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The leaves of the trees creep over his roof as the storms batter and bruise the forest. Jongin watches, wondering how terrible the carnage might be this time as the boughs bend to protect his little home, their branches sighing and crying with effort. Some of them break apart at the joints as the winds dance their violent waltz, his painted shutters banging against the windows like batting eyelashes.

He goes back to his furnace, and he tries to ignore the storm just beyond his door.

The wafting aroma rising from his black-bottom pot is sparkling with magic, auburn and gold. He gently waves it toward him, and he catches the caramelized, spicy scent of the brewing sugarblooms and white pepper oil. He smiles to himself, giving it a quick, decisive stir. It crackles happily.

It will make a fine warming potion. At this time of the year, he thinks it will be necessary. He steps back to judge the amount. At least ten-and-six vials. He’s sure of it.

Jongin heads to the cabinet to fetch his bottles, and he lays them out as he waits for the potion to finish its journey. He stares out the window as another branch crashes to the forest floor.

It must be tomorrow, he decides—Fine, he thinks, the bus always comes around noon.

He bathes well, scrubbing extra well behind his ears and between his fingers and toes, and he dons his nicest clothes as he readies himself in the morning, a ruffled shirt of white and dark orange velvet pants that flare at the ankles, a jacket that hugs him around the shoulders, a hat upon his head. After he eats breakfast, he cleans up and stocks his bag with every tincture and tonic he’s prepared since his last journey into town, gently placing them into the slots.

The bag was fine black leather, traded to him by a kind old doctor for one of Jongin’s healing balms. After he had cast a nice embiggening charm onto it, Jongin had gotten one of the leather workers around the market to install some stiff divisions in a grid shape so as to better transport his fragile wares. He had to give him a sproutling of his special sweet mint, but it was worth it. Each bottle nestles neatly inside one of the dozens of compartments, and he closes it up with a snap once he’s through.

He heads outside just as the high noon sunshine stretches her lovely arms out over the forest, spread thick with orange and red leaves. It is beautiful, it is always beautiful.

Still—the storm had certainly taken its toll.

He bites his lip as he takes in the damage. The roof will not hold much longer, he does not think. The tree protects him as much as she can, but she is an old woman now, and some of her leaves are blackened with holes.

He should be able to stand on his own two feet. Once they are grown, they are meant to take care of those who helped them grow.

Jongin walks toward her, a hand on her vast trunk.

Do not worry for me, child, she whispers with a rasp.

I’ll always worry for you, he says, closing his eyes over a smile. Would anything help the pain?

A branch moves, and he watches as it twists, directing his eye. There is a nestle of exposed roots toward the back of his home, gnarled with thorns and green rot.

Cut them for me, she asks.

He frowns. Are you sure that’s all right?

I am an old tree now, she says with a smile. A dying old tree.

No, he says, patting her bark. No, you’re not. We’ll get you all nursed up back to health. He jostles his bag. I’m heading over the river to trade. I’ll fix the roof, I’ll get you some medicine, and everything will be well.

There is not a medicine in this world that you could not make yourself, little witch, the tree smiles. But go on, if you must. Leave me to dry my leaves in the sun.

Be well!, he calls back happily, waving as he gets to the edge of the forest.

She waves her top branch, and he grins.

He turns down the pebbled path to the bus station, and once he’s there, he sits down at the stop, setting his bag on his lap. He checks the time. Five of. He taps his toes on the stones as he waits, and he listens to the songs of the flutter-finches, whistling back to them as he passes the time.

The dark red bus pulls up with a minute to spare, and the doors creak open to welcome him on.

“Hi there,” he says, but the driver never answers, just nods his head and shuts the doors once Jongin has taken his seat.

They go from then on, and the colors seep out of the sky the closer and closer they get to the river bridge. He puts his bag on his lap as he looks out the window, sighing to himself. It’s not that he doesn’t like coming. There is a certain charm to the lands north of the river, and he cares for the people that he’s met there. It’s just that the southlands, his forest, his little house under the tree—it is home.

That’s why he has to come. He has something to protect.

He has felt something coming for quite a while, a darkness at the edge of the land. Something necrotic. Something that feasts. He shivers as he thinks of it.

He isn’t sure that he alone can solve the problem, but he knows he must try.

The bus pulls to a stop at the edge of the market, a twin stop that matches the one back home. The bus driver allows him to exit before the bus shrinks to the size of an ant, crawling along the dirt.

“Be careful on your journey,” he says, bowing respectfully. “Have a good day, sir.”

The fire ant, for its part, does not respond.

Jongin turns back toward the market, and he exhales, his shoulders settling. He walks under the grand arch of iron and blackwood, ivy beginning to creep up from the bottom feet, and he looks around at the vendors for the afternoon.

A woman with jarred peaches and plums, another lady who offers her hand-poured pillar candles, a man who offers his freshly-skinned catches and various kinds of dried, salted meats—there is a couple selling cozy knitted throws and sweaters, another trading freshly baked cakes and sugar-dusted turnovers, and a mountain of a woman selling great wax wheels of cheese.

His first stop, as it usually tends to be, is a woman named Farrah, with her warm mahogany eyes and her pointed ears and her wide nose and her happy smile with a small gap between her front teeth. And when she sees him, the butterflies fly out from her outstretched arms.

“My friend!” she calls. “Come see, come see.”

Farrah is magic, same as Jongin. When she was young, she moved to the north. He wants to ask her why she would ever want to move, but he thought it best not to overstep.

Jongin hurries over, jostling his bag and setting it down on the table while she turns her long cotton skirt, yanking it up to her skirt hike and buckling it into place as she kneels down. She goes to a wooden crate, digging out some dried herbs that are fastened into a bouquet.

“Look,” she says with a glittering smile, “twosomes! I managed to dry them, too!”

Jongin’s eyes go wide as he takes the bouquet in his hands, turning the twosomes over in his hand. They are quite special, only growing in the southlands. When you pick one, two more flowers grow in its place. They are a salt weed, and it makes them good for long journeys.

“Y-You grew them here?”

She nods. “Same ground as the rest of the lot,” she says, gesturing to the rest of the dried bouquets, herbs and flowers in all colors of the rainbow. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“You are more special than I thought,” Jongin praises, a hand at her shoulder, “and I already thought you very special, friend.”

“Oh, you,” Farrah says, sitting on her stool and letting down her skirt. “I confess, I had not thought to see you today or anytime soon.” She frowns. “I thought you would be making your repairs. Word was that a storm hit the southlands last night.”

“And the night before that,” Jongin sighs. “And the night before that. And every night for the past fortnight.”

Farrah sucks her teeth. “Terrible luck.” She looks to the sky. “Meanwhile, we could do with a good rain.”

“Isn’t that always the way?”

“Some people have too much,” she says.

“And some people have too little,” he notes. He looks around. “I came to sell. And perhaps to trade.”

“Trade?” she asks. “For what?”

“Repairs,” he sighs. “I think with the storm—perhaps things are beyond my expertise. I do what I can, of course, but I am no carpenter.”

She makes a noise of understanding. “You would have fair luck here.” And then a flicker of light in her eyes. “Actually… you might have luck better than fair!”

“Oh?”

“There is a man who visits here sometimes,” Farrah says. “He is practically a giant, eighteen hands high or more, I’d say. Five-and-twenty years, same as us… or thereabouts.” She sighs. “And he is quite handsome.”

“Is he… does he work with wood?”

“It is his trade,” she informs him. “I have heard he apprenticed with a master, and he took over for the master once he decided to stop working at the shop.” She shrugs. “He is supposed to be very good.”

Jongin smiles. “W-Well, then I suppose I ought to seek him out!” He looks back at his bag on the table. “Maybe he would like to trade!”

“Maybe,” Farrah smiles. She points over Jongin’s shoulder. “There. The man with the black kerchief around his neck.”

Jongin turns, and the man is standing there across the market, sitting at a hand pie shop, speaking to a young woman with flowers in her hair. His stomach twists nervously as he gets a look at the man’s profile—Farrah was not wrong. He is handsome.

“Go on,” Farrah encourages. “Go say hi!”

Jongin swallows roughly as he heads over, his bag in front of him. He waits patiently for the man to finish his conversation with the woman, but the woman sees him, grins knowingly.

“I think you might have someone waiting on you,” she says, and the man turns from where he is seated at the table.

His smile is so very beautiful, and Jongin doesn’t know how to handle that. He’s never been very good with people with pretty smiles. Save for Farrah.

“Hello,” Jongin says. “I… I heard you were a carpenter.”

“Yes, that’s right,” the carpenter says, and he stands swiftly. He waves over at Farrah. “You are friends with the pretty elf-witch?”

“Ah, yes,” he says. “I-I am a witch named Jongin, I am from the southland forest, just over the bridge and—”

“Around the bend,” the carpenter finishes. “Yes, I’ve heard a lot about you.” He bows lowly with a hand across his heart, raising himself up with a smile. “Thank you for helping where and when you can.” He shrugs his broad shoulders. “The north gets quite cold later in the year… I’m sure your warming potions have saved many lives here.” Again he presses hand to his chest, nodding his head. “I am truly grateful for your work.” He grins, breathless. “So, Witch Named Jongin… what can I do for you today?”

“I had… I had a job for you, though I do not know the breadth of your work,” Jongin says, twisting his hands around the bag’s handles. “But Farrah told me that you worked with wood, so I thought you might be able to help.”

“What do you need, little witch?” the carpenter asks. “For all that you have done for my people, no matter if it is me or someone else who accomplishes the task… I will see it done.”

“N-No, no,” Jongin says. “I will pay you! Whether it is by trade or with gold.” He jostles his bag. “I have potions! Tonics! Balms! Tinctures! Whatever you might need.”

The carpenter smiles. So very handsome. “What is the job, Jongin?”

“M-My roof,” Jongin says with a frown. “We have had bad storms south of the river, a-and even before that, I have had some leaks. I worry that… well, that it might all come crashing down upon my head some day.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he says, and he looks at Jongin’s bag. “Do you have business here today besides the off-loading of your wares?”

“Why?”

“I thought I might come to assess the damage when the next bus arrives,” the carpenter says.

“T-Today?” Jongin asks.

The carpenter tilts his head. “Are you busy?”

“No,” Jongin says. “I only thought… well, might you be busy?”

He smiles at Jongin. “This is my business for today.” He caps Jongin on the shoulder, and his touch is warm, zipping right through Jongin’s coat. “I meant what I said—I owe you a debt, little witch.” He withdraws suddenly as if sharply aware of where they just touched, and he looks down at his hands sheepishly. “Ah, I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Jongin says, absently brushing his shoulder where the carpenter just touched him. “It does not bother me.”

The carpenter smiles. “My name is Chanyeol.”

“Chanyeol,” Jongin tries.

“Yes, that’s right.” He gestures to the market. “If you need to do business, be my guest.” He takes his seat back down at the table, and he smiles at the girl with flowers in her hair. “I will eat my weight in chicken and potato pies, you will make your trades and earn your gold, and when you’re ready, I will help you however I might be able to.”

Jongin feels heat swarm him like bees might swarm the hive. Honey. This is all so much honey.

“Yes, all right,” he agrees, nodding his head. “Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary,” Chanyeol smiles. “It is only what you’re owed.”

Jongin manages to trade and sell the entirety of the bottles he brought along, putting all manner of human goods into his bag to take home with him. Cheese and fresh crusty bread, a bushel of apples and a couple jars of orange marmalade, plus some good rope, a bouquet of orchids for dying, and his purse is entirely full. It’s been a while since that was true.

He heads back over to Chanyeol, finding him waiting at the hand pie stand just as he said he would be.

“Are you ready to go?” Chanyeol asks.

“Y-Yes, if that’s all right with you,” Jongin says.

“Of course.” He hops up from his stool with a grin, dusting off his pants. “I would not have offered if I did not mean to follow through on my promise.” He waves a hand. “Lead the way, witch.”

The step ant jumps to life before them, and Chanyeol steps onto the bus. It creaks underfoot, and Chanyeol makes a hissing sound.

“I haven’t been on since I was a child,” Chanyeol says. “I hope I’m not hurting him.”

Jongin laughs. “He may be old, but he is still good at his job.”

“Good,” Chanyeol smiles. “That’s good.” He takes a seat, and Jongin sits beside him as the bus trembles to its start. “Do you come north of the river often?”

“N-Not often,” Jongin says, setting his bag on the floor. “When I have the time.”

“I imagine it must be busy,” Chanyeol nods. “I’ve heard it can be lonely in the forest.” He smiles. “Do you have many neighbors?”

“T-There are a few,” Jongin says. “In my area, I mostly have the tree.”

“Tree?”

“The tree that guards my house,” Jongin explains. “You, um, you might be dealing with her a lot, depending on how much work there is to be done.”

“I like trees,” Chanyeol smiles. “I am a carpenter, after all. If I didn’t like the trees, I would be out of work easily.” Jongin is sure his face must do something terrible, because Chanyeol scoffs. “Oh, don’t look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you think I’m killing the trees,” Chanyeol says.

“W-Well, isn’t that part of it?” Jongin asks. “Forgive my insolence, but—”

“For every tree that dies by my hand, another tree grows in its place. My master taught me how to plant them. Our people, those without magic, we have to make do. We have to take from the land in order to survive, but we also know to give some back to it,” Chanyeol explains. He smiles, looking out the window at the scenery as it passes them by. “My master always told me that the best time to plant trees is yesterday, and that the second best time is today.”

Jongin laughs, and Chanyeol looks over at him. He smiles.

“He sounds very nice,” Jongin says.

“He was,” Chanyeol says.

“H-He went with the river?”

“A few years past,” Chanyeol says.

“May the water keep him.”

“Thank you,” Chanyeol smiles, and he pats Jongin on the leg. “You are a kind soul.”

Jongin swallows over a happy feeling, and as the bus pulls to a stop, Jongin regrets the fact that it is their stop.

“T-This way,” he says, standing, hoisting his bag up and nodding to the driver. “Thank you, sir. Have a good day.”

“It’s an ant,” Chanyeol says, and they get off the bus together, watching as the ant leaps back to his miniscule size. “He can’t understand you.”

“No, but it is nice to think maybe he could feel it,” Jongin says, and he crunches down the pebble road. “Right along here.”

Chanyeol follows close behind as Jongin leads him back around the bend and through to the forest. Chanyeol’s eyes go wide as he takes it all in, and Jongin smiles proudly. It is very beautiful, and it gives him great delight to show it off.

“W-Wow,” he whispers. “It is so… lovely here.”

“Thank you,” Jongin says.

“A-And your house!” Chanyeol says excitedly. “It’s so precious!” He looks back at Jongin. “Like a doll’s cottage!”

Jongin looks it over with fresh eyes. He had magicked it out of nothing, the big strong door with the big gold knocker and the windows with the painted shutters and the red straw roof. A doll? Does that mean he hates it?

“Y-You like it?” Jongin asks.

“Oh, it’s marvelous,” Chanyeol says with a smile. “Only… it does look as though it needs some work. When was the last time it was looked at by a carpenter such as myself?”

“W-Well, never,” Jongin says. “I built it with magic.”

Chanyeol stares at him. “Witches are very interesting folk.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Well, if you have much to do, you could leave me to the assessment,” Chanyeol says. “I will look things over to decide what needs to be done and what tools might be necessary to do it. It will take… oh, about an hour or so.”

“I-If that’s all right with you,” Jongin says, “then, yes, carpenter. I will leave you to your work.”

Jongin heads inside to start on his supper, unpacking his bag of goods and storing them away. He makes a stew in his pot, fries up some of the crusty bread, and he slathers it with butter. He intends on asking Chanyeol to stay to eat, but when Chanyeol finally finishes and knocks on the door, the thought falls right out of his head.

“Hi,” Chanyeol says, cheeks pink, slightly winded.

“Hi,” Jongin says. “Is it terrible? Is it about to collapse?”

Chanyeol laughs. “Nothing so terrible, no. The roof will only take a couple days,” he says proudly. “If you’d like, I could come by tomorrow in the early morning. The first trip on the bus!”

“W-Would you be so kind?”

“It would be my honor,” Chanyeol smiles. He bows again, princely and charming. “Again, I thank you for what you’ve done for my people. I… I can never explain just how much it means to me.”

Jongin bites his lip across a smile. “A-And I cannot thank you enough for this.” He nods his head respectfully. “It is a great service you are doing.”

“Aw,” Chanyeol smiles, “it’s nothing.”

Jongin walks Chanyeol back to the bus stop, and he waves as Chanyeol heads back across the river, the bus shrinking further and further into the distance. Jongin kicks stones on the way home, his hands shoved into his pockets, a smile on his face.

Tall, the tree notes.

Like a tree, Jongin jokes.

The tree ruffles her leaves with laughter, and a shower of them falls down onto him. If they weren’t all so blackened with rot, Jongin thinks it might bring him joy. Instead, it just brings him unease.

Jongin grows especially fond of Chanyeol as he works on repairing the roof. He comes early every day, he stays late, and he never wants to impose. It’s only after a significant amount of insistence that he allows Jongin to feed him breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

They take their meals outside in the evening, listening to the crickets and the night birds and all manner of magic. Chanyeol tells Jongin of his past, his family, the house where he lives, the friends he has. Chanyeol’s life is so full of color. Bright and bursting with it like springtime.

Still, he finds time to flatter Jongin.

“This place is so beautiful,” Chanyeol whispers. “I don’t blame you for never wanting to leave.”

“I am fond of my life here,” Jongin sighs. “I wish I could share it.”

“You’re sharing it now,” Chanyeol notes with a smile. “For that, I am grateful.”

He is a very handsome one, the tree says.

He is, Jongin smiles. So stay away, he’s mine.

Foolish child, I am an old god, she crows proudly.

Jongin scoffs, and Chanyeol stares at him.

“W-What?” Jongin asks. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” Chanyeol says. “Just… just overwhelmed by how pretty it is, I guess.”

“The forest?”

Chanyeol looks at his hands with a shy smile. “Yeah.”

Jongin kind of fears the day the roof is finished, the week growing long and memorable. Every day, he likes Chanyeol a little more, the little songs he hums to himself as he works, the rhythmic sound of his hammering. He will mourn this little insight into their world when it's gone. That’s what it is, he tells himself. He’s fascinated by him. Delighted by the non-magic aspects of him.

As it turns out, however, he does not need to fear.

“I remember you said you had some leaky patches inside,” Chanyeol notes. “Mind if I take a look?”

“By all means,” Jongin says, waving Chanyeol inside.

Chanyeol studies the interior as though he’s reading a particularly difficult book, and by the end of the study, he turns back to Jongin with a sigh.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to bother you a bit longer,” he smiles. “I’ll reinforce from the inside so that it never leaks again.”

“Really?” Jongin says. “C-Could I really ask so much of you?”

“It’s nothing,” Chanyeol promises. “I’ll just go and fetch my ladder.”

And the roof is just the beginning. Chanyeol fixes the leaks, he sweeps the chimney, he repairs the creaky handles on the cabinet doors. He hangs a decorative drying rack for Jongin’s herbs, he makes a new cabinet for Jongin’s various ingredients, he builds a new step stool so that Jongin can reach the back of the tallest shelves.

“You shouldn’t have made it so tall,” Jongin whines. “I look so silly. A grown witch with a stepstool.”

“Farrah is short,” Chanyeol says. “Would she look silly?”

“You with your non-magic logic,” Jongin mocks.

“As if logic is so foolish.”

“It is,” Jongin insists. “This world is not governed by logic.”

“No?” Chanyeol smiles. “What, then? Tell me, little witch.”

He never calls Jongin by his name. He always calls him that. Little witch. He doesn’t know why it makes him hot all over.

“It is governed by feeling,” Jongin tells him. “All the world is magic and all magic is feeling.”

“If all the world is magic, why can’t I do it too?” Chanyeol asks, amused.

“Maybe you’ve just forgotten,” Jongin says. “Silly human man.”

“That’s me,” Chanyeol grins.

Jongin reaches out to swat at him, and Chanyeol catches his hand before it collides with him. It steals the breath from Jongin’s lungs, and Jongin looks into Chanyeol’s eyes, feeling something he has not ever felt before.

“What are you feeling now?” Chanyeol asks.

“H-Hungry,” Jongin answers.

Chanyeol looses his grip on Jongin’s hand with a snort. “Let’s eat supper, witch. Before the bus comes to take me back.”

Jongin spends all day with Chanyeol, thinking of why he might still be hanging around. Surely, whatever debt he felt he’d incurred must be paid by now, Jongin thinks, looking around at the house as Chanyeol helps him assemble some new indoor garden beds.

“Hand me those nails,” Chanyeol says.

Jongin wordlessly passes them over, and he watches as Chanyeol sticks a few into his mouth, hanging out as he hammers one into place. He works quickly, efficiently, tacking the box into place. Jongin watches quietly as he works. It’s almost hypnotic. Dizzying. He stares at Chanyeol, his mouth, his hands, and he wonders what it is that makes Chanyeol stick around.

“Jongin.”

It jolts him from thought, and Chanyeol laughs.

“You don’t have to hold the boards together anymore,” Chanyeol says, reaching forward to wiggle them. “They’ll stand up on their own now.”

“Yes, of course,” Jongin says, nodding. “Thank you.”

“Are you feeling okay?” Chanyeol asks. “You look… warm.”

“D-Do I?”

“Perhaps some air?” he offers.

They step outside into the cold, and he rubs his arms as he adjusts. His face does feel hot. Together they look up at the stars, and the tree shakes her branches.

Handsome boy, the tree calls.

Leave him alone, Jongin says. I think we’ll scare him off.

The tree laughs, and Jongin laughs too.

“What was that?” Chanyeol asks.

“Nothing,” Jongin says. “Only… I fear it will snow soon.” He holds a hand out. Yes. The ice in the air. “The weather turns.”

“Yes,” Chanyeol agrees. “I’m glad we fixed the house before then.”

Jongin looks over at him, and he is already smiling back. When the time comes, Jongin walks him to the bus stop and they wait on the bench together, their legs resting against one another.

“W-Will you come back tomorrow?” Jongin asks.

“Yes,” Chanyeol smiles. “There’s still some things I’d like to do.”

Jongin swallows nerves. Why does a human make him feel this way? What is it swirling inside him?

When the bus arrives, Jongin pulls on the sleeve of Chanyeol’s coat, and Chanyeol turns back with bright eyes.

“Jongin?” he asks.

“I just wanted to tell you… I-I appreciate all that you’ve done for me,” he says quietly. “T-That’s it.”

He turns and he runs back to his home before he can think anything more of it, tucking himself into bed with his cold hands covering his warm cheeks.

By the time the second month is through, the house looks brand new. Jongin’s stomach sinks. He knows there is nothing left to do. Everything is immaculate. The little cottage in the forest has never looked better. And there is no reason for a carpenter to visit any longer.

“I suppose that just about does it,” Chanyeol smiles, dusting his hands off on his pants. He points up at the sign he made. Ancient words that Jongin had translated for him. Little Witch. “What do you think?”

“It is lovely,” Jongin says, eyes strangely full. He bows. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Chanyeol says. “It’s the least I could do.”

They eat dinner together that night, candles glimmering, the amber flames wild as they dance in Chanyeol’s beautiful eyes. Jongin forces himself to look down at his food, otherwise, he fears he might be lost within him.

“Would you walk me back to the station?” Chanyeol asks. “It’s getting late, and there are all manner of magic creatures in these woods.”

Jongin nods, wrapping his scarf around his neck, his hands into his mittens.

His breath frosts in front of him as they walk, as they sit at the station, as Chanyeol stares up at the stars.

“I don’t know that the bus will run too much longer,” Chanyeol notes.

If he didn’t already feel sick, he’s sure that he was just poisoned.

“W-What?”

“I heard talk in the town,” Chanyeol says. “The poor thing tires.” He frowns. “And now that my job here is through, I don’t know how I will be able to make the journey.” He scuffs his shoe against the stones. “There is no magic in me, so without the ant—”

“T-There must be another way,” Jongin says. “Surely… another creature will take its place.”

“Ah, I’m not sure,” Chanyeol says, smiling sadly. He rests his hand on Jongin’s leg. “All I know is that I have greatly treasured our time together, little witch.” When the bus arrives, Chanyeol stands, his bag on his back, a small smile on his face. “Until I see you again, Jongin—farewell.”

Jongin watches with tears in his eyes as Chanyeol steps onto the bus, turning just before the doors close.

“Don’t be afraid to visit, if you can,” he smiles.

The doors shut, and Chanyeol waves as the bus pulls away, back whence it came.

He doesn’t want to bother Chanyeol, and he knows he must have work to do.

But when the bus is finally gone, Jongin is inconsolable. The journey is treacherous and wild and too long to make on foot, and Jongin’s heart aches. The need to see him, to touch something that has become familiar—he is desperate for it.

A new ant will come to take its place, the tree advises him. You must be patient.

I don’t have patience, he answers.

You have always had patience before, she says.

This is different, he says, biting his cheek nervously. This feels different.

A rainstorm of leaves falls over him, and branches curve around his body. She embraces him as his throat goes tight with emotion.

If you cannot wait, then you must walk..

Jongin walks the long way to the river, and it is exhausting doing that alone. By the time he makes it to the other side of the river, he feels almost… empty, as if a person could be such a thing. He thirsts, he hungers, but more than anything, his body feels cold and hollow. He trudges forward in the dead of the night, one foot in front of the other, and he goes to the only place he knows how to go.

He goes to Farrah’s.

“J-Jongin!” she says. “S-Stars, you look terrible, come in, come in!”

She warms him by the fire, and she feeds him, waters him. He comes back slowly, and he explains over honey cinnamon tea why he felt he must.

“Oh, Jongin,” she whispers, a hand at his back. “A new bus will come.”

“I could not wait,” he says. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jongin says. “I just… I needed to see him at least once more.”

“There will always be more chances,” she says. “I think it’s deeper than that, no?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You care for him,” she tells him. “Perhaps you might even… love him?”

“L-Love him?”

“Is that so silly to think?” she smiles.

“He is from the northland,” Jongin says. “He holds no magic. His lands hold no magic. H-He works with wood!”

“Is magic the most important thing in this world?”

“I-It feels like it sometimes,” Jongin says.

“Then why get his help at all?” she asks. “You needed him as they often need us.” She smiles, but it hangs at one corner. “Do you want to know why I moved here?”

“Why?”

“I fell in love with these miserable lands,” she smiles. “Cold and dreary as they might be, I felt the magic in them. Old magic. Dry magic. Magic that just needed a bit of love.”

“The twosomes,” he whispers.

“Yes, the twosomes,” Farrah says. “I think we can awaken that old magic here. If we chose to.”

“S-Should we?” Jongin asks. “It has been this way for as long as we can remember. I-Is it our job to meddle in something so beyond our capabilities? Isn’t magic… ours?”

“It is not for the elves or for the fae or for even just for the witches as a whole,” Farrah tells him, “at least not to me.” She smiles. “To me, magic belongs to the land—and this land has gone without it for too long.” She hugs him suddenly, arms tight around his shoulders. “Too long, we have grown the same weeds, the same flowers, the same herbs… don’t you think the time approaches? The time for us to grow something new?”

Tears well in his eyes as he thinks of Chanyeol.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, I think so.”

She hugs him close, and he hugs her too.

He feels it in the soil as the water it with their love. Magic is stretching her antiquated arms, and her blood is moving.

“You should go to him,” Farrah whispers. “See what might grow.”

Farrah tells him how to find the carpenter’s house down past the wheat fields and the small green lake, the wood and iron place with the flowers out front. Jongin’s heart thumps in his chest as he knocks on the door, waiting for an answer. He looks up at the moon on that cold winter’s night, and he wonders what he’s doing here. What he’s hoping for.

Chanyeol comes to the door with a worried look on his face, and that worry moves into surprise. Awe.

“W-What are you doing here? H-How—”

“I came to visit,” he whispers. “I’m sorry if it’s a bother.”

Chanyeol’s brow furrows, and he drags Jongin across the threshold into a tight, furious embrace. The warmth pours out from his hearth, and it swallows him up with loving arms. The door shuts behind him, and Jongin breathes out weakly.

“How could you say something so foolish?” Chanyeol asks. “As if you could ever bother me. As if you would ever be anything other than a joy.”

“I… hearing that you might not be able to return,” Jongin whispers, “it made me so terribly sad, and I couldn’t… I could not bear it.”

“No,” Chanyeol whispers. “Nor could I.”

“I came here on foot. I walked all day and all night just to see you because—”

Chanyeol pulls back from the embrace, his hands on Jongin’s shoulders. Radial warmth. Like the sun. His eyes—his eyes.

“Because?” Chanyeol tries.

“Because I love you,” Jongin confesses, tears falling down. “Because I fell in love with you, and now my life feels so empty without you.” He sniffs miserably. “Because I am a fool and now I have no way to get home and I am putting you in a terrible position and—”

Chanyeol interrupts him in a way that Jongin has never been interrupted by him before.

Chanyeol kisses him, and Jongin forgets to close his eyes for a second.

He moans softly against Chanyeol’s mouth once he realizes what’s happening, his eyes slipping shut, a wave of relief washing over him soft as summer showers. He lets it deepen, lets the roots stretch out in the soil, and he wraps his arms around Chanyeol’s body as Chanyeol holds his face in his tough, warm hands.

“Never for a second doubt my love for you, witch,” he whispers, pressing a second chaste kiss to Jongin’s mouth. “Loving you is like loving the earth, loving flowers, loving water,” Chanyeol tells him. “Loving you is loving the world. Loving you is natural. I was always meant to love you, Jongin. Exactly as I love you now.” He kisses him again, deep and honest and true. “And you will always have a home to return to so long as I am living.”

The fires grow long that night, and Jongin’s tears of joy, of euphoria, of love water the seeds they plant.

In the morning, there is a bus waiting at the stop for them both. A new ant to make the long journey.

“Stars,” Jongin whispers.

Chanyeol tightens his hold on Jongin’s hand. “A blessing.”

They hold each other closely as they watch the world pass them by, the river higher than Jongin’s ever seen it before. So very full.

When they get off the bus, the man driving waves, and they stare at him with wide eyes.

“H-He waved,” Chanyeol whispers. “The ant… the ant waved.”

“I knew it,” Jongin says, entirely elated. “I knew it.”

They practically run down the path together, rounding the bend, into the forest. Jongin can barely believe it. The darkness, the hunger, the thing that eats—it is gone. The air is clean. It is fresh. It smells like soil and flowers. Like water.

And the tree—Oh, Jongin thinks. My old friend.

I suppose it isn’t my time yet after all she laughs, her autumnal shower pouring down with laughter over them. I don’t know how you did it, but thank you, child.

You’re welcome, Jongin whispers.

Not you, she says with a delighted grin, and a thin branch whips Chanyeol across the rear. Him.

Oh, come on, Chanyeol’s voice speaks, clear as day. He rubs his behind. What did I do to deserve such treatment?

Jongin stares at him. “W—When did you learn how to speak to the tree?”

He knew all along, she tells him, and Jongin’s eyes go wide as he looks at Chanyeol. He always had the magic in him.

Chanyeol smiles, chagrined.

Jongin’s expression melts like ice in the sun, and he wraps him up in an endless embrace.

“Now that I’ve got you, I won’t ever let you go,” Jongin whispers. “If I have to keep you with magic, I’ll do it. No matter what it takes, I will love you forever.”

“Ah, I’ve heard tall tales about your kind,” Chanyeol whispers, his lips so close to Jongin’s. “Little witches are frightening when they’re determined.”

He kisses him under the brightest sun Jongin can remember, and for the rest of their days, the magic grows, the love builds, and the darkness never returns.