled into himself.
Minghao is covered with burns and cuts. He and Jun match. At this moment, neither of them are guardian spirits, gods. They’re just tired.
On the eighth day, Jun wakes, and they lock eyes. Jun’s expression is frozen and unreadable. His gaze travels down to their tied ribbons, then back up to Minghao’s face.
“Eight?” he whispers, his stare
“I’m here,” Minghao finally says, back. His voice cracks. “Jun.”
Jun’s crying, silvery tears falling down his cheeks. “Eight, it hurts so much,” he says, and Minghao’s heart twists inside his chest. Jun’s eyes slip shut again, and Minghao watches for a while, the rise and fall of his chest, until Minghao falls asleep himself.
---
Minghao’s the first one to leave the hospital wing.
When he walks through headquarters, the entire place is busy, everyone strengthening defenses between the two realms, especially the section of the boundary that they’d kept weak for Minghao’s sake. Minghao asks Seungcheol, “Do you need me to help?”
Seungcheol glares. “You’re on crutches.”
“Yeah, but I feel kind of useless not doing anything.”
“Eight, go back to your room.”
Minghao snaps his mouth shut, blearily contemplating the fact that Seungcheol just pulled a total dad card on him despite the fact he doesn’t even know what a meme is , and heads outside in an act of defiance. He doesn’t want to spend another second in the hospital room.
The river is like he remembered it. He takes off his shoes and lets his feet dangle in the stream, the water a dark blue. It feels cool against his skin. Dirt crumbles under his hands, sunlight streaming down from the treetops.
Minghao thinks that maybe things will be okay.
---
“Jun’s awake,” someone tells him, two days later. “Well, conscious. He wants you.”
The wording, in twenty-first century connotations, makes Minghao’s eyes twitch. “Thank you,” he says politely, and goes to find him.
When he nears the hospital wing, Minghao’s chest constricts in on itself. But he reminds himself that it’s stupid to be afraid of a person and walks in. Jun’s sitting with his back braced against a pillow. They look at each other for a moment, not saying anything. Finally, Minghao opens his mouth. “Hey.”
Jun’s mouth quirks up in a ghost of a smile. “Hi.”
Words get stuck in the back of Minghao’s throat, piling one on top of each other like a car wreck until the worst one comes out in front. “Are you… okay?”
“I could be better,” Jun says, wry. “But let’s not talk about that. I hate being sick.”
“Same,” Minghao says, trying not to stutter. “I don’t know why I even asked that. We’re clearly not in prime condition.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you’re always in prime condition,” Jun says, and a blush spreads across Minghao’s face too fast for his liking.
“I, uh,” he stammers.
Jun laughs, light and airy and a little sad. “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t flirt with you right off the bat,” he says. “So, tell me, what’d I miss in the last eighteen years?”
And there were so many things Minghao could tell him: about Soonyoung, about nyx, about memes, even — really, the options were limitless. But instead Jun’s words break a dam, set off a flood, and Minghao whispers, “Why aren’t you mad at me?”
Jun frowns, eyes creased with worry. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“I couldn’t get you sooner,” Minghao says, looking down at the ground. A crushing sense of guilt fills his chest. “And… I’m supposed to be the healing spirit. But so many people died. Because I was so weak…”
Jun’s look goes hard. “I’m going to need you to shut your mouth right now , Eight. Don’t you dare blame yourself. You think any of this is your fault?”
“But isn’t it?” Minghao retorts. “I— none of this— I failed.” He slumps down the wall, all the fight going out of his body. Jun slowly lifts himself off the bed and bends down, peels Minghao’s hands off his face.
“Hey, look at me,” Jun says. “It was a war, and both sides lost.”
Minghao doesn’t say anything, just gives a tiny nod of acknowledgement.
Jun sighs. “We’re so messed up right now… you know? We’re just… I don’t know how anything works anymore.”
And right then, they’re not soulmates, just strangers connected by a white ribbon of the past. So much time apart and strain have thrown the two of them out of sync, pulled their gears apart, and the break isn’t something that could just be ignored. Minghao realizes this quietly, the two of them shattered and exhausted, leaning against each other as though that might fix the way their bodies don’t fit together right anymore.
---
There’s two days left until Jihoon’s estimated deadline. Minghao goes to seek out Seungcheol, to ask him what the plan is. “I’m still technically of the physical world,” he tells Seungcheol. “So… do I… finish my lifetime there?”
The thing is, Minghao’s still got a few decades left as a guardian spirit, but he also can’t imagine not being back. He can’t imagine days without Soonyoung’s effervescence and teasing, without Jihoon’s perfectionistic ways. He can’t imagine never phoning his family despite their lacking presence to tell him he’s doing okay, never being Minghao again. But at the same time, he’s the healing spirit. He can’t just resign.
Seungcheol sighs. “We’ve… been discussing this… while you were out,” he says. “The usual term for the guardian spirit is half a millennium, but due to circumstance…”
“I’m getting fired?” Minghao asks.
“That makes it sound like you did something wrong,” Seungcheol says. “Anyway, a possible course of action is to switch you out a few decades early— Jeonghan’s already got his eye on a possible replacement. That way, you can go back to the physical world. If that’s okay with you?”
“Yes,” Minghao says. He’s not one for physical affection, but he could actually kiss Seungcheol right now, although that’s probably against the soulmate code. “That works perfectly. Thank you so much.”
“And I know you didn’t ask for this, but there’s also the matter concerning Jun,” Seungcheol says wryly. Minghao stiffens, shoulders hiking up with tension. “I talked to him. Since his time with the shadows caused irreversible damage, he’ll be giving up his title as spirit guardian also.”
“Oh,” Minghao says, softly.
“The two of you will be reincarnated at the same time,” Seungcheol finally says. “So you’ll be meeting not in this lifetime, but the next one. I’ll miss you, Eight. I hope to see you sometime in the future, too. Just look for the soccer dad, aight?”
“Okay,” Minghao says, and he’s not going to cry, he hasn’t cried since Soonyoung recovered, but his eyes still sting when Seungcheol hugs him and exits the room.
---
Minghao knows, even without the help of the ribbon, that Jun is by the river. Like in the past, Minghao takes a seat next to him with little fanfare, nothing but the quiet bubble and ripple of the stream. A stray breeze blows through Jun’s hair, ruffling purple strands.
“I take it you talked to Seungcheol?” Jun asks. Minghao nods, but Jun isn’t even looking at him to know his answer. “You know what’ll happen next, then.”
“I think I’ve got maybe twenty-four hours before I have to leave,” Minghao says, quiet. “I said goodbye to a couple of people and met my replacement.”
“Yeah? Is he up to par?”
Minghao hits him lightly on the shoulder. “I don’t have a habit of judging everyone I meet.” Jun eyes him with a knowing stare, and Minghao sighs. “Okay, fine. Maybe I do. But you know what’s wild? I’ve talked to him before. His name’s Jisoo and I met him while I came over here to the spirit world.”
Jun double-takes. “Really? Fate’s got a weird way of screwing with us all.”
“I mean, yeah, we’ve been on the receiving end of that way too many times,” Minghao says, and Jun snorts. Amen . “But I think he’s good for the position. Better than I am, anyway. He’s like. Actually nice to people and stuff.”
Jun says, presumably to deny it, “Eight—”
“No,” Minghao blurts out. “I’m not Eight anymore, since my powers have been passed on. My human name is Xu Minghao.”
Minghao hadn’t expected that to be his next words, and clearly neither did Jun. Both of them freeze. Names are a powerful thing, each with their own set connotation, the final ingredient to most enchantments. Telling Jun he isn’t Eight anymore is like telling Jun that Minghao isn’t the person he used to know, might not be his soulmate anymore.
Minghao hadn’t meant to say it, since he’s leaving so soon anyway. But Jun’s expression grows clear, if a little wistful, taking his words in stride.
“Minghao,” Jun says, rolling the syllables around his mouth. “I like it. It fits you, I guess.”
“Yeah?” Minghao asks, voice a thin whisper.
“Yeah,” Jun says with a tone of finality. “So tell me, Minghao— what are you like?”
And that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it. “Does it really matter, now?”
“I mean, subjectively, no,” Jun says slowly. “But come on, I wasn’t here for the past eighteen years. A recap would be nice.”
Minghao tucks his knees to his chest and swivels around so that he’s face to face with Jun on the bank of the river. “How much do you wanna know?”
Jun closes his eyes, hums. “As much as you’d be willing to share.”
So Minghao talks. He tells Jun about Soonyoung, his crazy best friend; and Jihoon, who deserved better than the world had given him so far. He tells him about love stories that aren’t his own and how he hopes he can dance in the next lifetime. Minghao talks until his syllables stutter over themselves, until maybe he and Jun can understand each other in even half the way they used to.
Jun’s eyes remain closed the entire time, but halfway through he upturns his hand. A casual invitation. Minghao thinks about how they’d fit their hands together before, their ribbon spooling around and over their fingers. He takes it.
“I wish I’d been there with you,” Jun says, near the end. “But I guess I’ll just have to meet you after time passes, yeah?”
“Keep the purple hair, it was my main identifier,” Minghao says, his voice coming out a little bit weaker than he’d have liked.
“What, is the red string not enough?” Jun asks teasingly. He points the index finger of his free hand at Minghao. “We were robbed, Xu Minghao, and I’ll be damned if we don’t get another chance.”
---
Returning to the physical world feels like falling through water. The sensation is serene, the calm sense of going home. When Minghao opens his eyes, his body is lying prone and flat on the ground, and Soonyoung’s doing homework a few feet away.
The first words Minghao says aren’t really words at all, more like a collection of incoherent syllables, because he’s been in the same position for the past two weeks and his back is cramping up something harsh.
Soonyoung shrieks, which in turn causes Minghao to shriek, which causes Soonyoung to shriek again before diving across the room to scoop Minghao’s stiff body into a hug. “You’re back,” Soonyoung half-sobs, “Jihoon said you weren’t dead but the verification is great, you sheer assholes , do you know how scary it is every time I get up to go get a glass of water and see you in a comatose state—”
Minghao awkwardly pets Soonyoung’s hair. He’s not one for physical contact, but he’s missed Soonyoung, and the reality of his warmth is welcome. “I’m back now.”
Soonyoung says, “You better fucking give me the full story, Minghao. The entire play by play. If you skimp out on me I’ll never let you copy off of my chemistry notes again.”
“Since when has it ever been me copying off of you, ” Minghao says dryly, and Soonyoung shoots him a withering look that’s blunted by how happy he is. “But I mean, if that’s what you want. The whole thing is kind of wild.”
“Hit me with it,” Soonyoung says. “Wait, I should probably call Jihoon first, though, the guy’s been more worried about you than he wants to let on. Be right back!” He dashes out of the room to look for his cell phone, socked feet skidding on wooden tiles.
Minghao stands up, muscles stretching themselves out. Despite his physical state, he feels oddly free. The tattered ribbon around his wrist loosens and flutters to the ground, dissolving into a brilliant explosion of light.
---
Back on campus, Soonyoung tells Minghao that like before, the three of them will be meeting at the coffee shop. The two of them get there first, except they order water instead of their usual drinks because, as Soonyoung put it, Jihoon’s going to be cross-interrogating the both of them, and they buy a brown paper bag of pastries with complete disregard to the cashier’s judgmental looks.
Jihoon arrives two minutes later with his cheeks pink from the cold and his coat falling off his shoulders. Usually he’s so composed, but right now his breaths are coming out in huffs and he’s nearly bent double over as he scans the shop, his bright eyes landing on Minghao and Soonyoung. When he gets to their table, he gives Minghao a hug just as hard as Soonyoung’s, except lasting only a second.
“Aww,” Soonyoung coos, and Jihoon glares daggers at him before turning around and muttering, I’m gonna go order.
Jihoon gets bitter black coffee and, true to Soonyoung’s predictions, gives Minghao an interview as thorough and meticulous and foolproof as a diamond, scribbling page after page of notes with his handwriting getting sloppier every line.
“So nyx is over, just like that,” Jihoon says, at the end, five hours later. Minghao’s drained the entire glass of water and the sky bleeds rose-gold at the horizons. “God, the reporters are going to have such a field day with this.”
Soonyoung says, enthusiastically, “Jihoon, please, think of all the tiny children. Who don’t have to live in hospitals anymore and can see their families.”
“Stop rubbing it in my face that you’re a good person,” Jihoon grumbles, although a smile threatens to split his face apart at the imagery Soonyoung’s conjured. “I’m too tired to be blasted with feelings.”
“Do you wanna go home, then?” Soonyoung asks, worried, and Jihoon shakes his head, flipping open his laptop.
“I’m good right here,” Jihoon says. “Although we should probably order something else so that ass of a barista doesn’t kick us out. Did you know that he called out my order as for the short one?”
“Kudos to him,” Soonyoung automatically responds, and Jihoon flips him off. Minghao rolls his eyes and goes to get them overpriced paninis. The next hour is spent with the three of them in companionable silence, the keys of Jihoon’s laptop rapidly clicking. Minghao opens his phone, and— there it is. All over the home page.
Nyx: the Miraculous Eradication?
Minghao skims a few of the articles— none of the findings are conclusive yet, since the entire medical community is scrambling to figure out what just happened. Minghao’s head hurts. His chest feels like it’s going to explode. His heart pounds, one, two—
Around nine at night, an hour before the coffee shop closes, Soonyoung says apologetically, “I’m gonna go now, Wonwoo texted me. I’ll see you two around?”
“See you,” Jihoon says, not looking up from his computer. Minghao waves. Soonyoung beams and heads out of the coffee shop, a gust of cold air blowing in from the momentary opening of the doors. Minghao shivers.
He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice Jihoon tapping his wrist; he’s closed up his laptop, finished with whatever he’s doing. “So, your ribbon’s gone now?” he asks.
Huh. “Yeah,” Minghao says.
“I guess we match, then,” Jihoon says, and Minghao’s eyes widen. He feels guilty, almost, because he’s never given thought to Jihoon’s string. Minghao was always too preoccupied with his own mystery, and Jihoon never liked talking about himself, anyway.
“So… you…” Minghao stutters, his usual control of language all but gone.
“I did have one, but they died before I could meet them,” Jihoon says. “I was eight or nine, maybe? My string just turned black and crumbled to dust. That was an interesting conversation with my parents.” He barks out a short, colorless laugh.
Minghao knows that Jihoon won’t appreciate anything even resembling pity, so instead Minghao says, “I hope you’ll meet them in your next life.”
“I hope so, too” Jihoon says, his voice soft. He glances over to the chair that Soonyoung had occupied minutes ago, something so quick that it might have been imagined. “I don’t really care, though. I’m used to wanting what I’ll never have.”
---
The rest of Minghao’s life passes with relatively little fanfare. He works as a doctor in one of the nearby hospitals, dances in his spare time, and makes the occasional YouTube video with Soonyoung on his obscure channel. He doesn’t think of Jun, although sometimes he’ll dream in purple.
Soonyoung becomes a doctor also. He and Wonwoo, with matching gold bands around their fingers, will visit Minghao as frequently possible, bearing semi-edible lasagnas and warm smiles.
Jihoon goes on to win award after award for his dissertations, a public figure well known but rarely seen. His visits to Minghao are sporadic and occasional, but Minghao always appreciates them when they do happen.
Minghao is the last of his friends to die. He prays that he’ll have the fortune of meeting Soonyoung in the next life, unburdened by such life-altering circumstances. He hopes that he’ll get to meet Wonwoo in such a carefree scenario also. And with every ounce of his spirit, he wishes for fate to be kinder to Jihoon in the next life, for the world to be something better than a maze without an exit sign, for it to be simple.
{Part 8}
Minghao isn’t nervous about college, he isn’t .
He keeps his face impassive as he stands in the hallway, even though he’s not sure if it’s even the right hallway. Hell, he might not even be at the right school , for how confident he is in himself right now. Badly distributed air conditioner blasts through the hall so that he’s freezing and sweaty all at the same time.
A boy taps him on the shoulder, with a bright if nervous smile. “Do you know what we’re supposed to be doing?” he asks. “I’m so lost.”
“I’ve got absolutely no idea,” Minghao says, and the boy’s face melts into something akin to relief that someone else is just as out of their element.
“I hate being a confused freshman,” the other guy says, and Minghao laughs and nods, amen to that. “Want to attempt to find the registration office with me?”
“Yeah, sure,” Minghao says, a little apprehensive about whether the walk will be awkward, but this boy seems okay so far. “I’m Minghao, by the way. You?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I never remember to introduce myself! Lee Seokmin.” At this, Minghao gets a strange feeling in his stomach, a fleeting memory that slips away almost as soon as it comes, but Minghao shakes his head and begins walking with Seokmin in what is hopefully the right direction, not that either of them know.
---
Minghao’s freshmen year, after the first week, loses its novelty, falling into a rhythm of coffee, statistics homework, and dance practice.
He and Seokmin become friends. Seokmin is a psychology major with a love for singing— he and Minghao have that in common, loving something that they won’t become famous for but do anyway.
Kim Mingyu is Minghao’s roommate; he majors in business and minors in culinary arts, hoping to open his own restaurant one day. Mingyu likes to complain that Minghao only associates with him for the food, to which Minghao replies “I mean, you said it, not me.”
Minghao’s grateful for the two of them, though. While he’s got a fairly wide circle of people he can talk to on a daily basis, Seokmin and Mingyu are the only ones who he can unequivocally call his friends.
---
Summer blows in warm and windy, fluffy white clouds drifting along a lazy blue sky. Minghao likes the evening best, the heat turning into something forgiving, a yellow moon surrounded by hidden light-polluted stars.
It’s seven o’clock when Seokmin starts aggressively messaging the two of them. By this, it means that Minghao’s jeans probably earn an extra hole by the sheer force of the vibrations, and in the span of time it takes him to fish out his phone his inbox already reads 17. Minghao fights through the flood of messages to find the source of the spamming in the first place.
Dk: holy shit guys i think i just met my soulmate
Gyu: how do u THINK u met ur soulmate you either did or didn’t
Dk: …
Gyu: sorry sorry please continue
Dk: you know the songwriter that asked me to record his song a while back? i think i showed you a pic at some point? yeah he’s my soulmate!!
Gyu: wait omg the short red guy? damn seok!!!
Dk: !!!!! afgjalda!!!
Me: of course i arrive in time for the keysmashing
Me: & congrats seokmin
Gyu: lol u can feel his emotional constipation through his texts
Gyu: anyway we should celebrate, wanna head to Jam Jam?
Me: neither of u have any tolerance and i hate alcohol why are we doing this
Dk: it’s the principle of it hao
Me: okay yeah good point i’ll come
Me: i might leave early though if that’s okay?
Dk: np np
Gyu: who knows minghao maybe you’ll meet your soulmate
Me: as a statistician i can guarantee that’s not going to happen gyu but nice try.
---
Minghao changes into a slightly tighter pair of jeans and heads out. Jam Jam is located a few streets down, a small building with a bar on one side and a dance floor on the other, and even though Minghao doesn’t like drinking he does take take a few sips. Seokmin shows Minghao a couple pictures of his soulmate, Jihoon, and Minghao is so happy for him. For both of them, even though he doesn’t even know this Jihoon guy.
After a while, though, the bar proves too crowded and hot and Minghao heads out into the cool night air. He doesn’t want to head home just yet, so he takes his time walking around, idly playing with the red string looped around his wrist. He’s gotten two blocks over when the string pulls.
Minghao’s heart pounds. Gyu, it’s not going to happen. Mingyu will gloat so much over this, tease Minghao about how maybe he should switch majors because he clearly doesn’t know anything about chance.
But right now that doesn’t matter. Minghao follows the source of the tug, half-sprinting toward the other side of the road. It’s seventeen seconds or twenty centuries when Minghao can’t see a thing, just an endless stretch of red, until his eyes catch sight of a pale wrist, a head of platinum blonde hair that glints in the moonlight.
The other man stills, staring at his wrist in wonder, until his gaze travels up and he and Minghao lock eyes.
“You’re my soulmate,” the other man breathes. “My ai.”
Minghao’s mouth is so dry. He tries to casually lick his lips, and his soulmate’s gaze travels down toward the action.
Somewhere back in time, two gods sat next to a river in the spirit world, falling in love under the sky; somewhere in the future, two boys would meet across the galaxy, transmissions sent across the dark black fabric of space. Eight and Jun, across dimensions and realities and lifetimes, over and over.
At this precise second of time, though, they’re Wen Junhui and Xu Minghao, and their own story has just begun.
End.