Just one last warning: The angst label is no joke. There are mentions of abuse, depression, blood, violence... I did my best to match up to the "angsty tragic romance" my giftee requested. You have been warned.

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They had been born to die. Each rattling breath that slipped from the lungs was like the deadening drop of a lead weight – yet another token of a life wasting away. Even as children they had heard it: You have to die someday. Those words, so flippant and hollow, were the festering root of so much pain and sorrow. Taekwoon had first heard those words when he was just shy of his third birthday. His father's cold black eyes had bored into the child’s tender flesh, evaluating and cynical, before calloused fingers cinched tight around Taekwoon's too-thin wrist. “You have to die someday,” the man had muttered. “Might as well be useful until you do.” After that day, the small flickering lamps of hope had been utterly extinguished in the boy’s umber eyes. His gaze was the midnight hour: intense but void, shadows that threatened but held no real danger.

As he grew older, Taekwoon drew into himself - hiding from the bleak sunlight that pierced through the thick smog as though he were some night blooming flower. Most of the people in his apartment building did not even know the brunette existed, let alone anything about him; it was easier that way. If people knew who he was, they would want to talk - to ask questions - and that was the last thing he wanted. After all, if they looked into his eyes for long enough they would see, deep down in the pits of his irises, every single misdeed he had been made to commit written in shadowy ink on the ice-pocked surface of his soul. At least in the silence he could pretend to be as decent as anyone was in their neighborhood, which while not saying much was at least something.

One afternoon found the then twenty-year-old Taekwoon walking down the uneven sidewalk, listlessly kicking a can ahead of him with every loose, loping step. Tucked in the back pocket of his too tight, too worn jeans was a wad of cash courtesy of one of his dad’s “friends” - a little something, the man had claimed, for a few minutes of the brunette’s time. It was routine enough to feel the burning press of money against his backside; he had a lot of practice at pretending that the little visits his dad sent him on were pleasant. But what could he do but pretend? If he actually looked in the mirror and faced those little demons dancing on his conscience Taekwoon would go mad with guilt. His mother would die a second time from shame if she knew just what her son had been doing. Sighing, he gave the can a particularly vigorous kick, sending it flying into a wall with a tinny clatter. The young man’s gaze flicked upwards to rest on the building he had unwittingly abused: a cafe. At least, that’s what he guessed based on the peeled coffee cup painted on the window in faded red and the shadowed figures seated at tables inside the little establishment. (The window was so grimy with age he had to lean close, nearly blocking out the weak sunlight with his body, in order to see inside. But that was to be expected in that half of town.)

He hesitated.

Technically speaking, his father had no idea how much each friend shoved into Taekwoon’s hand at the end of a visit; he just knew to expect some amount of money, whatever the brutes could afford on that given day. So, perhaps the man would not…

Pushing open the door, Taekwoon stepped into the cafe with sliding, hesitant steps. He could just remember the once he had been in such an establishment: At six, his oldest sister had pulled him inside one (it’d gone under years ago) in order to hide from a man who just couldn’t understand that, right then, she couldn’t help him out with his little problem. Taekwoon had been fascinated by the pungent scent of coffee and the racks of food that seemed as though they’d come right off the pages of a faded storybook from the library. He and his sister had only stayed a few minutes before slipping out the back, but even all those years later the stoic brunette could recall the scene in perfect detail, right down to the way his sister’s ragged nails dug into the flesh of his palm.

He drew in a deep breath. The smell was exactly the same, though perhaps a little sweeter. His dark gaze flickered around, trying to find the source of the strange variance in scent, but nothing struck him as being out of place. Perhaps his memory was simply faulty - it was possible, after so much time had elapsed, that some details were wrong. Reaching into his back pocket, he carefully pulled out the wad of cash and peeled a single, rumpled bill away from the others. The rest of the money was then returned to his pocket before he stepped up closer to the counter, his eyes scanning the offerings listed in carefully curled print.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” a warm voice said suddenly, piercing through Taekwoon’s consideration of the board as though it were the cocking of a gun in an alleyway. The brunette’s gaze fell to rest on the young man leaning on the counter - the barista - who was watching him with a smile so wide it made his cheeks taut and his eyes curl shut. He was unlike anyone Taekwoon had ever seen before: He was slim and long - long legs, long neck, long face, even his black hair was long enough it fell carelessly into his eyes. And his skin was breathtakingly beautiful, a sort of polished bronze color that seemed to glow with health; it was nothing like the pallid, clotted cream hues of Taekwoon’s flesh. Everything about the stranger spoke of warmth and welcome while the stoic brunette was all ice and reserve. “What can I get you, handsome?”

Taekwoon blinked, shuffling off his contemplating of the stranger’s features in order to return his attention back to the task at hand. After another breath of contemplation, he pointed towards the latte. He had no idea what made him pick the drink - perhaps it was the curl of the letters or the description involving milk - but it seemed like a good enough option. After so long living at the edge of Underworld, he wasn’t picky about what he put in his body. (If the drink killed him, at least then he’d be dead. That’d be an improvement in his circumstances.)

The barista raised an eyebrow and looked over one of his delicately sloped shoulders in order to see what his customer was pointing at. Unable to quite tell which drink he was pointing to, the man leaned over the counter until his face floated right next to Taekwoon’s long, slim finger - allowing him to gaze straight down the digit. “Oh! Did you want a latte?” A shiver ran down Taekwoon’s spine at the fleeting sensation of warm breath against his skin. He gave a sharp nod, quickly pulling his hand back to fist in his shirt. “Awesome choice. That’ll be $4.15, please.” It took a moment, but Taekwoon passed over the bill and soon had the change dropped into his palm.

“Alright, stranger. One last question.” Taekwoon looked up at the barista, who was holding a cup in one hand and a pen in the other as though it were a weapon. “What’s your name?”

Silence.

Taekwoon his bottom lip and ducked his head. He didn’t know he had to speak in order to get a drink; he just wanted to try his latte. Slowly, his shoulders sunk inwards until his body was curled - tucking in like the faded ‘c’ on the cafe window. “Lion Boy it is,” the barista said suddenly, causing the brunette to look up at him in surprise. “I hope one day you’ll tell me your name. I’m Hakyeon, by the way. I always work from three until close.” He shrugged. “You know, in case you ever need another latte.” That wide, wide smile was back on his lips. “I’ll have this right up. Why don’t you go sit down, and I’ll bring this over to you?”

The brunette quickly slunk away, grateful for the escape from the conversation.

Taekwoon ended up going back nearly every week - carefully peeling a single bill out of whatever wad he had been given that day. And every time, Hakyeon would lean on the counter - bracing his chin in one hand - as a smile turned his lips. “Hey Lion Boy,” he would always greet, the words lilting up at the end as though the barista were actually happy to see Taekwoon. “Another latte for you?” In reply, he would always get another nod. And, like clock work, their little exchange would always end with Hakyeon asking for his name, looking at him with hope in those puppy eyes. Every cup ended up with “Lion Boy” written on the side in loose, flowing handwriting.

There was something about Hakyeon that made Taekwoon feel. That in and of itself was surprising: Taekwoon had carefully murdered his emotions in the backroom of his heart as a child as a means of survival. Feelings meant weakness, and weakness meant being crushed by the cruelty of his circumstances. And while Taekwoon wouldn’t mind being dead - it sounded like a relief - he did not actively seek it out. He also didn’t want to end up like old Andy, who spent every day sitting on the front steps outside his apartment, rocking back and forth as he muttered nonsense under his breath. Andy had been a brilliant, vivacious man once. Before Eric was dumped on his doormat slit from nose to navel for having been just an hour late in paying back a debt. Feelings meant vulnerability.

And yet, Taekwoon found himself utterly unable to avoid the cafe, with its wobbly tables and lumpy seats. It would be better, he knew, to put Hakyeon out of his mind, but he had never been particularly reasonable. He became an addict, just looking for his next fix, except it was not the burn of caffeine he sought but the rich sound of joyful laughter - Hakyeon’s laughter. He was playing a dangerous game, perhaps, but Taekwoon did not mind, not really. It got bad enough that he even picked up a job on the side, working as a guard at a grocery, so he could go to the cafe nearly every single day after his shift. His father was unaware of the job - Taekwoon hid it to keep the money to himself - and began to beat his son on a more regular basis for being “an ungrateful, wasteful brat.” But the bruises and cuts were worth the breathless sound of “Lion Boy” falling past full, round lips.

“I could tell him my name,” Taekwoon began to think, rolling the idea over and over in his mind during his shift. He could even imagine how Hakyeon’s lips would form the sounds and how his voice would breathe life into syllables that had been suited more to a gravestone than a young man in his prime. Even just the imagined sound was enough to make Taekwoon duck his head in order to hide the flush that rose up on his cheeks. What was happening to him?

Every day he would come into the cafe, the weight of his name pressing against the back of his teeth - trying to fight its way out - but his tongue was seemingly too weak to lift the heavy word into the silence. And Hakyeon seemed to understand. He would smile and laugh about it, claiming that: “One day, Lion Boy, you are going to tell me your name, and I may just faint when you do!” Hakyeon seemed to understand Taekwoon in a way he could not understand himself. Once, after a particularly bad round with his father, Hakyeon had slid over to the table with not just a latte in hand but also a slice of whipped cream cake; Taekwoon did not know what to do, so he remained silent while eating the offering. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

Months crawled on as Taekwoon continued to frequent the cafe. In that time, his father took a new wife, which meant a new baby and a new paycheck from the government. His father had cursed the lottery that determined how much they would get for the new life joining their family; their house hadn’t seen above a tier three check since Taekwoon’s had arrived in the mail. But, money was money at the end of the day. The house was constantly filled with crying as both parents ignored the newborn in favor of the nigh endless alcohol and myriad of drugs the check managed to buy. Taekwoon used what spare time he had to take care of the baby - knowing it would ultimately do no good but wanting to try anyway. It was just unfortunate that the little baby boy had taken to crying at the wrong moment, upsetting their father. The ensuing fight left Taekwoon with more cuts and bruises across his body than he’d had in years; he had made the mistake of getting between father and son in an attempt to shield the two-month-old.

Limping into the cafe that evening, Taekwoon had gestured to the board, dropped the usual bill on the table, and hobbled over to his preferred seat. He supposed it had been too much to hope for that Hakyeon would simply leave the matter alone, but some part of him couldn’t help wistfully thinking that they could pretend all was well. Pretending was about all Taekwoon had left.

Approaching the crooked table in the back corner, Hakyeon sat the latte down - chipped saucer and all - before settling in the other chair. He did not say anything (for once) but instead opened the first aid kit perched on his lap. Taekwoon flinched when the other man took his hand, but the gentle feel of fingers skirting up his arm, pushing up his shirt sleeve, made him still. Hakyeon calmly prepared a cotton ball and began to clean each cut with a single-minded focus. He then swiped each wound with a sealing paste the poor used in place of the healing technology available to the rich. After dealing with Taekwoon’s arms, Hakyeon frowned at the wounds peeking around the brunette’s collar. “Can I help with those too?” he asked, nodding to Taekwoon’s chest.

Flushing, he glanced around the empty cafe. It was late enough at night that nobody else had drug into the establishment in order to find caffeinated consolation, and so the pair was completely alone. Taekwoon sighed. Lifting his hands, he carefully ed his shirt and exposed the network of bruises and cuts and scars that covered his chest; he stared pointedly at Hakyeon’s knee. But, the other young man did not so much as wince at the sight of the injuries. They were both from the slums, and being beaten was something they had all learned to live with. Leaning close, Hakyeon began to clean the cuts with the same dedicated concentration that he used to make the perfect latte - unblinking, with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. Drawing in a deep breath, Taekwoon was unsurprised to find that the other smelt like coffee - he did work around it all day, after all - but underneath that was the faint scent of spice and musk and something entirely unfamiliar that had to be Hakyeon’s natural smell. Taekwoon’s lips twitched. It was a rather pleasant scent.

“I was right,” Hakyeon said suddenly. Taekwoon started, looking up to meet the barista’s gaze. “You are a lion boy.” His finger lifted to trace the lion tattoo that spanned across the left side of Taekwoon’s pectoral and shoulder. It was only the lion’s face, but the majestically curled mane and fierce gaze were rendered in perfect detail. Hakyeon smiled softly - not the wide smile Taekwoon was familiar with but instead a little curl of lips, a ghost of a smile. It was an intimate smile, the sort that made the brunette want to lean close and tuck himself into the comfort that the barista seemed to be offering. He had never had anyone give him so much as a word of pity, let alone the deep concern of true affection. Drawing in a ragged breath, Taekwoon lifted a hand to curl it lightly around the back of Hakyeon’s where it rested against his skin. His lips burned with the urge to tell the other man everything he had come to realize over their shared cups of coffee and the endless hours spent in companionable silence. (Well, Taekwoon’s silence. Hakyeon chattered the afternoons away with a nearly practiced ease.) Instead of finally speaking, though, Taekwoon’s hand slowly slid up the length of Hakyeon’s arm until it came to rest over his heart.

“You want to see mine?” Hakyeon asked, laughing a little breathlessly. “Alright, alright. But only because you asked so nicely.” His dark umber eyes sparkled with quiet laughter. Leaning back, he ed his shirt just enough to reveal the black ink that rested against his beautiful bronze skin. There, along with the expected scars and a fresh bruise, was the frolicking figure of a fox - the fur far darker than any similar tattoo Taekwoon had ever seen. It was a perfect fit for the barista, who was impish but loyal.

Once certain Taekwoon had taken a good look at the tattoo, Hakyeon buttoned his shirt back up. “It’s not the rarest, I know, but I like to think it’s still special. Foxes used to be important - did you know that? Folklore about them was everywhere. They were thought to be so smart that they were tricksters and they’d use their minds to fight instead of strength. That’s fitting for me, don’t you think?” After a moment of hesitation, Taekwoon nodded. It did seem to suit Hakyeon: He was lean muscle and grace instead of brute strength; in a fight he would do better to dodge or strategize than roll in with fists clenched. Not like Taekwoon. From his broad shoulders to his rather eerie ability to put on muscle, Taekwoon was the opposite, even if his diet meant he could not bulk up very much. The brunette wondered if the lion on his chest actually suited him; he had never bothered to read up on the creature embedded into his flesh.

“You can button your shirt back up,” Hakyeon murmured. “Sorry I couldn’t do more for the bruises, but I’m sure you know what kinds of compresses to put on them.” A little sigh of a laugh slid past Taekwoon’s lips: Yeah, he knew.

The sensation of strong fingers curling around his jaw distracted Taekwoon from buttoning up his shirt. Eyes wide, he gazed into Hakyeon’s eyes - surprised to find his face suddenly so close, tongue yet again poking out the corner of his mouth. A slow breath in and out did something to steady the erratic beating of the brunette’s heart, but it only did so much in the face of Hakyeon’s nearness. He could clearly feel the warmth of the other’s body and every breath brought in his scent, overwhelming Taekwoon’s senses in the most pleasant way possible. Utterly distracted, the brunette did not even notice that Hakyeon was treating the cuts on his face until the distinct sting of the antiseptic coming in contact with his split lip made him wince. An empathetic whine slid out of Hakyeon’s throat, and he pressed the cotton swab more gently against the torn flesh. “I’m sorry,” the barista murmured. “But a little pain now is better than an infection later.”

Their gaze met for a brief moment before Taekwoon gave a slight nod. He understood, and he trusted Hakyeon to not hurt him more than necessary. And wasn’t that a thought? Taekwoon. Trusting someone. The realization left him utterly breathless; he did not even trust himself.

It became easier and easier to find reasons to spend his afternoons at the cafe - sometimes even lingering until Hakyeon closed up at eleven. He still did not - could not - speak, but the barista was content with just having the gentle presence of his lion boy at the back of the shop. They would spend whatever time they could together - Hakyeon talking, Taekwoon listening - between customers. Taekwoon even took to helping Hakyeon clean the cafe, just so they would have more time to sit at their table, just sharing the same silence together. It began to give the brunette hope that, just maybe, he had found something beautiful in a world bent on destroying him. But his father was right: Hope was just another weakness.

Taekwoon had made the mistake of saying the wrong thing: He had challenged his father’s authority. Why? He couldn’t even remember. All he could recall was the deafening sound of fists on flesh as his father sought to drive him into the ground. But, Taekwoon had long ago learned the best way to survive was to fall limp quickly; his father would more readily tire without a response to fuel the beast that lived inside of his flesh. As soon as the man had stormed out of the house - most likely to go get some booze - Taekwoon had staggered to his feet and done his best to wash up. Then, like clockwork, he had wandered out of the house and headed to where he kept the money he earned from his job. Taking a single bill, he limped through the night towards the one lighted window that meant home and safety and Hakyeon.

He knew something was wrong when he found the door open. It was October. Hakyeon had kept the door tightly shut against the chill of the night for weeks now, because he reasoned that less money being tossed at the heating bill meant more money going to the employees and owners of the little coffee shop. Stumbling through the door, Taekwoon’s gaze scanned the unsettlingly serene cafe; there was not a single thing out of place. In fact, at first glance it seemed like everything was exactly where it should be. Everything but Hakyeon. He was nowhere to be seen. The sound of a cough - wet and thick in the silence - made the brunette rush as best he could, nearly skipping every other step to avoid putting his weight on his injured leg, over to the counter. Leaning over it, he felt a gasp lodge itself into the flesh of his throat as his eyes took in the scene. Hakyeon was seated on the floor, back pressed against the chipped white front of the cupboards where the spare filters were kept. Shattered glass, the remnants of one of the display cases, littered the floor like an unholy halo of razors surrounding Hakyeon. His head was lolled back awkwardly - the fine length of his neck accented by the warm spill of light - as he fought for every breath. And there, stark against the faded blue-grey of Hakyeon’s shirt was the barista’s favorite color: Red. Thick, heavy, slick red.

Forcing his body to push through the pain, Taekwoon lept the counter and crumpled beside Hakyeon, his leg giving out under the pressure. Glass dug into his knees. His long fingers trembled as he stretched a hand out towards the barista, and he let out a shaky breath as Hakyeon’s eyelashes fluttered against the high curve of his cheek. “Hakyeon,” he all but sighed - his first word to the other man.

The fluttering became more insistent as Hakyeon fought to get his eyes open. His lips automatically turned upwards at one corner as he opened his eyes just enough to catch sight of Taekwoon. “Lion Boy,” he murmured, the sound rattling strangely in his chest. “My sweet, sweet… Lion Boy.”

Taekwoon made a choked, strangled sound in his throat. He knew, he knew, that it wasn’t good. There was too much blood on the floor for there to be enough inside of Hakyeon, but he had to look. Some morbid corner of his soul just had to see the damage, to know how many minutes he had left in a countdown he had never known was trickling away between them. Ripping open Hakyeon’s shirt, he stared at the ravaged flesh with wide eyes. And then he saw it: the weapon. A large, ragged shard of glass. The fragment had been brutally pushed into Hakyeon’s stomach and, by all appearances, twisted until it had lodged thick in the heavy weight of the man’s intestines. The brunette’s vision blurred as his fingers came away warm with the too familiar stain of blood.

“Ssh,” Hakyeon breathed. “Don’t cry, Lion Boy. Won’t… won’t do any good.”

Carefully crawling closer on his knees, Taekwoon wrapped his arms around Hakyeon’s shoulders and drew the press of the barista’s body against his chest. He buried his face in the soft black hair he had dreamed of touching, and he drew in the familiar smell of Hakyeon - though the metallic undertones were as unwelcome as they were unfamiliar. “Hakyeon,” he choked again, the sound nearly expiring as soon as it hit his lips.

Hakyeon laughed - a strange, stuttering thing. “I didn’t think...you’d have such a - a soft voice,” he said weakly. “So pretty. Like you, my Lion Boy. So… mine…” Taekwoon held Hakyeon closer as he felt the warmth of the barista’s breath on his neck slow. “Mine,” came the last sigh, the word tickling his skin as a hollow rattle settled into the silence.

The brunette hiccuped as tears - the first that had escaped his eyes in fifteen years - burned hot and insistent down his cheeks. Crushing the body in his arms, Taekwoon began to rock back and forth on his heels; the motion some primal attempt to keep Hakyeon with him, as though he could force his heart to keep going. Back and forth, back and forth. Only the sound of crunching glass, gasping tears, and the dull drag of Hakyeon's arm sliding across the floor filled the silence.Then, slowly, a single sentence slid past Taekwoon’s lips in a nearly endless litany: “My name is Taekwoon.” Over and over again: “My name is Taekwoon. My name is Taekwoon. My name is Taekwoon.”

My name is Taekwoon, and I love you Hakyeon.

He gasped in breathless agony. His sweet, precious Hakyeon had been ripped from his life for a mere twenty dollars - a paltry reward for a desperate thief.