#and it just left me in the weirdest most off-kilter mood

[cetaceans-pls]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth Additional Tags: Momentary Vampirism, Discussion of Blood bags, Family Bonding

The one where Bruce gets turned into a vampire, and Alfred has to call in the cavalry to deal with him.

Or, Dick comes through on a Friday night to help wrangle a reluctant bloodsucker.

Bro I just kind of went off on the concept of short-term vampirism and silverware, so here’s some Alfred-Dick-Bruce bonding over Bloody Marys and the different sorts of magic. Please enjoy this pick-me-up I wrote in one weird, frizzy sitting!

On tumblr below the cut:

“I came as soon as I could!” Dick says, rounding a corner so quickly he skids on the marble floor. The text had come through almost an hour ago, but he had been on the tail end of a Zoom interview (quitting policing this pandemic has been both terrifically easy and terribly hard) so between putting on pants and getting through Friday-night traffic, this is how things lie. “How is he?”

“‘He’ is fine, Dick, thank you for concern,” Bruce says tetchily from where he’s sat in the centre of the Yellow Room, surrounded six foot deep by Wayne Manor silverware haloing out around him. The UV lights they use at crime scenes are blaring harsh violet lines around the perimeter, and further out by the edges of the room, 6 of their portable sun lamps are turned off but trained right on him.

“This is all pointless,” Bruce carries on, sweeping his arm ‘round wide in a grand gesture, hissing when a brush against a silver-plated serving trolley has his hand sizzling. “Alfred really shouldn’t have called you.”

Dick ignores him completely to turn to Alfred, who has 3 sets of rosary beads hanging around his neck and irritation hanging from his eyes. “Uhm. I didn’t read further down the text than ‘B was attacked, please come over when you can’. I’m guessing I missed something?”

“You would be guessing right, Master Richard.” Alfred whips off a rosary and hangs it around Dick’s neck, and plops three teaspoons into a blazer pocket. “We aren’t sure quite who is to blame for this latest conundrum, but Batman was struck down by something while making rounds by the Cathedral. Master Bruce appears to have become a, a…” Alfred makes a disgusted noise, “a vampire of some sort, and had insisted I lock him up in a cell till a magic-user from the League could come by and take a look.”

Dick’s ashamed to admit that on hearing the word ‘vampire’ his fist had curled tightly around a teaspoon. After all, the bluntest edge can still manifest as a shiv, if you shove it in hard enough. He’s further shamed that Bruce clearly catches his micro-movement, and he just downright  hates the pleased look B has at knowing that Dick is open to bodily violence against him.

Part of the commute time to get back to the Manor almost always involves him psyching himself up to deal with Bruce, and today it looks like it’s going to pay off.

“Okay, got it.” Dick deeply doesn’t, but bluffing can be as important as actually understanding, so. “Why’s he being kept here instead?”

“No master of the Manor,” Alfred says the way a lesser man would say ‘No son of mine’,”will be tossed into some cell while in full possession of himself, thank you very much.”

“I was going to start an automated protocol to have myself manacled and emergency-signal Superman to come by and potentially put me down,” Bruce interrupts from the near distance, “but I was lured here and now I’m trapped.”

Dick catches himself halfway through a laugh; he can’t help it. If Bruce really, really wanted to, escaping this room with its myriad hazards and shining lights would be possible, especially if the situation was so urgent that he was willing to risk serious injury for it.

If Bruce really,  really  thought he was a danger, thought deep in his messy little heart that he really, really could hurt or injure Alfred while it was just the two of them here waiting for reinforcements, Dick knows he would have grabbed the silver steak knife closest by and, ah, taken matters into his own hands.

It’s as ingrained a response as Dick instinctively putting himself between Bruce and Alfred even while his brain was still catching up to sudden vampirism, shiv-spoon (shvoon?) at the ready.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, untenses muscles that had been ready for something awful since the text had come through. “You’re finally more bat than man, B, so don’t bother pretending to be upset.” Dick spies a tray laden with soup and bread on a little coffee table and heads over, giving up guarding Alfred because their much scarier guard dog has just sprouted fangs. “Oh, man, tomato soup and garlic bread? Alfred, you think of everything.”

“I do try,” Alfred primly says, clearly satisfied that Dick is on his side. “And if you could see your way clear to getting Master Bruce to also partake?”

“I said no, Alfred!” Bruce’s voice cracks like sudden thunder across the room, and it would have been mighty terrifying with its slight unearthly timber if the UV lights bouncing off forks didn’t make the room look a lot like a rave. Even with his eyes starting to turn red, even with the harsh edges of his shape blurring into mist, Bruce can’t quite manage to intimidate.

Everyone in the room knows that it’s just for show, now, so even paranormal powers manifesting doesn’t slow down Dick’s enjoyment of soup. “C’mon, Bruce. It’s just like a blood transfusion, except you take it through the mouth. We all routinely take worse things through the mouth.” Just last week Dick had crunched on something while eating a bowl of soggy cereal he’d accidentally left out overnight, and the certainty that it was some sort of super-armoured cockroach haunts him till this day. “Is it a supply and demand thing? You can have some of my blood bags, Alfred can take some out of me while I’m here.”

“What an excellent suggestion, Master Richard. My blood has unfortunately been turned down because Master Bruce has some spectacularly backwards thoughts regarding older folk, but surely there’ll be no complaint for yours.”

“There are plenty of complaints!” Bruce roars, now up on his feet and pacing in the little circle at the centre of all the silver. “I  will not eat anyone’s blood, I will stay in this space and meditate until Zatanna shows up and cures me. There is a magic user zapping vampirism into people in Gotham, and  none of this  will be solved by you sticking an arm under my teeth!”

His fangs are all the way out now, down almost to his chin, drawing scratches on stubbly skin. Under the native environment of the Bat, out in the night perched somewhere high, he’d be a terror.

Under the warm loving light of the Yellow Room, under the warm loving gaze of people who know him best, he’s more ‘angry hissing kitten’ than anything else.

Dick slurps the rest of the soup, and mops up the rest with the crusty bit of his garlic toast. “So, if it was me that got turned into a vampire, you’re telling me you…  wouldn’t  IV pump me full of blood fresh out your veins? If you lie to me I  will  throw a teaspoon at your head.”

There’s nothing but a mutinous quiet from Bruce, who’s huffing and misting and snarling and floating a good three inches off the ground. Good, at least he’s not feeling so pressed to the edge that he needed to lie.

“… I’ll take my own blood.”

Alfred sniffs, and it’s a dignified sound that somehow echoes in this fairly large room. “After your little altercation with Dr. Ivy last week, sir, your own supply is running unfortunately low. Two bags left, and I intend to keep them in case coming out of vampirism treats you poorly. No, sir, you’ll have a mug of Master Richard’s blood or so help me God I will tranquilise you and feed it to you myself.”

Alfred catches himself mid-rampage, and huffs a little while neatening the cuff of his shirt. “Those are your choices, sir. Pick one.”

Reading the room, it’s easy to tell that the hour it took Dick to get here from Bludhaven has likely been filled with that sort of tersely-worded bitching that Alfred and Bruce have down to the finest art. “A couple of pints of blood, Type D, coming right up. Bruce, I’d recommend just giving up right now. If Alfred works down the line, Jason’s coming in next, and that’s gonna end with a fist to the mouth.” Dick brushes crumbs off his hands, and jumps out of the crouch he’d been in on the arm of the sofa to head towards Alfred. “No one’s getting out of that without a broken finger or fang or both, so just take mine, okay? For us.”

Bruce doesn’t deign to actually say  yes  or  fine , just seems to fade into shadows he’s manifesting himself, but it reads like a grumpy acceptance of defeat.

 Good enough , thinks Dick. “Give us a sec, we’ll be right back. If you’re extra good, I’ll even make a Bloody Mary out of mine!”

Batarangs aren’t made of silver, but they sure do make a flashy  thunk  when they bite into a doorjamb a clean 10 feet away from the nearest person.

Alfred huffs a quiet laugh but Dick is much louder and substantially more insulting as they make their way down to the Cave.

-

The blood fridge is a thing of stainless steel tucked in a corner of the medbay, and it’s covered in magnets. The Wayne brood travel a lot, but Bats and Birds travel even more. It’s become a weird habit that got adopted like kids get adopted ‘round here; Dick looks at a cracked dinosaur magnet he’d bought at the Bludhaven Natural History Museum his first night out as Nightwing, and nostalgia hits harder than teeth in the neck. “We’re gonna need a bigger one of these soon, Alfred. We’re almost out of free real estate.”

“We shall persevere nonetheless, sir.” Alfred opens the fridge, and goes along the top row till he gets to the little placard with Dick’s face on it. The filing system remains sweetly, sweetly old-school, even if everyone knows where theirs is stored by feel alone, and each bag is barcoded with enough details to alarm even the most dedicated phlebotomist.

Looking over the racks, Dick whistles. “Bruce isn’t the only one who’s had a rough time recently, huh? Tim didn’t mention that the last Titans’ fight got him two bags down.”

For that, he gets his ear flicked. “Don’t snoop, Master Richard, it’s unbecoming.” Alfred takes a bag off Dick’s shelf and pops it into a cooler bag. He closes the door, and heads to the kitchenette in the Cave where he scrounges up a little metal straw. “Thank you for coming by so quickly. I was at my wits’ end trying to convince him to have just the littlest nibble. He tried to keep himself locked in the Batmobile when he came back via autopilot.” Alfred rinses the straw with more aggression than necessary. “I tugged on the handle, and the door was locked. A door, locked to me! In my own home!” He sounds as incensed as Alfred ever does, but he also goes to grab some tomato juice and a couple of sticks of celery, just in case.

“You wore him down for me, Alfred, I had it easy.” Dick quietly grabs another couple of bags of his blood, because deep deep down Bruce isn’t the only one hesitant about feeding on family, looks like. “Surprised you’d turn to me for this, though. Seems like more of a Tim thing, have him over with a 50-slide presentation on why vampirism’s really not that different to CPR, or something.” He swoops by Alfred’s side and picks up the cooler bag and the bucket of ice, because there are a lot of stairs from the Cave back up to Yellow, and kind men deserve kind things done on behalf of their creaking knees, thanks very much.

“You certainly have a point, Master Tim can be alarmingly persuasive with his statistics and, ah, unblinking stare.” Alfred doesn’t acknowledge Dick helping him with his things, just looks a little glad to have a hand free to hold on to the handrail, which is acknowledgement enough. “However, I have to admit that when I am at my wits’ end with Master Bruce, I always want to turn to you, Master Dick.” He pauses at the top of the stairs, turns and smiles his neat little smile at Dick who is finding balance harder to maintain than usual. “You have kept me company in my never-ending fight to care for Master Bruce longer than anyone else, after all.”

(Longer, longer, longer even than Bruce’s parents, God love them both.)

Alfred reaches out, pats Dick’s hand and nimbly reacquires his wares. “Do not under any circumstance tell the others, of course, but an old man is allowed his favourite ally.”

Dick is a whole-ass adult who’s lived through more things than people 15 times his age, he’s dressed in a smart suit and tie after an interview for a position as a flight paramedic, and he’s helped ward off the apocalypse at least on three separate occasions.

He knows enough about enough to know that their vampire-magician is deeply, deeply outclassed by Alfred’s mastery over spacetime, because right now Dick knows that if he looks down at himself, he’ll be 9 years old again, wearing oversized pyjamas as he tries not to cry because it’s his birthday and Alfred had made him a stack of pancakes the size of his head, while Bruce skulks by the door holding five separate tubs of ice cream, looking uncomfortable and uncertain and bound and determined to be a responsible parent

(like he’s bound and determined to be a responsible vampire).

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dick murmurs under his breath, rubbing his cheek to break the spell.

“Language,” Alfred’s voice floats back towards him, as they make their way back to the Yellow Room.

-

There’s a bit of a scuffle, trying to get Bruce to actually drink the blood. When Dick had casually tossed a bag at Bruce, it had been batted right back at him like the world’s weirdest opening to a game of ping-pong. Another fight almost broke out then, because at least a third of all of Gotham’s collective stubbornness was sat in the room at that point, but Dick managed to force through a resolution by making a Bloody bloody Mary for Bruce, and regular Bloody Marys for himself and Alfred.

They sit where they want, Bruce in his circle, Dick perched on a windowsill, and Alfred on the sofa, and they sip at their meticulously non-identical drinks. They’re on their third round of Bloody Marys and sweet idle conversation when the message comes through that Zatanna’s on her way, and the tension in the room drains as smoothly as they do their drinks.

“Ah, what perfect timing,” Alfred says like he hasn’t worked his way through an alarming amount of vodka. “Just in time for a really early breakfast.”

It’s 3 AM, and hopefully after unraveling vampirism Z will be interested in some god-tier chicken and waffles. Dick’s stomach is already rumbling, and he’s in an unspeakably good mood. It’s a trinity of trinities, three generations of Wayne and Wayne-adjacents, three Bloody Marys each, it’s three o'clock in the morning.

There’s a father, a son, and Alfred counts as their Holiest Ghost, probably. Funny that Bruce has to become unholy to make Dick feel gently religious, though that might be the vodka and dreams of fried chicken futures. “How’re you feeling, Bruce?”

Flushed with blood, Bruce looks healthier and heartier than he does on average, which is a fight to tackle a different night. “… Better,” he admits, digging a fang into a celery stick with an expression of deep concentration. “I could fly if I tried, I think.”

Dick whoops, and nearly drops his glass. “It’s that vitamin D, bay-bee.”

It even earns a chuckle from Alfred, and Dick can feel god in this Yellow Room tonight. “I think,” Dick says with utmost seriousness, “that being a vampire is a good look for you, B. Feels good to get you something, even if it’s just a drink.”

Feels good to be able to provide for you instead of the other way ‘round, is something a more sober Dick would think.

From his corner, Alfred raises his glass in a steady-handed toast. “Just a drink is plenty when just a drink is all you need. So here’s a toast to you, Master Dick. Thank you for coming to our rescue.”

In the middle of a sea of silverware, Bruce raises his glass too, and oh, now Dick’s the one gone red in the face.

“Any time,” he says, and he’s glad to know he means it. “Honestly, this makes me feel like B should get turned into a vampire more often.” There’s a lot of magic in the Manor tonight, and only the tiniest fraction of it has to do with their rogue magician. Dick can’t remember when he last spent this much time with just Alfred and Bruce, and it feels like a loose anchor digging in juuust right.

The world’s in turmoil and his personal life has seen better days, but there’s a tether that comes off from the Manor and these two men. Sometimes, it’s a noose.

More often than not, it’s a lifeline, and what a fine feeling it is to know that that goes both ways.

Dick doesn’t know what’s showing on his face, though by how Bruce is now sat up and intensely staring at him, he’s probably revealing way, way too sopping much.

Bruce clears his throat, and his flush deepens into a rosy, rosy red. “Well. As being a part-time vampire does have its advantages, it’s. Hmm. I will discuss it with Zatanna, and see what I can do.”

And geeze, time-travel magic must be inherited too because Dick’s been forced back to his 9th birthday again, to Bruce Wayne-the-literal-Batman hovering uncertainly while holding way too much ice cream as he tries to accommodate Dick in that stupid, awkward, and hideously embarrassing way only he knows how.

“I’ll toast to that,” Dick says, ignoring the terrible scratch and crack in his voice, and he and Bruce both only nearly lose it when Alfred raises his glass again, and

quietly, quietly

murmurs, “Here’s a toast to my family”.

#batfam #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #family bonding #whale writing #bro i watched a weird japanese tv show last week #and it just left me in the weirdest most off-kilter mood #there literally way no direction for this story #i just like the thought of alfred having different niche categories #he can assign favourites too #and also vampire bruce who can turn to mist but doesn't #bc he was raised right #anyways here's wonderwall

[cutiesaeran]

The Star in the SKY - Chapter 8

A Yoosung x Saeran College AU (You can read this on AO3 here)

CH 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 |Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7

Another week passes before I decide to attempt the interview again and this time, I call Seven before showing up. After confirmation that he is home and still willing to participate, I pack my stuff up and head to the bus stop.

Hopefully today will go well enough between all three of us. Depending on the atmosphere between the twins, I’m prepared to be either professional and distant or my normal self. I don’t know that I’ll be very good at the former, but if it’s necessary, then I will do it. I need to get this interview done and if I must walk on pins and needles for it to happen, then I will. I can try to solve the mystery of their behavior after, when I can focus without always having my paper nagging at me in the back of my mind.

The past week has been… interesting, to say the least. Ever since Seven essentially kicked me out, he’s been having the weirdest mood swings. Some days he texts me non-stop, acting like his old self for the most part while other days I won’t hear a thing from him. The car rides have become immensely awkward because of this; he’ll either be teasing me and playfully talking - although with an almost desperate edge to it now, like something has changed but I don’t know what - or he’s sullen and silent. Those days I take the bus home after class.

Saeran hasn’t been avoiding me, per se, but neither does he come up and talk to me...not that he was doing that before. If I make contact he’ll respond, but that’s about it. I can’t help but feel a bit of whiplash between the both of them, like I’m constantly being thrown off-kilter no matter what I do. It seemed like I made such amazing progress with Saeran, but then after Seven interrupted us… now I don’t know where I stand with him.

On Monday Saeran did stop by my desk to give me the sketchbook I’d left at his place; I’d assumed I was borrowing it, but apparently he had every intention of giving it to me. “You have potential,” he’d said as he handed it off to me before heading back to his seat. When I flipped it open, I was shocked to see that he had drawn me standing next to Rika, colored in and everything. I looked… happy. He made me happy in the picture. That struck a chord in my heart, for some reason.

I want to be closer to him. But will I have to sacrifice my relationship with Seven for that?

That’s the question left on my mind as I take the elevator up to their floor, nervously tapping my foot on the ground. Admittedly today may not be the best day on my end for this, since all I can think about is the conflict between the twins and how it affects me. Selfish, I know, I should be more concerned for their relationship but I don’t want to lose my best friend or my new friend. I don’t know why I can’t have both…

The elevator dings and I shift my bag on my shoulder nervously, stepping out and rushing down the hallway to their door. With a resigned sigh, I lift a hand to knock on the wood, eyes closed and ready to be annoyed. When I reach out, I find nothing but air.

What?

Opening my eyes, I flinch immediately upon seeing a hand just inches away from me waving back and forth eagerly. Peering around it I find Seven standing there with the door open, a cheeky grin on his face. His facial expression looks too jovial to be real and there are dark circles under his eyes. Normally playful golden eyes seem empty and almost dead, and his skin is definitely paler than the last time I saw him. Did he not sleep well? Did he get called into work and do another all-nighter, or does this have something to do with… me?

God, I hope it’s not me.

The hand starts waving in an erratic pattern. “Earth to Yoosung. Are you there?” I blink at him and give a small nod; yeah, something’s definitely up. He’s not using his normal obnoxious nicknames. This isn’t foreboding, I try to convince myself as I follow him inside the apartment, shutting the door carefully behind me. He’s just tired. That’s all it is.

Saeran’s already sitting at the table, bent over and scratching away at a sketchpad fervently. Slightly mussed red hair is falling forward to partly cover his eyes, but the look of concentration upon his face is still unmistakable. I notice that his tongue is just barely visible between his lips again; it must be something he just does when he’s completely absorbed in whatever he’s doing. It’s cute. The sweater he’s wearing is tan and drapes off one shoulder; maybe it’s too big for him? Regardless, it looks like it was made to rest on him that way.

I jump when the sound of fingers snapping bursts in my ear and turn to see Seven watching me with an indiscernible look. “Lost you for a moment,” he says quietly, a hint of sadness in his voice. Before I can even question why, he motions me over to the empty chair on the opposite side of the table from Saeran, taking a seat next to his brother. I sit and dig through my backpack, pulling out my binder and a gray voice recorder and setting them on the table.

“No.”

I glance up quickly from where I am flipping through my notebook to try to find the questions to see Seven staring directly at the recorder. “No…?” I question, glancing over at it. It’s just a tool to catch what they say in case I don’t write it down fast enough or I want to go back to make sure I don’t misinterpret something. From what I gather, it’s pretty common to use during proper interviews, so I’d purchased one and brought it with.

“You can’t record this.” Shaking his head, Seven uses a tone that brooks no room for argument.

I argue anyway.

“Why not?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. “It’s not like I’m going to do anything with it other than listen to it again to make sure I didn’t miss anything. I’m not going to, like, give it to the news or anything.” The very prospect of that makes me snort. “Like the news would be interested in you anyway.”

Saeran actually looks up from his sketching and exchanges a glance with his brother before both pairs of eyes land on me. They way they’re looking at me makes me feel weirdly uncomfortable, and I shift in my chair slightly as I look from one to the other. “I think I agree on this, Yoosung,” he says softly, setting his pencil down carefully. “It would be better not to record this.”

That’s confusing, but whatever. I huff and grab it, shoving it back in my bag before holding my hands up and raising my eyebrows. This is not starting out at all like I planned.

Clearing his throat, Seven leaned forward, folding his hands on the table and looking at me intently. “Look, I know we agreed to this, but I need to lay down a few ground rules before we proceed. Okay?” He gives me a pointed look, waiting for my answer. It’s not like I have much of a choice, so I give him a curt nod. Letting out a sigh, he continues, “first, you can’t ask about our childhood before V. No, Yoosung,” he added on sternly when I opened my mouth to protest, “this is not up for debate. I doubt it would do much to help your paper anyway.”

My back slams against the chair when I throw myself back in frustration. That is actually a major part of it; how one is treated in early childhood is crucial to how well-adjusted they become later in life. Folding my arms over my chest, I stare at him, assuming there’s more to come.

“Second, you can’t ask any detailed questions about Saeran’s time in the gang. It’s still…” Seven pauses, eyes squinted up at the ceiling as he searches for the right term. Saeran beats him to it.

“My time there was very harmful and certain things about it can trigger an anxiety attack or worse,” he says flatly, tilting his head to the side, green eyes piercing through me. The way he says it in combination with the intensity of his look almost make me feel like there’s more that he’s trying to say to me. Maybe… maybe it’s in relation to our friendship?

“I wasn’t planning on asking about anything like that.” I am mostly interested in what led Saeran to join the gang, not his experiences in it. No, wait. I mean, I am interested in that, I’m interested in everything about him, but… it’s not relevant to my paper. “Most of my questions are about childhood experiences and then generic ones about what you guys think is different between you, and maybe some elaboration as to why you think that is.”

It’s quiet for a moment and then Seven sighs again, fingers pushing his glasses up fractionally as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, we won’t answer anything from before age thirteen, so. If your questions can apply to that, then let’s get this over with.”

“Thirteen,” I say bitterly, letting out one small laugh. “That’s… that’s useless to me. I need to know about your experiences before, when you were little. Things that maybe happened to one of you but not the other. Things that shaped who you are because of that.” Seven flinches visibly, casting a guilty glance at Saeran. Saeran is still watching me, a considering look on his face. Of the two of them, I think I have a better chance of getting through to him. “Please, Saeran,” I plead, turning my focus on him. “You’re in class with me, you know how important this paper is. What can be so… so terrible about your childhood that it has to be kept a secret from me?” He blinks at me slowly, his mouth twitching just the slightest at the question.

I jump when Seven suddenly stands, slamming his palms down on the table. “The. Answer. Is. No,” he growls, biting off the end of every word. “If you are going to keep pushing, then I’m going to need you to leave.”

“Wow, twice in two weeks. What a great best friend you are,” I say sarcastically, grabbing my stuff and aggressively cramming it into my bag. “First time you do it because I’m here, hanging out with your brother instead of you on a day you forgot to tell me not to come by. Were you jealous? Was that the problem?” The flash of pain in his eyes tells me I hit the nail dead on. I keep pushing. “Jealous that Saeran got to spend the day with me and you didn’t? Afraid that he’s going to replace you?” Okay, I’m getting mean and I know it. I should… probably reign this in. “Now you tell me that you’ll let me interview you but won’t actually let me do it. You know what, don’t worry about kicking me out. I’ll show myself out the door.” I heft my bag onto my shoulder and stand, carelessly shoving the chair back under the table. I make it about halfway to the door before Saeran speaks quietly.

“Why don’t we just tell him?” I freeze, daring to look back at them. Saeran’s staring down at his hands in his lap, picking at the cuticles anxiously while Seven’s eyes are wide in disbelief. “It’s been ten years, I think we can trust him not to go running off to sell us out to him.” My eyebrows furrow; sell them out?

“That’s not the issue and you know it,” Seven says a bit too roughly. My heart clenches when I see Saeran cringe at his brother’s tone, shrinking into himself a little. “That hasn’t been why I’ve kept him in the dark for a long time now. It’s not because I don’t trust him.” Suddenly he pivots to face me, all anger drained from his face and replaced with a weariness I’ve never seen in him. “That’s not the reason, Yoosung, I swear.” His voice cracks on my name and before I can process what’s happening, he’s closed the distance between us and pulled me into his arms. If I wasn’t confused before, I certainly am now.

I feel Seven bury his face into my neck and I slowly raise my arms to hug him, giving Saeran a baffled look that he just averts his eyes from. Wait a minute, I’ve seen that look before; that resignation, where all of the light is gone from him and he wilts - but where?

“I know I’ve kept so much from you,” comes the thick and shaky voice by my ear and I startle; is he crying? “But it’s not because I don’t trust you. Please know that I do. I haven’t told you because if I do, I can’t guarantee you’ll be safe, and I need you to be safe. Do you understand?” I drop my arms as Seven pulls back to look at me, placing both of his hands on my cheeks. There are unshed tears glistening in his eyes as he continues to speak, “I don’t think I could go on if anything happened to you.”

Suddenly there are lips on mine, pressing against my mouth softly as Seven cradles my cheeks gently, pulling me in closer. The kiss doesn’t last long; he withdraws after a few seconds. He doesn’t go far, just enough to search my face for my reaction.

My reaction.

What is my reaction?

I stare into his eyes, golden and so warm, warmer than anything I’ve ever seen before, but I don’t feel… I don’t feel what I think I should feel in a moment like this. My heart isn’t fluttering, my stomach isn’t filled with butterflies, there isn’t a rush of excitement running through my veins, like when… when… Oh.

I jerk out of Seven’s grasp suddenly, backing up quickly toward the door. “I… I gotta go. I… I’m sorry, I just… I… gotta go.” As soon as I feel my hand hit the doorknob, I turn it and flee, unable to look at Seven’s crestfallen face any longer. I don’t hear the door slam behind me - which means I probably didn’t shut it completely - but I don’t stop as I bypass the elevator to run down the stairs.

Shit. Shit. Shit. This is the only thing repeating through my mind as my feet hit the concrete sidewalk outside. How… how did I not notice? How did I not notice that Seven had fallen for me? That he no longer thought of me just as a friend? The signs were all there, neon-green and pointing in big arrows at the obviousness of it. Worse is that I played into it naively , letting him cuddle me and hold my hand, all things I knew friends didn’t usually do.

I need to think. I need some space, some fresh air. There’s a park nearby with a small stream running through it, a place I’ve gone in the past to watch the water as it flows steadily on, through the rocks and under the bridge. It always gives me a sense of peace. I need that right now.

My footsteps sound loud as I run and I feel tears running down my cheeks, but I don’t stop. I’m sure I must look a mess to anyone who sees me but I can’t bring myself to care. Right now there are two things taking up all of my thoughts, churning and twisting throughout my mind in an all-consuming manner.

One, that my best friend is in love with me, and that I don’t feel the same.

Two, that I have developed feelings for Saeran… his twin.

Shit.

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