Chapter Text
When Jisung arrives, it’s the middle of the night.
Jeno hears the commotion coming from the driveway, voices jolting him from his peaceful rest inside his tree. Ten’s panicked tone rises before someone else frantically shushes him—Sicheng, Jeno realizes, hm, that’s unusual —and then the front door opens and shuts and the night is quiet once more.
Jeno’s heart pounds. It’s been a while since they took in someone new.
“Fuck. Get me gauze and gloves,” Ten is saying to Kun when Jeno pads through the back door and into the house. “And a suture kit. Shit, shit, he’s not clotting, I don’t know—”
“Should I get the transfusion equipment?”
“—No, I have literally no idea what the fuck his blood is made out of, just—get—”
Kun nods and nearly knocks Jeno over as he rushes toward the hall, looking far too awake for what must be very early in the morning. But Kun’s sudden wakefulness isn’t what makes Jeno stop in his tracks, staring.
White wings take up most of the entryway, folding around Ten and Sicheng, who support the boy—dressed only in a hospital gown—from either side. It seems like they’ve given up trying to move him any further; he sobs quietly but with such force that his entire body trembles. The lab coat Sicheng holds to his arm is soaked with crimson.
“What can I do?” Jeno asks, and Ten’s head snaps up, one sweaty strand of hair falling across his forehead.
“Make some saline solution?”
Jeno hesitates. “Wouldn’t it be faster for Sicheng to do it?”
“My wand got snapped,” Sicheng murmurs, and Jeno’s whole body aches at the rough edges of his voice, the pain laced in each word.
“Oh, gods,” he breathes, “I’m sorry—”
“Jeno. Saline solution, please.”
Jeno nods at Ten’s request and heads to the kitchen, narrowly missing Kun again as he returns with the supplies.
He’s learned to stay calm in situations like this. He learned to keep his cool a long time ago.
It was similar when they first found Yangyang—he was freshly turned and frightened to the bone, coming straight from what must’ve been an unpreventably bloody first full moon. That was nearly a year after Sicheng moved out, but he happened to be at the House when Kun carried Yangyang through the door; Jeno remembers Sicheng casting a calming spell as Yangyang growled and bared his canines.
Yangyang still doesn’t talk about the events that led to Kun capturing him that night. Jeno has a sneaking suspicion that they’re best forgotten.
“What’s going on?”
Jeno offers the boy in question a smile from across the room as he leans, sleepy-eyed, on the banister at the bottom of the stairs.
“New boarder,” Jeno replies. “I believe he’s the reason for those top secret meetings Ten’s been holding.”
Yangyang raises an eyebrow. “The ones you weren’t invited to?”
Jeno inhales sharply, face placid, and Yangyang shakes his head.
“Sorry. Not what I meant.”
It was, in fact, exactly what he meant, but Jeno smiles all the same. “Well. Anyhow. This one’s different.”
“What d’you mean? We’re all, like, different.”
“No, he’s...” Jeno glances back toward the foyer, where a noise of distress sounds, followed by a rush of comforting voices like water filling a tub. “...he’s different different.”
The pot boils, and Jeno takes the top off with a seal-print hot pad that Kun got Ten at Yuletide last year. He adds the salt as Yangyang trudges past him to have a look in the entryway before gasping softly.
“Holy shit,” he rasps. “Are those, like—is he—”
“No idea,” Jeno says. “I don’t think they know either. They just broke him out of the lab, I think—the one in the city?”
“—I was going to say an angel, but, like. Holy shit . Teller Labs?"”
Jeno nods. He brings the hot pad and the pot of saline solution over to where Ten, Sicheng, and Kun still huddle around the boy, whose whimpers are growing steadily weaker.
“How is he?” Jeno asks, and Ten shakes his head.
“He’s still not clotting. He’s losing a lot of blood—if this were any other situation, I would do a transfusion, but his blood is clearly composed differently—”
“Is it time for a tourniquet?” Sicheng offers, gravely. Ten turns to him, opening his mouth, but before he can speak Jeno suddenly remembers—
“—Aggander,” he blurts. “We need a clotting agent. Aggander will work.”
Ten looks at him like he’s grown a second head, but Sicheng nods with a touch to Jeno’s arm.
“Go get some,” he says, and Jeno runs.
When he returns, Sicheng is finishing up flushing out the wound and stops to hand Jeno a pair of gloves before moving to the side. Jeno pulls them on with shaking hands but he’s confident; though the remedies he remembers from his family are few, none of them have ever failed.
He looks up and pauses.
The boy’s face is screwed up in pain, but he’s breathtakingly beautiful, with smooth skin and a delicately curved nose. His bottom lip is an angry shade of pink from being chewed on, and there are flecks of dirt and blood on his face, but he really could be an angel. One of those beautiful ones described in Christmas stories.
Jeno shakes himself, refocusing on the task at hand.
“You have to take the gauze away for a second.”
Ten looks worried. “I’m really not supposed to do that. It could—”
“—Please, just trust me. Take the gauze away. I can’t help unless you do.”
Ten gives him one last wary glance and then peels back the gauze enough to expose the wound, which draws an agonized sound from the boy’s mouth.
“Sorry,” Jeno says to him. “I’m sorry, this is gonna hurt for a few seconds but then it’ll get better, I promise—”
He sprinkles dried aggander over the wound and the boy cries out, cheeks wet with tears. Jeno’s heart jolts and he almost stops completely, but he resolutely keeps his eyes away from the boy’s face and finishes covering his wound with the herb. He takes the gauze from Ten’s hand and presses it back down.
“There, it’s done,” Jeno tells the boy. “It’s got anesthetic properties, which means that in a few minutes—”
“I know what anesthetic means,” the boy wheezes, and Jeno lets out a startled laugh.
“Okay, well, good.”
He looks over his shoulder at Ten, who’s kneeling with his gloved hands held up like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Kun stands just behind him, one hand hovering over his shoulder but not quite touching it.
“We should keep the bandage on for a couple hours,” Jeno says as he wraps the gauze in a bandage. “Just to make extra sure it clots.”
“He’ll need sutures,” Ten replies, dazedly.
Sicheng brushes hair from his forehead. “I can do them. You should rest.”
“You both should rest,” Jeno insists. “I’ll do them. We can move him to the guest room and I’ll sit up with him.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Jeno smiles. “Sicheng, you’re welcome to stay here for the night.”
Ten gives Jeno a look, and Jeno looks right back. Sicheng’s eyes flick back and forth between them, but when Ten glances over at him, he averts them.
“Okay,” Ten says. “We can set up a bed in the boarders’ room, if you’d like.”
“That would be nice,” Sicheng replies.
Jeno claps his hands together. “Then, it’s settled.”
The boy’s breathing is still labored, but it seems more even. Jeno hazards another glance over his features, eyes tip-toeing from his chin all the way up to his eyebrows; there’s a sheen on his cheeks that catches the hallway light.
“Time to move,” Ten says to the boy. “Up you get.”
The two of them help him to his feet, and Jeno startles when a gust of wind comes from the boy’s wings as he steadies himself. They start off and Kun and Sicheng follow them through the living room, cautiously.
Lucas has joined Yangyang at the bottom of the stairs, the pair of them wrapped in a blanket and blinking in the low light. Jeno thinks he sees Yangyang throw a weighted gaze at Ten—no, not Ten, maybe at Kun, behind him?—but it’s gone before he can think about it too hard, exhaustion slipping in like ocean surf and taking the thought to the far reaches of Jeno’s mind.
When they reach the guest room down the hall, they lower the boy gently on his left side, bandaged arm up. He was already half-asleep but when he hits the pillow he’s out cold, and Jeno releases a breath that had been sticking to the walls of his lungs for the whole night.
“Thanks for your help, everyone,” Ten says to the group as they linger by the guest room door. “I panicked there for a second.”
“We did good tonight,” Sicheng says, quietly, and Ten glances over at him with such heartbreak on his face that Jeno has to look away. Like Ten, Jeno remembers how the four of them were before. Like Ten, Jeno misses it more than anything.
“I’m glad you got him out safely.” Kun’s arm slips around Ten’s waist, sneakily, but Jeno catches it out of the corner of his eye. “And I’m glad the two of you are okay. Those fuckers in the city are dangerous.”
“Well, we’ll see if the Glamour held up,” Sicheng says. “I think we managed to get out before—my wand, but—if they’re able to track us...”
He falls silent, and the four of them hold their breath in the midst of uncertain doom hovering over the house.
“I wish you’d have told me a little more about this,” Jeno replies.
“Sorry, Jeno.” Ten places a hand on his shoulder. “I just knew you wanted to stay out of the administration side of things.”
Jeno smiles faintly, then looks at the floor. “Less so when the safety of my home is concerned. It is my home, too.”
“Listen,” Kun chimes in, “we couldn’t have known things would get dangerous like this. Yes, we succeeded, but a lot went wrong—”
Jeno’s eyes cut up to Kun’s. “—You knew who you were dealing with. You must’ve had some idea.”
He holds Kun’s gaze; he can sense Ten and Sicheng stiffening on either side of him as old anger oozes like sap out of him, that resentment made even more sour by the stench of grief—
But he softens. It was a mistake, and Jeno is an expert at forgiving those.
“We’re sorry,” Ten repeats. Jeno takes a deep breath and looks toward him instead.
“Just let me know next time, all right? You all aren’t exactly heist experts. I don’t want you to get in over your heads.”
Kun purses his lips like he wants to say something more but keeps his mouth shut.
“We will,” Sicheng says, and when he looks at him, Jeno can tell he’s sincere.
Jeno almost doesn’t remember the last time Sicheng and Ten were on the same side. On one hand, he’s happy to see the warmth between them returning; on the other hand, it drives an icy wedge between him and them, all three of them, that feels a little too familiar.
“I’ll look after him,” Jeno says, “You all can head to bed.”
“Okay.” Sicheng squeezes his arm. “Goodnight.”
“‘Night,” Kun says with a nod.
“Goodnight, Jeno,” Ten murmurs. He goes to follow Kun and Sicheng but Jeno stops him.
“I forgot to ask,” Jeno says, “What’s his name?”
Ten smiles. “Jisung.”
He glances fondly over at the bed, where Jisung has pulled his great, snow-white wings around himself. The soles of his bare feet are dirty and torn up, and he sleeps with a little furrow between his eyebrows. It makes Jeno’s stomach sink.
“He’s been through a lot,” Ten continues. “I was actually hoping that he might take to you.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because.” Ten smiles again, softer. “Once, a kind dryad with a pretty smile told me that family is made, not born into. I think Jisung might need to hear that, too.”
Jeno swallows, a lump suddenly catching in his throat. There are times that he longs to jump in a time machine, back to when the four of them slept in the same bed, or even back to when it was him and Ten and the sea, alone, together. But he can’t—he’s a lowly tree spirit, not an inventor, so he just takes Ten’s hand and traces the line of his palm.
Ten’s eyes are dark like a seal’s pelt, deeper than the open ocean. He blinks, once, then sniffs and wipes at his nose, looking away.
“He must be feeling the way we felt back then,” he adds. “Scared, lonely...uprooted, maybe. I don’t even want to think about what they did to him over there.”
“Is he the only one?”
“As far as we know.”
Jeno glances back at Jisung’s sleeping form, curling up to make himself small despite his size. He looks like he’s trying to protect himself from something.
“I’ll take care of him,” Jeno murmurs, without thinking, without even realizing the words are coming out of his mouth.
He can see Ten looking at him in his peripheral, stock still, one hand resting on his chin. When Jeno looks back, concern and wonder and warmth all meet each other on Ten’s face; at once, Jeno feels entirely too exposed and fights to keep his expression neutral.
“Thought you might,” Ten replies, then takes another breath, but before he can say anything else Jeno cuts in.
“You should get some sleep.”
Ten pauses, then closes his mouth. “Yes. I guess I should.”
He pushes off the doorframe and into the hallway, arms crossed. Jeno remains in the dark of the guest room with one hand on the doorknob.
“Thanks for your quick thinking tonight,” Ten says.
Jeno smiles. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Ten smiles back and then heads toward the staircase next to the kitchen. Jeno shuts the door and goes to the bed, fiddling with his hands for a few moments before he gently tugs the covers out from under Jisung’s body and places them over him.
He takes his post at one of the armchairs in the corner, then pulls one knee up as moonlight filters in through the window and the sound of a lone owl echoes through the night.
Kindred House may not be old, but it is already filled with ghosts.
///
Jisung wakes up screaming.
It’s not fully morning yet; weak light filters through the curtains Jeno hand-sewed himself. Jeno is asleep with his head resting on his knee and when he hears it he snaps from slumber, heart rate skyrocketing.
Jisung’s voice is hoarse and he whimpers a string of nonsense words as Jeno rushes over, narrowly dodging Jisung’s right wing.
“Hey, hey,” he says when he reaches Jisung’s side. He kneels at the side of the bed, chin tilted up and body crouched low. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
Jisung looks at him with shiny, bloodshot eyes, the corners of his lips pulled down in a distressed grimace. He holds his hands close to his chest and his entire body quivers, all the way out to his wings, which are almost frightening in their size. Jisung must see Jeno looking at them because he quickly folds them to his sides.
“Am I...” Jisung looks around, still shying away. “Where am I?”
“Kindred House.” Jeno smiles. “I’m guessing Ten and Sicheng didn’t tell you much in the scuffle.”
Jisung shakes his head. “No.”
Jeno watches carefully as Jisung unspools a little, lowering his hands and straightening his legs from where they’re drawn up on the bed.
“Ow,” Jisung says, hand drifting up to his bandaged arm. “What the hell.”
Jeno huffs a laugh at the scrunch of Jisung’s nose, then immediately feels guilty.
“I think the anesthetic wore off a while ago,” he says. “Sorry. Let me go get some supplies and I’ll finish cleaning that up.”
He goes to stand but Jisung catches his sleeve, then lets go, embarrassed.
“Could you, um...leave the door open?”
Jeno nods. “Of course. I’ll be quick.”
He leaves the guest room with the door wide open and jogs over to the storage closet. Kun has organized it meticulously, his blocky lettering adorning every label on every little drawer in every shelf. Jeno finds the suturing supplies and then heads to the kitchen where he makes a fresh pot of saline solution and grabs a near-empty jar of a poultice Sicheng left behind over a year ago before making his way back to the guest room.
Jisung doesn’t say anything when he returns, but the pained frown is back on his features, and he clenches a fist into the material of his shirt. His knuckles are white.
“Let’s see, here...” Jeno pulls the bench at the end of the bed around and sets his supplies on it, snapping on a pair of gloves and taking a seat.
Jisung hisses when he removes the bandage. The wound isn’t infected, and Jeno breathes a sigh of relief; aggander usually keeps the area clean but Jeno wasn’t sure how old their stock was. He flushes the wound again until the last of the herb is gone and then pauses, glancing at Jisung’s face.
“Doing all right?” he asks, and Jisung nods with gritted teeth, though the dark sweeps of his eyelashes are wet.
“Usually I’d have Sicheng cast a numbing spell,” Jeno continues, using the needle holder to take the needle out of its package. “But, well...”
“It was my fault,” Jisung murmurs, and Jeno looks up in surprise. “His wand, it’s my fault.”
Jeno’s movements slow, then stop.
“They let out some of the subjects in the basement to distract the guards,” Jisung says, wetly. “And when we rounded a corner, one of them surprised us, and—my stupid wing—it knocked his wand right out of his hand and toward the guard chasing us.” Jisung’s voice trembles, and Jeno doesn’t move, unsure of what to do. “We all watched as he snapped it and—your friend screamed —”
Jeno’s heart shatters as Jisung dissolves into tears again, one hand covering his face. Jeno takes it and lowers it, clasping it between his own hands tightly, and leans in to look Jisung square in the face.
“Don’t blame yourself. It was an accident.”
“But I still—”
“You did, and there’s nothing that can be done about it now.” Jeno gently strokes his thumb over the top of Jisung’s hand, and Jisung stills. “I’m sure Sicheng doesn’t blame you for it. He knew the risks he was taking getting you out of there.”
Jisung is motionless save for the quivering of his lower lip, staring down at Jeno’s hands touching his.
“Mistakes happen. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”
Jisung looks up at him and it takes Jeno a moment to register his expression as disbelief. Jeno’s thumb stills.
“I...” Jisung says, eyes welling up again as he shakes his head. “That’s...”
“It doesn’t,” Jeno repeats, firmly. “I’ve seen some terrible accidents, and even the worst of them weren’t made with bad intentions.”
Jisung suddenly hides his face, turning it down toward his knees, and Jeno watches little drops of wetness appear on his hospital gown.
“Hey, sorry,” Jeno says, grabbing a few tissues from the bedside table. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Jisung accepts the tissue and wipes his eyes before balling it up in his hand and squeezing it. He takes a deep breath, rocking back and forth slightly, and Jeno lets him collect himself for a few moments.
“No one’s ever told me anything like that before.”
It steals Jeno’s breath right out of his mouth. He’s been a part of Kindred House for many years now and received admissions that would make the most hardened of Hunters cry, but something about the way Jisung’s words seem packed to the brim with unsteady emotion hits Jeno square in the gut.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, faintly.
Jisung swipes at his nose. “About what?”
He means it; the look in his eyes is nothing but questioning. Jeno does have the heart to take the subject any further.
“Making you cry again,” he says instead, recovering. He smiles. “I promise that’s not my job around here.”
“‘S okay,” Jisung replies. “I think I needed it.”
“Well, good.”
He thinks about taking Jisung’s hand again but Jisung is still curled in on himself a little, like he’s bracing for something. Jeno decides against it.
“Now,” he begins, pulling on a new pair of gloves, “let’s get you stitched up.”
Jeno sutures his wound with steady hands. This, he knows; it’s worked into his muscle memory from years of repetitive motion. He tries not to look up at Jisung’s jaw clenching as his skin is poked and prodded and punctured but when Jisung lets out a particularly strained grunt Jeno hazards a glance.
Jisung is sweating, and with his hair sticking up in matted clumps like that he really does look like he’s been to hell and back. Jeno refocuses on his hands at Jisung’s arm.
“Almost done.”
Jisung nods jerkily, and after Jeno is done with the final stitch, he slumps.
“There.” Jeno puts the needle on the paper set out on the bench, then folds it in on itself and walks across the hall to the bathroom to dispose of it. When he comes back, Jisung is admiring Jeno’s handiwork with curious eyes.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
Jeno stops with his hands on his hips. “From my family, a long time ago.”
“They must get into trouble a lot.”
Jeno laughs. “They were healers. They certainly saw a lot of trouble. I guess they made the trouble, sometimes.”
Something in Jisung’s expression shifts at the tense Jeno uses, and he watches the beginnings of another question form in Jisung’s mouth.
“Right,” Jeno continues, quickly. “Well, it’s almost morning anyway, and you could probably use a shower—although, you’ll have to be careful not to get that arm wet.”
“Okay,” Jisung says. “Should I just put this back on after?”
He pinches the thin fabric of his hospital gown between his thumb and forefinger. He’s wearing a light blue pair of pants underneath that almost look like a prison uniform, and they’re torn and bloodied like the rest of him.
“Oh, no, I suppose not. You can, um...” Jeno eyes Jisung’s wings. “You must’ve worn some kind of shirt at the lab, right? How did you...”
Jisung shakes his head. “Just these. They tie in the back. I’m guessing you don’t have any here?”
“No. But we should get you some real clothes, anyhow.” He holds up a finger. “Wait here. I have an idea.”
He sneaks down the hallway, through the kitchen, and up the staircase into the boarders’ sleeping quarters. Lucas is soundly asleep, snoring like a bear, while Chenle and Yangyang snooze quietly at the opposite end of the room. After sizing all three of them up, Jeno goes for Lucas’s trunk at the end of his bed and picks through his t-shirts, sending him a silent apology as he takes one and vows to ask Kun to buy him another next time he goes into the city.
“Here we go,” Jeno announces when he returns to the guest room with the shirt, a pair of scissors, and a handful of safety pins. “Now, hold still for a second.”
Jisung does, and Jeno sits behind him, making an approximation of where Jisung’s wings sprout from his back. They really are nothing like Jeno has ever seen; he’s familiar with the wings sported by some of the fae folk that used to populate the town before the Purge, but Jisung’s wings are powerful, flesh and bone. Jeno is simultaneously wary of them and in awe.
“Could you stretch your wings out for me?” Jeno asks. “I’m trying to see where...”
Jisung obliges, slowly, carefully. Jeno’s words die on his tongue as he watches Jisung’s feathers gleam in the lamplight, and by the time his wings are fully outstretched, Jeno’s heart is pounding.
“Thank you,” he says, quietly, before carrying on with his task.
He cuts two straight lines up from the hem of the shirt, careful to match them to the width between Jisung’s wings. Then he hands the shirt to Jisung to try on.
“Huh,” Jisung says when he pulls it over his head, one hand running over the fabric on his chest.
“What is it?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever worn a real shirt before.”
He twists to look at Jeno over his shoulder, who’s frozen with his pair of scissors in mid-air. Then Jisung cracks a smile, and a laugh bubbles from his lips; he’s soon overtaken by contagious giggles that have Jeno’s own cheeks aching.
“Go on,” Jeno says when he can breath once more. He gestures to the door. “The bathroom’s across the hall, clean towels are hanging on the rack. I’ll bring you some pants, too—let me know when you’re done so I can help you safety pin the back of that shirt.”
“Will do.” Jisung stands and folds his wings close to his back once more. “Thank you, by the way. For my arm. And everything else.”
Jeno’s stomach warms. “You’re welcome.”
He watches Jisung’s back as he retreats, wings relaxed; as he goes, Jeno realizes that they’re shaped like a giant heart, with two curves at the top and a point where his wing-tips meet near the floor. It’s a small detail, but it stirs something in Jeno that he wasn’t counting on feeling again for a long time.
He sits on the bed for a while more, trying to tell his own heart that it’s too soon, but his heart just won’t listen.