Chapter Text
The harsh waves shook my boat. Rains whipped against my body as I pulled desperately on the ropes for my sail. Any trace of my research was either blown away or destroyed by the waters. However, this was not on my mind at the time as my arms ached and my hands burned. Ropes tightened in my grip, causing me to bite into my tongue. The sweet metallic taste flooded my senses. Wind caused the sails to thrash. Prayers began to slip from my blood-soaked lips, begging the being above for mercy. Lightning flashed through the clouded sky. Yet, despite my pleas, my footing slips, and my ship and the raging seas consumed me.
~
A soft buzzing of LED lights hangs in the hair as Chan types away at his computer. It’s late at the bar, and all crewmates left about 45 minutes earlier. Seungmin, as he tossed Chan the keys to lock the door for the night, offered to drop him off at home. At the time, Chan waved his hand and shook his head. Since then, the only part of him that has moved has been his fingers as he continues to count the expenses for the night. He is in the green by a good margin: he knew that, but still wanted the comfort of double-checking himself.
Cool air tickled his sweat-soaked skin. He is still covered in sweat after his performance that night. Not only did he own the bar, but he also enjoyed putting on his own performances once a week.
Changbin has Fridays. Han gets Saturday. So that leaves Chan with Sundays. It's the least busy day of the weekend, but he likes it just the same. Each of them performs their own music for the club, and a lot of the patrons of the bar come just for them. The drinks were just a plus.
Chan designed the bar’s layout, and he has always been proud of it. There is a large bar on the left side of the room, with tall black metal tables and stools that fill up the rest of the room. The walls are made of natural wood, with paintings hanging throughout the sitting area. At the back of the room, a large stage rises, with stereos at the corners outlining its edges. In the middle are the soundboard, mic, music stand, and a chair. The small staircase leading up to the stage opens onto a hallway. In the hallway is a storage room and a staircase to the upstairs/apartment portion of the bar. No one lives in the apartment; it is mainly a haven for Chan when he’s too tired to walk all the way home. The night was rough, with just too many patrons for Seungmin, Hyunjin, and Felix to really handle by themselves. Chan stepped behind the bar with Seungmin several times throughout the night to help make drinks, but Chan could tell it was emotionally and physically draining for the workers.
Felix and Hyunjin were excellent at their job, moving from table to table, taking drink orders, and bringing them back to the guests. Seungmin did great at making the drinks according to the recipes, even with the added stress of mounting orders. However, in the end, Chan could see the shaking hands and weak knees. The guilt eats at him, making his friends work so hard, but he doesn’t have the staff to have more people on the shift. In total, the bar has 5 staff members and three owners. Each day, 3Ratcha feels the need for more staff, but they can never agree on a new member. Jisung says their schedule is incompatible with company hours. Chan says they aren’t catching on to the training. Changbin states that they have been drinking on the shift. So the new hires never last long enough to really help the bar.
Maybe I should give them a raise? Yeah, I should. We can afford it. Text Jisung about it in the morning.
A loud slam snaps Chan back into the real world. A body slams itself into the front door over and over, as the doorknob shakes. Fear and panic root Chan in his seat. Dreams of this exact moment have entered his mind many times, but he has never thought it would come true. In those dreams, he’d always stop the robber and quickly call the police. Yet once faced with the real situation, he remains rooted in his seat. Air freezes as a harsh crack rips through the room. Stumbling through the broken door isn’t a muscle man with malicious intent. Instead, a dangerously thin man with bright red hair falls onto the floor in a bloodied heap. Even at such a glance at the man’s face, it is clear that it is covered in blood. Coming from the broken nose and bleeding lips. Breaking out of his own daze, Chan rushes and slams the door closed. No one else comes to the door to follow the injured man into the bar, and Chan is grateful. Kneeling by the partly unconscious man, Chan lifts the man’s face to get a better look at him. Bruises litter the man's face, but the blood makes it hard to understand what is wrong with him entirely.
“Shit. I got you.” Chan mutters reassurance to the boy as he slides his hands under the boy's legs and around his neck. He’s light and yet limp in Chan’s arms. Dread fires through Chan, and he quickens his movements as he runs to the back of the bar. Opening the door, climbing up the stairs, and entering the apartment. Upon entering, Chan gently sets the boy on the black leather living room couch. His head falls back over the edge of the backrest. Blood drips trails onto the carpet from an unknown place on the boy’s body. Rushing through the room, he enters a small hallway that leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. In a white, clean bathroom, Chan slams the cabinet under the sink open and searches for the first-aid kit. The large white box is hidden beneath several bags of makeup that Felix hides from the rest of the group. He rushes back through the building and sets the first aid kit on the glass coffee table that sits in front of the man on the couch. By now, the man has regained some consciousness as he has leaned forward, holding his head in one hand. The other hand still lies limply against the couch. Blood coats the hand that is against his face, as he has tried to stop the bleeding on his own, but gave up. Chan slowly takes the man's fingers and lifts his head so they can make eye contact. His eyes are two different colors, which surprises Chan. One is a traditional brown, while the other is a vibrant red. Neither of them focuses on Chan; instead, they remain glossed over, staring at nothing. Opening the kit, Chan takes out some cleaning wipes. The boy hisses as the cool wipe brushes against his skin. In total, the man’s nose is broken, his lip busted, and a bite taken out of his tongue. It takes about half an hour for all the bleeding to stop, and by then the man can speak.
“I can handle the rest. Thank you. Sorry for breaking in like this. I needed to get somewhere with a camera so they would stop attacking. For being brutes, they aren’t stupid.” He lets out a rough laugh at his own words. “It was useful, I guess.”
“What’s your name?” The man enchants Chan. His laugh stabbed him in the chest, and his heart skipped a beat. The smile is dangerous and enthralling. A moment of silence stops the pair. Chan catches the tension in the man's jaw, feeling it beneath his fingers. The fingers that hold the Man’s head in place remain glued to their position under his jaw. Just as Chan is about to retract his question, the boy speaks.
“Wumuti. I’m Wumuti. You?” Still laced with adrenaline from the attack, Wumuti’s words are sharp and short. Chan retracts his hand from Wumuti, giving them their own personal space, free from a stranger. Wumuti can calm down a little.
“I am Chan. I am one of the owners of the bar downstairs. Did you know the people who attacked you?” While he speaks, Chan gets off the coffee table, accidentally knocking bloodied tissues onto the floor. He picks them up and begins cleaning out the trash from the first-aid kit. Muti’s eyes stay locked on Chan as he cleans.
“No. Just some thieves trying to rob me.” Now that he has a second, Chan notices the boy's clothing. Wearing a sleeveless gray shirt, a faux fur jacket, and a medium-length black skirt over leather pants, the boy screamed wealth. The necklace that hung off his neck didn’t help build this image. Silver skulls hang from chains that lace around his neck. It shines brightly in the room's light. Compared to him, Chan felt bleak. Sure, Chan is dressed up, but nothing like Wumuti. Wumuti continued: “When I didn’t give them anything, they started to attack. Took my wallet, but I was able to get away.”
“Good thing. It doesn’t look too serious, except maybe a concussion, but I can’t tell you for sure. You should visit a doctor tomorrow once the clinics open, just to be safe.” From the dazed looks Wumuti gave Chan earlier, it is easy to guess what happened, but it is best to be certain. Pain remained pulsing behind Wumuti’s eyes, yet he chose to ignore it. Chan takes the trash to a bin across the kitchen. While Chan steps away, Wumuti gathers himself, stands, and walks towards the door.
“It’s not that bad. Some medicine and I will be okay. Thank you, though. I should-”
“No! Wait! Going back out in the dark is dangerous. There are probably only a few hours until daybreak. Just stay here until then?” Chan shouts from the kitchen, stopping Wumuti. The loud voice pulses pain through his brain. In reality, the man isn’t wrong. The oven clock reads 3:30 am, so the sun will be rising in 2 hours. And Muti didn’t care for walking in the cold night. His arms wrap around himself at the thought alone.
“Until the sun rises?” Wumuti repeats the question to make sure that he heard the offer right. He turns his head and makes eye contact directly with Chan from across the room. A deep blush covers Chan’s face as he nods. Smirking at the others' reaction, Wumuti sits back down on the couch. “Tell me more about yourself. I’m curious. Why are you so generous? I am just a man who broke into your bar right in front of you.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it breaking in. You were getting away from the attackers, and I was right by the door.” Chan defends the stranger as he opens a cupboard and grabs out some cups. “Tea?”
“I think I broke the door, so what else would you call it? And sure, that sounds nice, what kind?” The kitchen is open-concept, with an island separating the living room from the other space. This was something he really liked about his apartment away from home: how open it was. It felt like it gave him the freedom to do anything he truly wanted. Wumuti’s eyes stay glued on the other as Chan fills a kettle with water and drops a bag into it.
“It latched again, so it works well enough. Hibiscus Rose tea. Ever had it?” In truth, there are a few different types of teas in the cupboard, but Chan figures that Wumuti likes the color red. It matches his hair and eyes.
“Can’t say I ever have. I haven’t had many good or interesting teas. The most exotic one was a mint tea I got when I was sick when I was 12.” A laugh slips from Chan’s lips without knowing it. Is mint tea considered exotic to Wumuti?
“Well, this tea is pretty sweet and has a strong flavor. You might like it. I do.” A soft beep comes from the electric kettle, and Chan pulls out two mugs for them. He pours the dark crimson liquid into the mug and carries it over to Wumuti. “It's hot, so be careful.”
Steam billows over the top of the porcelain mug. Muti takes the cup by the handle and blows into the glass. His breath ripples the liquid. Taking a sip, the sweet, hot drink burns his tongue as it goes down. The natural sweetness is addictive, so he cannot help but take another painful sip. It hurts his lip and tongue where he was hurt, but the taste is worth it in his eyes. Chan takes a sip of his own drink. This has always been a comfort beverage for him, after long days of work or practicing songs, the tea always soothed his throat in ways other teas never could. Chan lets his muscles relax into the couch next to Wumuti, feeling the weight of the night start to press down on him.
“Like it?” Chan asks in a sleep-deepened voice. Wumuti cannot help but look over at the man next to him, sending him a soft nod. He lies completely flush with the couch, head leaning on his own shoulder. A few moments of silence would surely let Chan drift off.
“Yes, thank you. For everything Chan.” This is the last thing Chan hears before he falls into a deep sleep.
~
By the time Chan is awake again. Wumuti is long gone. The faint smell of Bacon fills the air as Chan sits up to see a plate sitting on the island with a paper by it. In neat handwriting, a small note signed by Wumuti thanks him for his stay and the food. On the plate are two pancakes, scrambled eggs, and two pieces of bacon. Chan isn’t even sure that he had all of the ingredients for this meal, but he’s grateful for it anyway. Looking towards the sink, not even the cups are left unwashed. It surprises Chan that he somehow slept through all of this, because he’s usually a light sleeper. But he lets it slide as he takes a bite out of a piece of bacon.
Wumuti’s heels clicked on the tile floor of the hotel he had been living in for the last week. The food he made at Chan’s house is still hot in his arms, and he hopes that will make up for going MIA last night. At first, Wumuti went out only to get some food so he could make everyone food for the next week. Everyone, even Haru, has been getting tired of takeout. He makes it to their shared room, balances the food on his knee, and knocks on the door. Long crashes sound from behind the door, and in a split second, Rui stands in front of the door. Anger is evident in his eyes.
“Muti-Hyung, where have you been?! We’ve been worried sick!” Then Rui gets a look at the bruises on Wumuti’s face and somehow yells even louder. “And what the hell happened to your face?”
“Don’t worry. Just some guys tried to rob me. Nothing too serious. I ran into this bar, and the owner helped me out. He insisted that I stay the night, and so I did. I’m sorry for scaring you guys. At least I brought back some food.” Hyun and Haru come running after hearing Rui’s yelling and drag the other two inside before causing too much of a scene. Hyun moves Wumuti onto one of the two queen beds that are in the room and sits him down. As Wumuti finishes speaking and offering the food, Haru takes it from his hands and sets it on the small desk that the hotel provided. Using his powers, Hyun brushes his thumbs over Wumuti’s cheeks as he cups his older friend’s face. Bruises begin to fade into nothing, but Wumuti can’t help but hiss when he feels his nose building itself back together. In just a few seconds, Wumuti looks back to normal. “Bad news, the thugs took my thirty that I was going to use for shopping this week. This leaves us with only a few hundred left for rent. I need to start looking for a job if we plan to keep living like this.”
“I could risk going back, stealing more from my mother. Not like she’ll notice. I’ll be in and out.” When the four first ran away from home, they managed to gather about $1,000 in total. They have survived a week on their own with that money, but they are running low. Out of everyone, Haru is the most skilled at hiding, so he would do a good job at stealing from them, but just the thought makes Wumuti nauseous.
“No. I would rather starve to death than go back to that hellhole. We can get a job.”
“Easier said than done. We have limited experience and limited normal skills. Who are we going to ask?” Rui retorts with sarcasm, lacing his voice. Then, Wumuti’s mind wanders.
“I have one person we could at least try..”