Chapter Text
When Hongjoong is unsure, he goes to Seonghwa for council.
Hongjoong is many things, but infallible is not one of them. Wooyoung will call him a tyrant sometimes, joke about anger issues and mean hyungs, and though it’s all in good spirit, such labels are not untrue. Hongjoong can be mean, can be angry and lash out, can be overly strict, can be unyielding in opinions that would be better yielded and can be brittle in his insecurities enough to break upon impact. Hongjoong is imperfect—bitterly, achingly so—and if not for Seonghwa, the crew might very well have fallen apart under the weight of his leadership.
Hongjoong is ambitious. Ever since he was young, he cultivated neverland dreams and clung to them with stubborn adamancy. He dreamt in colors of bright, sunburst yellows and burning reds, his nights skies awash in violet and cornflower so very unlike the grey, grey walls of the city. What is life without color? Without music? Even in this city of stone and steel, Hongjoong has always had the soul of an artist, and that, perhaps, is where it all went wrong.
Ambition and tenacity are just as virtuous a pair as they are poisonous. Artistry is just as beautiful as it is self-destructive.
And Hongjoong is just as smart as he is truly, painfully foolish.
The morning is dark, dawn’s golden rays hidden behind rainclouds burdened with yet unshed rain. Most of the crew is sleeping. Only Seonghwa and himself sit awake, two cups of warmed water resting on the small table between them and slowly going cold. Seonghwa prepared them, but he has yet to take a sip, merely gazing at Hongjoong with that contemplative look on his face—soft, his face is soft, but there’s a certain acumen to his eyes, keen and discerning.
Hongjoong sighs, breaking gaze. “What do I do?” he asks.
Seonghwa merely raises a brow.
“I just…”
“Do about what?”
“About—”
About San.
Hongjoong bites his tongue. He’s not sure how to broach the subject with Seonghwa, if an explanation would even make sense.
“I can’t read your mind, Captain.”
“No,” Hongjoong’s admits. “No, I know.”
A pause. He can hear the sound of Mingi snoring softly, the slight rustle of fabric.
“I’m worried about Yeosang,” he admits, and it’s not a lie.
Seonghwa makes an “ah” sound, nodding but not looking entirely convinced. Still, he doesn’t object.
“I’m worried that they have hurt him. I’m worried that he’s—that they have done something to his brain, killed his emotions. Or him. I’m worried that he’s dead, Seonghwa, and I’m worried that we’ve failed him.”
Seonghwa takes in a long, slow drag of air. “You haven’t failed him,” he says.
“But—”
“And we don’t know if he’s dead. What if he is? The plan does not change. We will find him. No matter what.”
Right. Of course. But that doesn’t keep Hongjoong from worrying.
“We all worry, Joong-ah,” Seonghwa says. “And that’s okay.”
But the crew needs a figurehead, their Captain. They need the fearless leader who does not flinch in the face of adversity and will sail them through the storm.
“Yunho is working on falsifying records. Jongho is helping.”
The crew needs a beacon of light, their North Star. Hongjoong is not—nor has ever been—much of a guiding light. For what command does a mere Captain have over the stars? He is but a navigator, desperately praying to the skies for safe voyage.
“Stop sulking, Captain. You’ll poison the air.”
He looks to Seonghwa.
Sometimes, he wonders if the man has a touch of divinity in his blood, if his veins are blue with starlight.
Sometimes, he wonders if Seonghwa was ever blessed by angels.
(Though Hongjoong can’t say he’s a fan of “angels” at the moment.)
“We need a plan,” he says. “An order.”
Seonghwa nods.
“There are two ways of doing this—one, you and Young-ah scope the place, see if you find anything of note, and then we send in San as a ‘student.’ Two, we send in San first, he relays his information, and then you two go in.”
“We can’t send San in blind. He just barely got here.”
Right.
San is young. Green. To Seonghwa, San is just as vulnerable as the rest of them when they first arrived, battered and bruised but so, so hopeful. To Seonghwa, San is just San.
Hongjoong nods. “Option one, then.”
“Young-ah and I can go in at any time. Tomorrow, even.”
“That’s—”
“Time is of the essence, Captain.”
It is. Hongjoong would storm the Academy now if he could. But what about guard shifts? What if they have raised their security from their last job, and Seonghwa and Wooyoung would be walking to their deaths?
He swallows the worry. “Be careful,” he asks.
Seonghwa is careful. He takes far more care in his care than the rest of the crew care to, and if there is anyone the Captain can trust to think, it is Seonghwa. Seonghwa, keen and discerning. Seonghwa, his light.
Seonghwa just smiles—smiles in the way so characteristic of him, kind but a little pained, a little grimaced—and finally reaches for his cup, taking a long, silent drag of the drink. “Only if you do the same,” he says.
I will, Hongjoong means to say, but the promise gets stuck in his throat.
Preparations.
Yunho secures records.
Seonghwa clusters with Wooyoung in the corner, going over their approach.
Hongjoong sits beside Jongho, carefully unwrapping his bandages and shedding the used cloth in a small basin of water beside them. The water turns a faint shade of rose. Hongjoong rewraps the injury with a crash roll of gauze, careful in his movements so as not to hurt their youngest. Jongho makes no word of complaint, but Hongjoong knows the agony that must simmer just beneath his skin, the pain that must flare every time he moves. Hongjoong lays a hand on Jongho’s thigh when he finishes, squeezing once.
Jongho gives him a relieved smile.
Yunho sets up the monitors and hands out earpieces for everyone while everyone tries to forget how it is usually Yeosang’s job to do so. Hongjoong helps Mingi load up the truck. There’s not much to load.
Tomorrow. The plan launches tomorrow. Gray clouds hang heavy over the city, and trepidation stretches between the crew like a rope pulled taut enough to, at any moment, snap. Hongjoong goes over the documents with Yunho, trying to focus on the words in front of him instead of the thoughts in his head. He catches sight of San, the demon hovering around Jongho with a curious tilt to his head. How were you injured, Jongho-ssi? Did it hurt? San presses a hand against the bandages. Jongho tries not to wince.
“—and these are birth records. I have no idea how to create a fake entry in the databases so I just downloaded a blank certificate and edited it? Hopefully they won’t look too far into it—”
Sorry, San says, and he almost seems sincere.
Jongho forgives him with a huff and a wave of his hand.
“—I did enter a ‘Choi San’ into the school database though—don’t mind me stealing your surname, Jongho-ya!—so theoretically, if we get San a uniform, he should be able to blend in—”
Do you want help? San asks, closing his eyes in a smile.
Jongho raises a brow. With what? he must mean.
“—but I dunno, hyung. Are you sure we should even go through with this? Isn’t it risky to send someone in like this? What if he gets caught? Hyung, these documents aren’t—they are not foolproof. Hyung, what if—”
I can help, San says. If you want, if you give me—
“San!” Hongjoong calls.
San looks back, confused pout on his lip. “Hyung?”
Hongjoong breathes, trying not to let the air rattle his chest. Fragile, his chest. He feels as though his ribs might cave under the weight of his skin. “San-ah,” he says. “Come here. We are discussing your part in the mission.”
Get away from Jongho, he means. Hongjoong does not know what San was planning to do, if he was trying to draw Jongho into a contract, if such a thing is even possible. Is such a thing possible? Can a demon be contracted to more than one master at a time? Who would take precedence should orders conflict? Jongho sends him a confused look as well, but Hongjoong does not address it.
He wonders what his crew thinks of San. What do they think of Hongjoong for bringing him here? For throwing him into the deep end on a mission that may end up being suicidal?
Jongho moves on to conversation with Wooyoung, rolling his eyes at the man’s antics and swatting away his attempts at affection.
“San-ssi, are you sure you want to go through with this?” Yunho asks.
San says, “I don’t mind.”
“San-ssi, I don’t know where you came from before this, what you might have gone through. If you don’t want to tell, we will never ask. Okay? But this mission, it will be dangerous. I want to make sure that you know what you’re agreeing to—that you’re prepared.”
Determination is a straight line across San’s lip, a hardness that sets into his eyes. “I know,” he says. “I’m willing.”
But why?
Because Hongjoong asked him to?
“Okay then,” Yunho says. “Then let me walk you through these papers…”
Hongjoong doesn’t want to leave San alone with anyone—not Jongho, not Yunho, not anyone in the crew. He doesn’t know what San might try to do. He needs to have a conversation with San, to lay down some ground rules. Don’t contract my crew into any of your deals. Hongjoong does not know how many anythings he has left to give, but he would be willing to give them all in order to ensure the safety of his crew. What other cracks might San be able to slip through? How far does do not hurt the crew extend?
He catches Seonghwa’s gaze from across the room. He probably needs to have a conversation with Seonghwa as well.
I sold my soul to a demon, Hwa. What do I do?
But Seonghwa drops his gaze, focusing back on Wooyoung, and Hongjoong is called away by Mingi, helping him to double check their supply inventory.
Daylight fades.
White walls, he walks
through a labyrinth of white
walls, walks
through an endless, twisting hallway—
the grey skies loom over him, oppressive.
He takes a turn, wonders
where this hallway leads? He wonders
where, exactly, he is.
Is he?
White walls, he sees
fire.
A fire
begins to lick up the walls, vibrant and terrible and hungry with color.
He runs.
Runs through a labyrinth of burning, white walls, the world now grey with smoke.
He chokes
on the soot in the air, the walls alive with the colors of fall.
He takes a turn, but
hears a voice cry out behind him:
Hyung!
Yeosang.
Yeosang is there, trapped behind the flames, one arm reaching out, fingers trembling, mouth agape as he calls Hyung, help! and Hongjoong stares, frozen even as the world burns in flame.
Hyung, please—!
He wakes to darkness.