(no subject)

[butterflyweb]

Title: Kismet
Authors:
butterflyweb   and
nemesis_cry  
Genre: AU, Masked Fencer
Rating: NC-17 in parts
Pairing: YunChun, mentions of JaeMin and Junsu/OFC
Summary: Understanding your past can only make you stronger. Death is not always an ending.
AN: Kismet is another word for fate.

The sword is sharp under his hands. It pricks the skin easily if he's not careful, methodical swipes of the cloth to its fine metal. Up first, then down, and then up again. Once, twice, a million times and still he's not satisfied to put it away. It's a treasured heirloom, an object to be displayed in honor of ancestors long gone. An object to be feared. He loves the way silver glimmers of light catch on its edge at dawn, as if mirroring the sun's rays back into the heavens. He loves the way the handle feels under his fingertips when he sets it aside at sundown and moves out of other household chores.

Away from the deadly weapon, the closest he gets to the same quiet elation is stretched out on a mat of straw, pretending not to hear his master's footsteps shuffling into the room.

"Are you awake?"

He never lies, not to him. "Yes, sir." A single graceful movement and the pull of muscles has him sitting, a mess of hair in front of his eyes. Ready and attentive to what his master should need.

Beyond that, there's no need for words. Hands tug at rough cloth draped over bony shoulders, freeing thin threads from their knots and he's as meticulous about it as he is with the sword. Just as attentive when their lips meet and any pretense that this couldn't very well end in their deaths is discarded.

The stretch of the dirt floor is hard under his back, soil frozen by winter's ravages, but the hands on his stomach are warm, sliding along his ribs and over the muscles of his chest and shoulders. Hands that are more suited for a brush and ink than a swordsman's callouses, even if the other man has always been a contradiction.

He never objects to this, though propriety dictates he should, though his stomach clenches with guilt and want all at the same time and he tells himself he's only obeying out of duty.

When his master pulls back and stares into his eyes with his own dark gaze, the excuse seems to lose all purpose. "Lie down," he's told, too softly for it to be a command, too entrenched in experience and proper roles to be anything but.

The straw pokes through the thin blanket, scratching his bare flesh, prodding his belly as he turns to lie on it. Fingertips trace over the knots in his spine, his body an imperfect product of hardship and determination. His master's hands leave his body without cover, a warm weight settling over his back, familiar after the first time and the second.

It still startles a gasp out of him when fingers breach him, oiled but unyielding, driving him open against all resistance. He tries to relax, breathing against the floor and closes his eyes in expectation. The sound of cloth rustling is sign enough to prepare himself.

He wonders if those run through with a blade feel the same sense of pain and pleasure, if there's a moment in the heat between life and death that equals this. He holds onto the lessons he was taught, his master's words a mimicry of tutors and wiser men, letting his breathing hold him at a center as his lord sinks deep into his body. It doesn't get much easier, even through the repetition of many nights past. He thinks it's how it should be. A reminder of who they are and what this is.

He's liable to forget, sometimes, through the press of fingers against his hip, the tug of teeth against his ear. He's liable to confuse it with something it's not. It can't be. And so the pain is welcome, fueled by and fueling his guilt, weak against the satisfaction that blooms in his chest when his master's breath catches and he dips his head to press a kiss into his hair.

"You feel..." He doesn't finish, surprised every time no matter how often they do it, overwhelmed and happy as if he's a child once more.

Still, he kisses like a man and he performs a man's role and he's beyond a servant's judgment. It doesn't matter that they were once friends, that they are now lovers. He lets out a shaky breath, pillowing his head on his arms, eyes closed tight as the man rocks into him, as his legs are spread wider and held by strong hands. He doesn't let himself think about the noises that come from his lips, the change of pain into white, shocking pleasure, as if the sparks behind the clouds have found their way into his veins.

His master's breath is warm and heavy against his ear, dark locks tickling over his cheek, and deep in his stomach, he lets himself wish for things that he can't have.

Unabashed groans pour into his ear, his lord not censoring his sounds of pleasure. It would be demeaning with anyone but him and insulting without them. They drive him closer to the edge with the same rhythm as the harsh tug and thrust of hips against his own, as the hand that claims his over the straw mat and clasps their fingers together.

He doesn't fight to shake it, him off. He never does. In his heart, he can't deny enjoying and welcoming the nightly visit. The pain with the pleasure. He may not understand it, but it doesn't stop him feeding off every gasp and moan, every ripple across corded muscles.

"Yoochun!"

The cry is muffled into his skin, bite marks deep and bound to be visible long after his master has finished, but in that moment, it couldn't matter less.

*

He wakes on his stomach, face turned into the pillow and fingers fisted in the sheets. Swallowing hard, he almost expects to feel the heat of breath on his neck, the slick slide of a man between his legs, but instead is faced with the shrieking of his alarm, green letters glaring at him and proclaiming him utterly, ridiculously late.

"Shit," he breathes, forehead pressing into the mattress, cool sheets against his cheeks, before reaching out to smack at the alarm.

This is getting ridiculous.

Every morning, for the past ten weeks, he's been late for work. He's lucky to have a boss who understands but a few more weeks like this and he might as well hand in his resignation. It'll be a relief.

For now, he drags himself out of bed and into the shower as quick as he can, dressing sloppily but making sure to have all the necessary elements. Shirt, shoes, pants. The rest, along with breakfast and recharging his phone, aren't at the top of his to-do list and he tears out of the apartment without a tie, hair slightly tousled and looking the perfect picture of a hangover.

He wishes it was that simple.

Hailing a cab even as he winces internally at the cost, he slips into a comfortable backseat, managing to ignore the lingering smell of wasabi and body odor. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he gives the address, digging into his pocket for a cigarette. They serve him better than the anxiety medication that sits forlornly on his dresser.

Halfway between coming to a stop and paying the fare, his cell starts to ring, on a timer like his alarm clock. He answers without checking the caller ID. Only one man is up and interested in him so early in the morning.

"Late again," he hears even before he has a chance to say hello. "Bad dream?"

He sighs, muffling a yawn behind his hand and waves his ID through the door scanner. "Bite me, Junsu."

"Charming as usual, hyung. I'm starting to forget what your desk looks like with you in it." It's said lightly, but Junsu's no master of nonchalance, and Yoochun can sense the worry lurking behind the words. He brushes it aside as per usual.

"That's cause you have no imagination, Su." Shifting from foot to foot, he waits for the elevator light to shine over his floor, the press of bodies on either side easily ignored after the night he's had.

There's a gasp on the other end, his friend mocking him without shame. At least some things will never change. "Just get your ass up here by nine every day. It's in your contract and I'm a morning person. I get bored." A pause. "I brought you a donut but I ended up eating it."

It gets a genuine smile out of him, if a small one. "Ass," he tells him fondly, rubbing at the back of his neck and shivering as he remembers the press of lips to his nape. No, not remembers. It didn't happen.

He must have gone quiet, because Junsu is saying his name, loudly and with no consideration for either his eardrums or office quietude policies.

"I'm here, stop yelling." Exasperation colors the words, but not directed at Junsu. Why is this happening to him? He's never had viivid dreams. He's never been in touch with his subconscious. Twenty-four years of male fantasies and this is what he gets. Maybe he's hotwired his brain.

The doors to the lift open with a deliriously cheerful sound, parting to let him pass and run smack into a pale blue shirt and the press of a donut against his own.

Junsu grins and the elation at finding that someone cares lasts about a second before the shorter man destroys it.

"Now spill about last night's dream. I'm keeping a diary and my therapist's interested."

*

The rays of the sun are warm and heavy on the back of his neck, sneaking beneath the high rise of his collar and making him shift slightly in discomfort. Small, polite talk with lords and their sons over tea, his father laughing too loudly at his side. He stares down at the leaves floating in the now chilled water, ignoring the cramp in his legs. It is good politics, his father says, and he nods dutifully. His father's lands will be his own some day, and he knows the man doubts his ability to rule a household.

In truth, so does he.

"We have a treat for our guests tonight," his father announces, voice unsteady in a way that suggests more soju than tea has made its way into the man's system. "My son's manservant. Not much for conversation, but more proficient with the sword than any sword master you've ever seen, my lords, I promise you."

The elders share hearty laughs, the younger men covering yawns behind their cups, pretending to be interested. He knows which one is set to wed and which has had dalliances with the servants - it is all good politics, according to his father, but all he sees is mirrors thrust into his face. And when he looks to the courtyard and the black-clad figure poised in the center, he feels no less pressured.

The gold mask glints in the afternoon sun, sending flecks of light into glossy black hair, carefully combed for an appearance. Whether it be station or humility, a pride in appearance has never been one of Yoochun's faults.

Raising his cold cup to his lips, he watches the slow, smooth arc of the blade through thin air, the careful yet fluid movements of the man behind it.

It's a dance, of sorts, he thinks. Deadly and graceful and impossible to ignore. No matter how silent his manservant pretends to be, no matter how little he speaks and how little he objects, it's impossible to deny where this is going. He wishes he didn't know, but he feels it.

How else to explain the hunger in his belly, the hand tightly clasped around his teacup. There's only a thin barrier between friendship and lust and he's sure he's crossed it. Has been on the wrong side of it for too long.

Inexplicable fury gnaws at him at the thought of his own weakness. Fascination is written on the faces of those around him, all staring at the swirling sword and the man wielding it as if they are one and the same: a god in human form. It dawns on him that he sees his own thoughts mirrored there.

Standing abruptly, he lets the cup fall from his hand, clattering to the ground where it breaks into a million tiny shards. Shamefully, he hopes his father's fingers will be cut on it. He hopes the same for Yoochun.

"Pray excuse me."

He makes it halfway down he path before he can breathe again, heart too quick in his chest and anger pulsating in his blood. And Yoochun, always there, just under his skin.

It's not long before he is found, a too-warm palm on his shoulder and a curtain of dark hair obscuring even darker eyes as they're shyly placed on him.

"Are you ill, Master?"

He catches the man's wrist, fingers too tight, and he may not have his servant's grace, but he has power. The thought tastes bitter on his tongue, along with words designed to cut, to make small. He holds them back, loses them in his throat at the feel of thundering blood under his fingertips. He should feel pride; Yoochun's skill is a reflection of him, by ownership if not imitation.

He shouldn't be jealous of him and the eyes that followed him earlier. They do not desire him. They cannot.

Only he is allowed that privilege.

"It is the sunlight," he lies, forcing a smile that is far from convincing to his lips. "Nothing more."

Dark eyes regard him silently, Yoochun not breathing a word of disapproval. He wouldn't do that.

Not even as he takes that calloused hand, raising it to his own features, letting it press against his cheek like a brand. Yoochun's mark on his skin and he shouldn't want it that way, shouldn't want any of this.

Such truths go unheeded as he leans in, pressing their mouths together and feeling Yoochun so close against him.

May the Gods have mercy, he thinks belatedly, swallowing a moan from the other man's lips. May the Gods have mercy on them both.

*

A hand shakes his shoulder gently, dispelling the dream and the kiss altogether.

"Yunho?" he hears, persistent like a ticking clock. "Yunho, wake up." Changmin sighs impatiently, pressing a cup of coffee against his chin. "Come on, hyung. It's five AM and you've got work in two hours. Go home and shave."

He blinks blearily, a hand coming up to scrub at his eyes, wrist catching the shadow on his cheeks. It takes a moment to orient himself, to drag himself away from the woods and hot summers of his dream to the chill of air conditioning and Changmin's tired features. He has circles under his eyes dark enough to be bruises, and Yunho feels guilty for leaving him awake to worry.

"How's he doing?"

A glance towards the bed is all the answer he needs, but Changmin is nothing if not thorough. "Same as before," he sighs, taking his hand and pressing the carton cup into it sternly. "He opened his eyes for a bit when I came in. Closed them again and went to sleep." A half-smile crosses his lips. "At least I don't think he's in any pain."

The sharp contrast between dream and reality is jarring and he hates himself for wishing to escape the latter. It's not right. These are his friends. They need him.

Changmin shakes his head, as if reading his thoughts. "You have to go home at some point. When Jaejoong wakes up, he's got to see you looking your best or he'll have another heart attack."

Yunho scowls at him, because Changmin knows that card is unfair, and yet he plays it without remorse. Standing reluctantly, he runs a hand through greasy hair, unable to shake the heaviness of sleep from his body. Looking down at Jaejoong, his best friend pale and small where he should be fire and bright and loud, Yunho sighs, leaning down to press a kiss to Jaejoong's cheek, then one to Changmin's forehead when he straightens.

"Alright. I'm going, little boss. But the same goes for you, understand? Sleep."

The younger man waves him off, dragging the chair he slept in moments before a little closer to the bed. "Yeah, yeah. I'll call if there's any change. Now go away."

It's said without heat and so Yunho obeys, closing the door on the small hospital room and the sight of his best friends holding hands though by rights neither should be here. The way the world works, the way their bodies work, he thinks, trying to placate his grief and denial. Twenty-something year old men ending up in hospital because of hearts failing.

Thirty-year olds dreaming fairty tales. He can't decide which is more ridiculous.

*

The sing of his blade is sharp in his ears, cutting too quickly through the open air, a furious blend of technique and desperation. The latter wells in his chest, clawing at his throat till he feels like he's drowning, trying to spin, kick, cut his way out of it but without success.

Letting out a sharp cry, he drops the blade as red blossoms on his sleeve, staining the fabric. Paying the price of his inattention.

"You should be more careful," a soft voice intones behind him, unmistakable in its source. The sound of footsteps across the yard is quiet but poignant, feet shuffling over the dirt patch to his side. "Practicing again... do you never tire of this?"

He drops his head in reverent greeting, torn between shame and anger. Why should he explain himself when he's been told to practice, to make himself into an attraction for their noble guests when they visit?

Why should he feel shame for being caught at a disadvantage when his master could not care any less?

Hands press a handkerchief to the shallow wound, staining the expensive fabric scarlet and Yoochun hisses, wants to pull away, to snap icy words and demand his solitude. But none are things he has a right to, and so he stays silent, shivering with anger and his master's proximity.

"You are never so careless," he's told and though the words are gentle, he can sense the disappointment. "Are you... what's wrong?" His master has kind eyes and they focus on him slowly, as if only realizing the way he's biting his tongue. His lips. Biting back on his pride.

"Nothing, my lord. Forgive me for disturbing you..."

The pressure on the wound doesn't cease, allowing the bleeding to slow. They stand in silence.

"It was disrespectful of you to leave," Yunho tells him quietly, tone in part reproach and question. "It reflects poorly on me in the eyes of our guests."

"I'm sorry." But he's not, not really. He may be a servant, but he has his pride and he feels the way this master smiled to that woman like a blow to the chest, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. It's petty jealousy, but it's no joke. No whim.

Yunho sighs, gentle fingers turning his eyes to meet his as they take hold of his chin. "Could you at least tell me what happened?"

He feels his helpless, furious hurt come to a crest, rising up to choke him. He doesn't know? How could he do this to him and not know? Yoochun jerks away before he can think better of it, words flying from his lips even as he knows he will be punished.

"I wasn't aware you'd noticed my departure, my lord," he spits, swallowing hard. "The lady seemed to hold your attention quite well."

A tight jaw is his only reply, his master folding his arms over his chest in clear sign of displeasure. "The lady is a respectable young woman of good family. She is my uncle's third wife and we hope she will tend to him in his old age." A glare. "And who are you to dictate who may hold my attention? You forget your place."

And it's true, he deserves punishment for this, deserves to be whipped into submission, but he never thought his master was the sort of man to do it. It wouldn't be the first time he was wrong about him.

His eyes sting, breaths shallow. He forces the words to his lips, stumbling over them like a line ill-learned. "I am no one, my lord."

Yunho has made that clear.

Resolve wavers before him like a crumbling block of stone. First the eyes, then the chin and finally strong arms come around him.

It's dangerous, they're in the open courtyard and it's midday. Anyone could see them and still, his master doesn't care. Wrapped in his embrace, neither does he.

"You're everything," he thinks he hears whispered harshly into his hair. "Everything."

*

Everything.

The word lingers in his ears, tears wet on his cheeks and sticking his eyelashes together, heart still hammering in his chest. He keeps his eyes closed, fingers tightening in the sheets as he tries to hold onto the feeling of warm, strong arms around him, of his pulse too loud in his veins to think.

He becomes dimly aware of the phone ringing, shrill and insistent beside his bed. The answering machine picks up after a minute, Junsu's loud, worried tones bleeding over the speaker.

"Chunnie? It's Junsu. Pick up. Seriously, this isn't funny--"

Shaking because he forgot the window open - again - last night and the temperature must've dropped during the evening, he ambles to the phone, dragging it out of the cradle.

"You're starting to sound like an old woman, Su-ah," he jokes, but his throat feels scratchy, bile and guilt mixed together. "What's with the early phone calls?"

"Early?" his friend repeats, confused and panicked on the other end. "Chunnie, it's six in the afternoon. I've been trying to reach you all day."

He swallows hard, the taste in his mouth bitter with unease. "What do you mean? I..."

"Where have you been? Yoochun. What's going on?"

I don't know, he wants to say, the words sticking in his throat because the other man isn't lying. Every watch and every clock - including the one in the kitchen and that one is always, always behind - says the same thing. He just slept the day away.

"Holy shit..." He tugs a hand through his hair, almost surprised when it doesn't come off in clumps. Isn't that what's supposed to happen when you're cursed?

Junsu's voice is panicked and furious all at once. He must've worried. "You'd better be decent because I'm in front of your building now. Open up, you freak."

Nearly tripping over his own feet, Yoochun moves to buzz him in, feet carrying him through the living room as if on autopilot. He's slept for nearly twenty hours, but even now, he can't seem to drag his body out of the dream, palms still sweaty from the grip of his sword, a dull sting in his arm where the blade had cut him.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Junsu bursts in like a storm, dumping his raincoat on the back of the chair and taking him by the shoulders. "I thought you were dead." His eyes peer into Yoochun's curiously, as if gouging for signs of drugs in his system. "Are you actually sober?"

Yoochun blinks at him, at the question, swallowing through the heaviness in his throat. "Yes, I'm sober," he replies, too tired for indignation. "Look, Junsu, I'm fine, I just overslept..."

"The day away, yes," his friend finishes, short clipped words barely masking his concern. "What the hell happened? Were you dreaming again?" He doesn't give him a chance to reply, dragging him by the hands until he has no choice but to sit himself down on the sofa. "Okay, I'm done making fun of you. My therapist said this is probably a subconscious manifestation of..."

"Junsu. Your therapist is your girlfriend."

It earns him a hard pinch on the shoulder. "Shut up. I'm serious, Chunnie. This isn't normal. You tell me about these dreams you have every fucking night and you don't do anything anymore but sleep. You look like death--"

"Gee, thanks."

"--was I still talking? It sounded like I was still talking. Look. You need to see somebody about this."

He struggles to smile. "Well, I would see you girlfriend, but you told me not to..."

Junsu rolls his eyes. "I'm glad you find this funny. Sounds to me like you're being haunted by something or someone," he replies and it's a joke, it's got to be, but it hits home. It feels like his life's been claimed by someone from beyond the grave, or something equally ridiculous, because there's no other way to explain the recurrence. No other way but to face the facts: he's lost his mind.

"How..." Leaning back against the couch cushion, he sighs. There's not many people who'll listen to him talk and think differently. Locked up in a nice padded cell isn't where he wants to end up. "How are you with your Korean history?"

*

Their feet are whispers on the matted floors, the household deep in slumber as he leads Yoochun through narrow halls, his hair dark and spilled round his shoulders. He is flirting with danger, with foolishness, he knows, but the desire to see Yoochun spread on his pallet, amongst his possessions, is too strong to curb any longer. The other man follows him dutifully, even as Yunho can sense his unease.

He shouldn't be nervous. After all this time, this house is as much his as it is Yunho's. It belongs to them both and in years from now, when his father will be gone - which is unfortunate, but inevitable - they will be able to be together freely. He tells Yoochun as much as he pulls him along, whispered words lost against his lips.

"I promise you," he repeats, over and over, willing dark eyes to believe him. Wishing he could kiss the lingering sadness from Yoochun's mouth.

Dark locks soft as silk slip through his fingers, one hand curled against the other's nape as he presses him against the wall, the other moving to draw muted noises from those full lips.

In moments like these, he believes there is a chance for them, there is a future awaiting them. They are not on the threshold of disaster, they are on standing on the brink of something great. Hope pounds in his chest, fueled by his own arousal, and he undoes clumsily tied knots to slip his hand over bare skin. Still so smooth, no matter how coarse his chores.

Ghosting his fingertips across the pale expanse of Yoochun's stomach, he looks up to meet the other's eyes, teeth catching his lip when Yoochun drops their gaze. Taking the man's hand in his own, Yunho guides it to his cheek, lets Yoochun's fingers skim his throat.

"You...you can touch me, also," he says softly. It's encouragement, not a demand. It's hope that the other man could crush so easily.

A pale hand presses against his pulse point, gently stroking the lobe of his ear and he shivers.

"You're beautiful," is whispered against his temple, his lover hiding his eyes, but not the gentle ripple of his voice into the night. However bold, it's all the encouragement Yunho needs to tug the remainder of his clothes out of place and sink to his knees.

Stroking the jut of Yoochun's hips with his thumbs, he hesitates, unsure how to proceed but knowing he wants to. Knowing that he needs to give to Yoochun as surely as he needs to take. Wetting his lips, he leans in, taking the other man in slowly, getting used to the weight of him on his tongue. The taste.

The sounds he elicits from those full lips he knows so well.

It's difficult, at first, his own inexperience infuriating as he chokes and feels his eyes water. But above him, Yoochun muffles a moan against his hand, eyes wide and incredulous.

"Master--" He gasps, worrying his bottom lip with sharp teeth. "Master, don't--"

Drawing back, he looks up at the other man, trying to gain back his breath. He's never felt more unsure. "I want to give you this," he tells him softly. "Let me give you this."

Lips press into a thin line, his servant, his lover looking uncertain. It's not an act that a man can perform on another man and still be called a man. It's not how the world works and Yoochun is too aware of this to let him do what he will.

The only recourse is to take choice away from him. Eyes fixed on his, Yunho ignores the uncertainty and pushes through to offer him pleasure. He tries to focus on the sounds he can draw from the other's throat, trying to breathe through his nose and moving slowly over the other's length. His hands slide from Yoochun's hips, caressing strong thighs and feeling the muscles twitch under his touch.

At length, he relaxes into his touch, lips parting in a sweet sigh. Yunho can't take his eyes off of him for long, even if it is to focus on bringing him pleasure. It's shameful lust that holds his attention, but not that alone. Something in his heart clenches when Yoochun meets his eyes, a dazed look on his face and cheeks flushed warmly. He's perfect.

A hand comes to press against his cheek, a mimicry of his own gestures so often before and he thinks he's won. Yoochun loves him and there's nothing in their way. All obstacles can be conquered.

Yoochun spills heat over his tongue, hands clenched in his hair, and behind them, a candle clatters to the floor.

He jerks away brutally, eyes rising to meet his intended's. She screams.

*

The phone wakes him, a welcome distraction from the pressing, choking aftertaste of his dream. It isn't quite bile, but it's close and he swallows against it as best he can, hand searching absently for the bottle of water he keeps by the bed, connecting the call with the other.

"Yunho." It's a terse greeting, but it'll do.

"You sound terrible," Changmin comments, his voice tinny and far away, on a cell phone with bad reception. "Are you alright?"

He nods even though the other can't see him, throwing an arm over his eyes and trying not to see the replay of events on the back of his eyelids. "Bad dream," he murmurs, pausing a moment before clearing his throat. "How's Jae?"

"He's fine now," the other man sighs and it's indicative of the fact that Jae wasn't fine before he called. It's on the tip of Yunho's tongue to berate the younger man for waiting to make the call. He shouldn't be left out of this. "He had an episode but the doctors say he'll be fine. They always say he'll be fine..."

Any thought he had to reprimand his friend dies in his throat. "It's true, Min," he tells him, the words soft but firm. "He will be fine. I promise you." The last words echo dully over the line, ricocheting down his spine, because it hadn't been fine, he'd been so foolish to believe that.

"I know," Changmin retorts sharply, as if insulted to have been caught doubting. "You sound off. What's wrong with you?" And any other day, a year ago, maybe, he'd have been offended by the pressing inquiry. As it is he knows his friend is just worried for him.

"Nothing, I'm okay. Just... nightmares." A hand loosens the cap off the water bottle, leaning it against his knee. "I swear I think I should write a novel. My imagination is running wild."

There's silence on the other line, just for a moment, as if Changmin is collecting his thoughts, organizing and filing. "I thought you told me you didn't dream."

Pushing himself up, Yunho sighs, hunched over and rubbing at tired eyes. "I didn't. Used to, anyway. But these...they're so fucking real, Min-ah. I wake up shaking, like I'm still there..."

There's a rustle of cloth on the other end and he imagines Changmin shifting off the hospital bed, careful not to disturb their sleeping friend. His sleeping boyfriend. "Still where, hyung?" When he finally speaks, his voice is clear and collected, like he used to sound a year ago. Like nothing's changed.

"In the past," he sighs, looking out at the rain streaking down his window. "With...him."

"Someone you know?" Changmin's voice is even, no trace of mocking, and for that Yunho is thankful. He loves his dongsaeng, but the younger man has a sharp wit and sharper tongue, a propensity for using both.

Toying with the fabric of his sheets, he can almost feel the weight of long hair on his shoulders, the feel of pale skin under his hand. "Not here. But there."

"In the past?" Changmin clarifies, leaving him no room to hide. "You're dreaming about a man, in the past? A man you've never met."

He sighs again, afraid to be taken for an old fool. A man unable to hold a normal relationship, no matter how many blind dates Jaejoong tried - tries - to set him up with. "I know it sounds crazy. I can't explain it... but it's getting worse. Something's about to happen." His words quicken, the feeling of dread still lingering in his bones.

"It's just a dream, Yunho. It's not real."

He bites his lip, so hard he might draw blood. "No. It's more than that."

"Hyung..." Changmin rarely snaps at him and never like this. "It's not. It's a figment of your imagination. What's real is the sight of Jaejoong lying in bed a few feet away from me... lying there and waiting for a heart that will never arrive and I'm tired. I'm so tired of this and I can't take it and I can't handle you worrying about something that's so abstract right now. Hyung... please." Tears choke his voice, swallowed sobs hidden behind nervous whispers.

Guilt crashes through him, bile rising in his throat. What kind of hyung is he to worry Changmin over dreams and products of his imagination? The younger man has had to deal with more sleepless night and anxiety than anyone his age should have to. Yunho swallows hard, tries to push the lingering remnants of the nightmare from his mind.

"You're right. I'm so sorry, Changmin-ah," he whispers, hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry. Do you want me to come down there?"

"You have to work," he protests. "One of us has to work. Hospital bills..." He trails off and Yunho imagines him biting his lip, making an effort to hold back. He's always been strong.

Memories of things that never happened hold that he's not the only one. Yunho pushes it aside.

"I'll be right there."

He drags himself out of bed, grabbing a towel and moving toward the shower. Enough. Enough of this. He needs to be strong for the people he loves, the people who are in the here and the now.

A faint voice call him traitor, but he drowns it out under the rush of the shower.

*

He falters in his task, aware of eyes boring into his back and returns the sword to its proper place. Slowly, he rises and falls to his knees again in reverence, bowing low. The pretense of ritual helps, no matter how much it may cut to be returned to his first fearful days as a servant here.

No. It's never been so bad.

His master regards him quietly for a moment, eventually by-passing him completely and falling onto his bed. "We shouldn't be seen together."

He closes his eyes, hidden by a unruly shock of hair, trying to force down the thing in his throat that tries to choke him. "Yes, Master. I will leave you."

It hurts, and he knows he's earned it. He wanted too much, let himself take when he should've keep a distance. He let it become more than duty in his heart and he knows this is the price exacted. He's got only himself to blame.

Himself and the stupid woman who caught them.

Yunho's voice stops him in his tracks, cold and tired. "Have you heard anything? Are the other servants aware yet?"

He wets his lips, head bowed. "There are rumours," he admits quietly. "One of the mistresses' handmaids has been talking." He stops himself, unsure whether to go further. The woman is from a foreign lord, and so initially distrusted by more loyal servants, but nothing keeps them from talking.

And word has it she hasn't left her room or eaten since that night.

Yunho sighs and presses his hands over his eyes. "She won't see me. If I could just talk to her... explain. I'm sure she'd understand. She's not a bad sort," he complains, still so naive. Still fighting fate when Yoochun knows exactly what's in store, at least for him. It's hopeless.

"Perhaps..." he swallows hard, fingers white in fists at his side. "Perhaps she will, my lord."

Naive, but also innocent, in ways Yoochun hasn't been since he was a child, can't afford to be. Part of him doesn't want to tarnish that, doesn't want to take Yunho's hope from him.

A foot nudges his own, bidding him to turn around. "I don't want you to be afraid," his master tells him, voice soft but so earnest. "I'll... I'll take care of it. I will say I instigated it all. You won't be punished." Sincerity is laden with sorrow. "You have nothing to fear. I promise."

Yoochun lets the promise wind around his heart, soft yet strong, pulsating with light and warmth...

"I believe you."

...and lets it slip away.

*

He wakes in tears, Junsu's hand on his arm.

"You were crying..." he explains, as if it has to be said. As if it's not obvious. "What's wrong, Chunnie? You're scaring me."

"I think... I think I'm dying."

It's said through a sob, Junsu's face turning white.

"What the fuck--don't fucking say that!" he hisses, and it's then that Yoochun realizes just how frightened Junsu is. "This isn't healthy, Yoochun, you...you need to go to hospital or something."

He jerks away, trying to make his lungs work again, trying to shake the weight of grief from his chest. "And tell them what, Su? That I'm having dreams?" A snort of laughter, tears somehow weaving their way into his waking moments. "In the best case, they'll think I'm a joke, a hypochondriac. In the worst, they'll lock me up."

Thin hands press against his cheeks, Junsu laying their foreheads against one another. "You're not crazy, Chunnie. I know that. But you...you're hurting yourself and I don't know why."

Yoochun closes his eyes, breathing ragged in his ears. "He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand what's going to happen and I can't tell him."

"Tell who?" Junsu draws back, settling on his haunches and peering at him with the eyes of a vulture. It's a strange comparison and Junsu is anything but wise, but he tries. He takes him seriously and doesn't wait for his answer. "The man in your dream. The one you're in love with?"

Yoochun nods. "There was a woman and she saw us... I think. And I think she's going to tell. He doesn't get it, but she hates him. Or me. I can't tell. I don't even know what she looks like, just that she's there."

Junsu tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "What happens when she tells?"

Fresh tears spill over his cheeks, heart quickening in his chest. "I die."

*

His father's face is a stern mask. Porcelain or marble, he can't decide, but sure enough it is a carving in stone and just as cold and unreadable. A fixed expression - one of disappointment - is the sole clue he's been given. That, and his beloved's tears as she confessed her discovery once more tonight.

"What have you to say for your dishonor?" his father intones.

Yunho tightens his jaw, eyes lowered out of respect, even thought such an emotion is the last thing he feels. "It was not my intent to shame you, father." It wasn't about his father at all.

"You shamed my name, my household and your own woman!" the voice he learned to fear as a child thunders even now, without his mother's words to soothe it. She was a smart woman, she would've tempered his father's anger, even in these circumstances. "To involve yourself with a servant is one thing. To involve yourself with another man... it's despicable! Sinful! You are an abomination!"

Each insult split from his father's mouth is like a slap to his face, his shoulders aching with the tension as hateful words ring against the wall.

"I intend you no disrespect, Father," he answers quietly, through his teeth. "But he is my slave and my business with him is my concern."

Soju spills over the floor, the cup smashed to tiny shards and his fiancé shakes with shock and fear, tears and a pathetic whimper welling up. He feels no pity for her. Not anymore. She is not doing this out of love for him - one does not hurt so deliberately out of love, but out of hate.

"You will denounce your slave as a traitor and a criminal," his father orders. "You will cut yourself from him and let justice be served or so help me, I will flog you to death myself!"

He raises his chin, proud and unmoving, eyes connecting with his father's, even as fear coils in his belly.

"I will do no such thing." Not for his father, not for his fiancé. Not for their laws. "I am equally culpable, if not more than the man in my service. He followed my instructions. His only sin is obeying me unconditionally and refusing to denounce me out of loyalty to this household. I will not have him punished for that."

And just when he thinks he's made a good enough case, that his response will sway the old man, a cane slaps his shoulder. "Insolent fool!"

It leaves numbness where it lands, the shock of the blow sending him staggering. He hasn't been struck by his father since he was a child, and even then, the act was more in pretense than actual violence. But then, this hissing, purple-faced man in front of him is not the man he's called father, not the rational, level-headed leader he'd respected.

"This is my household. Anything given to you here is mine in name and truth, yourself included."

Tightening his jaw, he wills away treacherous tears of pain and most of all, humiliation. "Forgive me, Father." It's not false penance, he really feels the grief of disappointing his last remaining family. "Forgive me for disrespecting you... but I will not let an innocent man pay for my mistakes." He swallows and it feels like he's choking. "I cannot." I love him.

His father's words are lowered, spoken low and close to his ear, vibrating with anger and shame. "And I will not allow my only son to ruin his name and mine by becoming a sodomite and a whore to his own servant. It's done."

Yunho's head snaps up, a stab of fear stealing his breath. "Father--"

"It's done."

*

Yunho wakes in cold sweat, fingers digging into the sheet and knuckles white until Changmin's face comes into focus, shadows coloring already dark eyes. His face spells horror.

"You were talking in your sleep, hyung."

Heart hammering in his ears, Yunho can still feel the weight of Yoochun's name on his lips, fear rising up to strangle him like a cold-blooded snake. He failed him. He'd promised him and he'd failed him. Choking slightly on a shaky breath, he presses his face against the sheets, trying to calm down. A hand rests between his shoulder blades, Changmin close to him.

"Hyung, please, what's going on..."

He bites his lip bloody, swallowing back anguished sobs. It wasn't real, so why does it feel like every blow, physical or not, hit home. Why do his ears still ring with his father's cold reproof.

"The man in my dream... I think he dies because of me." It's said quietly, as if not to wake Jaejoong, as if his voice alone could do that. "I can't stop it happening, Min. I thought... everything was fine and then... He's going to be executed for being with me."

He watches Changmin's face crumble slightly, exhaustion and worry so heavy in his eyes, "Hyung..."

"It's real, Changmin," he forces out, shoulder still stinging with a callous blow, "It's not just something in my imagination. This is...this is something that happened, that's happening and I can't stop it."

A hand comes to press against his hair, tugging lightly. "You're not going crazy. You're not, right?"

He laughs bitterly, shoulders shaking. "I hope not. I don't know anymore, but it feels like I'm there. Every single time. I close my eyes and I see him and he's as real when touches me as you are now." Taking hold of his wrist, he draws away from the bed. "You know me. I wouldn't make something like this up. I wouldn't know how. I'm not smart like you. Please, you've got to believe me."

Changmin looks so young in that moment, and Yunho is reminded of the dongsaeng that used to tag along after them in high school, two years their junior but never daunted, never deterred.

"Changmin-ah. Please."

A hand finds his own, squeezing softly. "I believe you, hyung."

Yunho tugs him close, like he would a brother, and presses a kiss to his hair. The embrace is intended to soothe his own guilt as it is to thank Changmin for his faith. He would be lost without him and he can't help think the younger man knows. He doesn't believe in science fiction and fantasy stories any more than Yunho himself.

For once, Changmin allows it, relaxing into his embrace and resting his head on Yunho's shoulder, allowing the older man to rub his back soothingly.

"Jaejoong told me once," Changmin murmurs, voice muffled against the fabric of Yunho's shirt, "that your heart knows the person you love before you do."

He can't help smile at that, albeit against his will. "I know. It was prom night and he saved you from the girl your mom forced you to take as your date." He holds him tighter as the memory transports him to years ago, to the buzz of champagne and loud music in his ears. "I was there." But none of it feels as real now as the dream he's just had.

"Not the whole evening you weren't," Changmin laughs and pulls away reluctantly. "So these dreams you've been having. They're about a man?"

A nod, still keeping their fingers laced, not letting the other go far. "His...his name is Yoochun-ah..."

The name feels different on his lips while waking, familiar and yet foreign all at the same time. His small smiles falters. "I was supposed to take care of him. Even though I was his charge, he...he needed me to take care of him."

"Yeah, that's how love goes," Changmin mutters and it's the kind of thing Jaejoong would say. It's probably not surprising to find the other man is rubbing off on him already. "Were you in love with him? I mean... are you?"

Another laugh jerks out of his throat, brutally, uncontrollably. "Yes. And I knew it was stupid, but yes. We became intimate and we weren't supposed to. My father found out." He swallowed hard. "I thought...I was so naive to think I could change his mind, that I could get away with everything and that Yoochun and I could just..."

A hand comes up to swipe at his eyes, catching the tears before they fall. "Changmin-ah...how do I tell him I'm sorry?"

His friend frowns, but it's not derision or disbelief that fuels the grimace. It's concentration, as if he's been given some difficult mathematical calculation and he doesn't know how to solve it. "Maybe... maybe you try and stop it? He's not dead yet, right? Maybe that's what you're supposed to do." He bites his lip in concentration, heaving a sigh. "Take control of the dream, that's what they used to say in my psych classes."

Changmin squeezes his hand gently. "Maybe it's not too late?"

*

He's dragged out of bed by his hair, feet barely keeping up with the quickness of the servants - the same ones he served food to only yesterday - as they clamp irons around his wrists and throw him face down in the yard.

Humiliation and fear carve a hole in his chest. So this is it.

Digging his fingers into the cold, wet grass, he tries to keep the bile from rising in his throat, eyes shut tightly. Afraid to open them, even though he already knows what he'll see. It's the unknown that frightens him, the chilling possibility of seeing Yunho standing impassively next to his father.

Thankfully, he's nowhere to be seen and for that, he breathes a little easier. His master hasn't abandoned him - or if he has, at least he's done so quietly. Yoochun need not face the ugliness of his deceit. Instead, he can cling to the warmth of memories as a can falls over his back, harder and harder, blow after blow until the old master is spent and tired.

"Criminal! You have corrupted my son! Destroyed this family!" Words are spat at him in anger, but he doesn't resent them. It's true. They're true. He knew what he was doing, though Yunho didn't. He allowed it to happen out of love for his master. Sinful love and it's right he pay for his sins.

Yunho, however, should be spared. It's all he has left to ask.

"You, who were favored in this household, this is how I'm repaid? This deceit, this abomonation?" Blood trickles over his back from the open wounds, crawling over his ribs to drip into the dirt. "You will die like the filthy animal you are."

"No!" A cry rings through open courtyard like thunder, impossible to ignore but gone harmlessly in a moment. The sound may arrest your attention, but it is the lighting that holds the true power. If the old master is a flash of light over a stormy sky, then his son is no more than the clap of thunder that echoes dully, for many moments after.

Always too late.

"No, Father! I beg you!" He rushes between Yoochun and the cane like a man possessed, falling to his knees in utter humility. "Please spare his life. I beg you, please..."

The old man is furious, spitting with rage, the cane singing through the air before connecting with Yunho's cheek, splitting open the pale skin. "Get out of here, or by the gods, you'll join him."

Yunho falls as he rises, tripping in the mud until they are eye-level and it's something Yoochun never wished for them. He never hoped to rise in the ranks, never had ambitions and he never wished to drag his master down with him. But it's inevitable if the other man won't let him go.

His eyes seek to convey as much, but Yunho is stubborn. He won't understand if he doesn't want to.

"Father..." And that's when Yoochun sees his tears, of anger, of frustration. Tears in the eyes of a man who barely cried as a child. He's brought it on. He's to blame for everything. He bites his lip clean through as his master is struck, as he stumbles to his knees, tears in his own eyes, but he's always been too free with them for his own good.

Now, he begs silently, do it now, and this, unlike so many other desperate prayers, is answered.

A hand drags him up by his hair, his eyes still on Yunho, always on Yunho. The other man has been his sun since he was a child, and now, when--

The blade plunges through his back, his breath robbed from his body with a wet choke.

It's the sword he cleaned so many times, the one he practiced with and cherished as though it was his own heirloom. It's poetic justice.

Yunho screams his name, but he doesn't hear it.

The last thing he sees is his master - his lover, friend, soulmate - rush forward, eyes going wide when the blade slides into his body.

*

He wakes up screaming.

"Yoochun! Chunnie, look at me, you're okay, Yoochun--"

Tears flood him as surely as helplessness because it wasn't supposed to be that way, it wasn't supposed to end like that. Not for Yunho, not when he'd spent the better part of his life keeping him from harm, protecting him with his life only to be the one that killed him.

"Yunho...please, no..."

"Shh, come on, you're okay." Junsu is bad at comforting others, awkwardly hugging him despite the sweat and the sheets clinging to his skin, but his touch is welcome, grounding him, pulling him away from the horror of death and losing the one he loves - loved - most.

"He died--he's dead and I couldn't stop it, oh God... oh God." He clings to him tightly, wetting the pillow with his tears.

Junsu strokes his hair, swallowing audibly. "Chunnie...Chunnie, I want to take you to hospital," he whispers, voice sounding on the edge of begging. "You're burning up, you...you wouldn't wake up no matter how hard I tried..."

"Okay. Yeah, okay...." For the first time, he doesn't fight him with false assurances. He feels physically ill. He feels dead.

His friend tugs the sheets aside, dragging him up to sit on the bed. "You're going to be okay, don't worry. Just... just stay with me." And though he doesn't say it, Yoochun can almost hear the afterthought: don't fall asleep again.

He lets himself be dressed like a child, tears streaming down his face until all that's left is dry sobs and chapped lips, cheeks puffed and read. He must look like a clown. Any other day, he might care.

Junsu's hands are shaking as they slip shoes on him, an arm going around his waist to haul him up and off the bed, the shorter man stumbling under his near dead weight. He can't focus, can't make himself hold onto the now, grief so heavy in him he could choke on it.

Why? Why did he come? Why did he have to--

"Help me out, Chunnie, that's it." Junsu's voice is gentle but pregnant with the effort to slip his coat over his shoulders, pulling him out of the apartment with one arm around his back and the other trying to fasten the locks into place.

The hospital is close enough. They can have him locked up in a padded cell and hopefully the pills will put a stop to the thoughts swallowing him whole. Hopefully the doctors can do a lobotomy and stop him feeling at all.

It's not normal to weep for a lover he's never met, so logic says he must be crazy. What point is there in fighting fate? Even his dreams have proved him wrong.

*

Yunho is jerked away from sleep by the sound of his cell phone ringing and that in itself is no strange occurrence. What is strange is that he remembers nothing but darkness, no faces, no whispered voice to soothe his nerves.

Yoochun is gone.

"Hello?" he picks up as if through a dreamlike haze, because maybe he got it wrong. Maybe the dream was real and this, whatever this life has become is the lie. It feels like an illusion when the voice on the other end doesn't register until the third try, yelling in his ear.

"You have to come to the hospital, hyung! Now." Changmin rarely yells. He used to, but he's grown up. He prides himself on balancing Jaejoong's temper, but suddenly he's frantic, repeating himself and calling his name. "Hurry up, we need you here. Something's happened. It's--I don't know... the doctors are with him. Please just get here!"

*

They sit them in the waiting room, despite Junsu's angry protests that he see someone now, dammit, Yoochun closing his eyes as Junsu encourages him to lean his head on his shoulder, stroking his hair soothingly.

"It's okay, Chunnie," he whispers, his best friend since third grade when he was bullied for being funny-faced and a crybaby and rather than join in, Junsu gave him half his sandwich and told him where the best spots were to find bird eggs. Yoochun tries to listen to him, to draw comfort, but he can only sit and shake, unable to stop seeing Yunho's death, the life fading from his eyes.

*

Yunho drives like a madman and thanks his lucky stars when he fails to be picked up by the police. He parks over the white lines, all but running into the hospital.

If he could shake the darkness that threatens to envelop him, he'd try to be level-headed. He'd try to run through the horror scenarios before looking for the worst. It's not the most likely. Jaejoong is fine, in hospital. If nothing else, he's being cared for.

But care isn't everything, he remembers.

The waiting room is packed, he notices, tearing over taupe walls and floors and sliding doors, heading straight for the nurses' station.

*

"Junsu," Yoochun breathes, looking up at his best friend, the lines etched into his features warring between exhaustion and despair. "Do you think...do you believe in fate?"

His friend looks at him with a tired smile. "I don't know... maybe?" Sighing, he leans forward, burying his face in his hands. "I'm lying. I do. I really do, Chunnie." A shy look in his direction turns to cautious inquiry. "Don't you?"

*

His heart is a jackhammer in his chest, deafening him to anything else but the squeak of the door as it opens, letting him into the room that has been Jaejoong's home for the past six months.

"Changmin..."

His voice dies in his throat when instead of the younger man, he sees a bright-eyed and smiling Jaejoong, features tired but color in his cheeks, sitting up against the pillows. Awake. Alive.

A soft smile.

"About time you got here."

*

His head reclines against the plastic seat, heavy, laden with thoughts. Soulmates, lovers, fate... it's all bullshit. It can't be real. After so many years of pragmatism, he's probably just lost his mind to some exotic virus. Alzheimer's before he's old. Something like that.

Junsu brings him coffee to keep him awake, talks incessantly. The nurses are still too busy.

He feels the lure of sleep tugging at his eyelids.

"Will you be okay for a sec? I'm going to check and see what's taking so long."

*

He doesn't want to let go of Jaejoong's hand, doesn't want to leave to unexpected comfort of his best friend's warm smile and too-loud laughter. Doesn't want to return to the darkness of his thoughts and his dream and his failures. But he knows as much as he loves and has missed the man in front of him, someone else needs this time more. He won't deny Changmin that. Leaving the other man with a kiss on the forehead, he slips out the door, meeting Changmin's bright, wet-eyed smile before the younger man joins his lover.

Yunho presses two fingers against the pain just next to his heart, closing his eyes.

*

Yoochun twists and turns in the seat, unable to make himself comfortable, though that's the idea. He's not supposed to fall asleep, hence the coffee. He's not supposed to be here at all, hence the delay.

The waiting room is in perpetual motion, people coming and going, the whole room changing with the number of patients nursing wounds and illnesses and waiting to be cared for. He stares at the neon light above his head until his eyes begin to ache and then down, over the pale wall to the stained floor.

It's so easy to picture an azure sky instead, bright sunshine. Morning on a summer day.

He can taste the soju on his lips though he doesn't drink, the brush of dust against his sandals though he wears sneakers. He opens his eyes again and he can stare into dark depths though he is alone and there's a rush of nameless faces around him, none of which could mean as much. He opens them again to find the dream turned real.

Dark eyes meet his, the glare of neon light behind cropped dark hair, but it's the same gaze. The same wrinkle at the corners that could be mirth or anger or confusion or his own imagination.

"I know you," the man breathes and his voice is the same.

There are callouses on warm hands as he takes them in his, no hint of nobility or tragedy in the lines of his features, just the worn cares of an everyday life. But behind dark lashes he sees evidence of summers and swordplay and love besieged by a blade.

"Yeah," he whispers, a smile of relief tugging at the corners of his mouth, "you do."

The End