Seven years later...

“You are so beautiful, my little Jaejoong-ah. Like an angel.”

Sitting with his back curved from boredom, Jaejoong pouts as his mother brushes his hair. Her touch is like feathers – light and delicate and seemingly afraid of getting too close – as she hums a nameless tune, willing her comb to run across his scalp in routine waves. She watches him closely through the reflection of the small mirror leaning against the wall, and smiles when his eyes flash up to meet hers.

“I am not beautiful, eomma,” Jaejoong corrects with a petulant huff. “I am handsome and strong. Just like appa.”

Jongok’s eyes roll heavenward, and she tsks as she reaches a hand forward to pinch at Jaejoong’s cheek. He instantly squirms away, face scrunched up in annoyance, and Jongok cannot help but laugh.

“Your appa is a rugged old man who cannot tell a peony from a marigold,” she says. Pausing in her brushes, she turns Jaejoong’s body around. She tenderly holds his face between her palms, marveling at the smoothness of his skin – so much like the wings of a dove that the tips of her fingers seem to tingle as she continues, “you, on the other hand...are the loveliest child I have ever laid my eyes upon. So fragile and soft. It is the very reason that I call you my precious angel.”

As his mother’s thumbs begin to slowly caress his lashes, Jaejoong purses his lips and bitterly retorts, “I do not want to be an angel. Angels do not get to go outside and play or have any fun.”

His mother quirks an eyebrow, visibly unimpressed. “Oh, and you want to?” she asks. Her blissful smile twitches into a frown at her son’s nod. With a snort, she gently slaps Jaejoong’s cheek, peering down at him with a demeaning stare. “That is quite interesting to hear, considering what happened last time.”

Almost instantly, Jaejoong’s expression contorts into a grimace. The mere mention of his last impulsive escape to the village square – to explore, or so he had intended – sours his mood within seconds. His presence in the center of town did not bode well with the other children already playing there (it never does), and the lot of them made sure he would think twice before deciding to wander close to them ever again.

(Of course this does not stop Jaejoong from trying to befriend them every chance that he can. They have to accept him at some point, don’t they?)

Jaejoong frowns as he remembers the harsh scolding he received upon returning home with a large bruise on his side. “But I do not like being locked up in the house all the time…” he mutters weakly.

“Well,” Jongok sighs, and her fingers flutter down the length of Jaejoong’s nose, “I will not apologize for wanting to keep my Jaejoong-ah safe. If forcing you to stay by my side forever means you will suffer no harm, then so be it.” She leans forward, humming once more. “I love you so much, my angel.”

Softly, her lips press against Jaejoong’s in a familiar – suffocating – seal. And when she finally pulls away, her stare is mesmerized. Dark. Deranged and sinister and just a shade away from frightening.

Jaejoong only just stops himself from jerking backwards. He blinks hard and whimpers. “Eomma…”

“Jaejoong-ah.” Jongok’s fingers are digging into his flesh now, and her humming is loud. So unbearably loud. The shrill notes crescendo nonsensically into his ears and off the wooden walls of their home. She kisses him again, on his forehead this time, and croons, “it is only because I love you, Jaejoong-ah. I will do anything...anything if it means I can p r o t e—”

“—c t you. I promise I will.” Yunho’s arms are spread wide above his head. He watches Jaejoong carefully, standing on the tips of his toes as if that would somehow help him reach the young boy dangling on the tree branch a few feet above. “Jump, Jae-yah,” he calls out. “Hyung is right here, see? So don’t be scared.”

Jaejoong’s hands burn as they struggle to maintain their grip around the ragged tree bark. His arms ache, and he feels as if he is floating and falling at the same time as he peers down at Yunho worriedly. “B-but what if you don’t catch me?” he squeaks, tears forming in his eyes.

Yunho purses his lips. He hides his apprehension behind a disarming smile, shaking his head. “Don’t be silly.” He makes a motion with his wrists as Jaejoong’s small body trembles in the spring breeze. “You have to trust me, okay? You trust me, don’t you?”

“I always trust hyung!” Jaejoong shouts. He seems offended. And Yunho smirks at the sight of the boy’s half-hearted glare.

“Then jump,” Yunho says. “I told you I would protect you.”

Jaejoong immediately loses his gall at Yunho’s words. His gaze flickers to the grass beneath Yunho’s feet – the grass that looks so so far away from where he currently hangs. His heart pounds in his chest, feeling as if it will leap out of his body, and Jaejoong squeezes his eyes shut as he whispers to himself to breath.

Just breath.

Inhaling a deep gust of air, Jaejoong peeks one eye open and dares himself to look down again. He sees Yunho there, so small and distant, and it isn’t hard to spot the encouraging glint in his warm eyes as he mouths for Jaejoong to let go.

And so he does.

The ground grows closer and closer in such a short amount of time, making Jaejoong’s eyes blur and his head spin as he belts, “catch me, Yunho-h y u—”

“—n g! S-save me! Yunho-hyung!” Jaejoong pleads in a desperate voice. Endless pain engulfs his entire body, searing his insides and brandishing his flesh in a sheen of red. The wounds that litter his torso are like flames, igniting into bursts of agony with every shudder of his body and shriek of his brother’s name.

“Y-Yu…” he chokes. On his tears. On his anguish. On his own blood. It gushes from between his lips, drowning his screams into a sputtering silence. It pools around his head – deafens him, blinds him, and coats him in its sickening warmth until all he can see is red.

Yunho has become nothing more than a hazy figure. A faraway image that Jaejoong knows he can no longer reach. Yunho does not call his name. Yunho does not turn back to face him. Yunho does not rescue him.

Yunho...abandons him.

“Come b-back. Hyung, come back.” Jaejoong is not sure if he said that aloud. If he is even strong enough to do so. Or if Yunho hears him, sees him, or can at least feel his stare as he dejectedly watches him grow further and further away.

Where are you going, hyung? Jaejoong thinks frantically. His fingers twitch at his sides, bloodied tears cascading down his cheeks. Why are you leaving me? His voice echoes in his mind, bouncing off of his skull. Come back, he begs no one. Please, come back. I need you. I need you, I’m—

“Jun.”

A strained gasp breaks the silence within the small bedroom, and a lithe body lurches upright from its futon. Jaejoong’s eyes are wide and unfocused. They dart around his surroundings, frenzied in their search for something, when they at last land on the person who has awoken him from his nightmare.

“Jun,” Namie calls again, her impatience palpable. She is kneeling beside Jaejoong’s futon, a look of irritation twisting her regal face. “The sun has risen,” she announces, “it is time for you to get up.”

Jaejoong’s heartbeat refuses to stop racing. He looks at Namie nervously. “R-right. Thank you,” he stammers, bowing his head low. His shoulder-length hair forms a curtain around his face, shielding his traumatized expression from view as Namie scoffs. She stands, graceful as always, and looks down at him with a sneer.

“Well, what are you dallying for?” she snaps. “You best hurry. Ringo-sama is waiting for you downstairs with her guests.”

Jaejoong flinches, stumbling to his feet as he internally kicks himself for nearly oversleeping – again. Raking his fingers through his mussed hair (a worthless attempt to tame it), he hurriedly fixes the half of his hadajuban which drapes off of his shoulder, jerking it back into place, before rushing over to his vanity. Namie observes him silently as he pulls a myrtle kimono into the morning sun.

“Namie-senpai...do you know who they are? Her guests, I mean?”

Truthfully, he does not expect Namie to answer. It would be a surprise if she even acknowledged that she had heard him. Really, she has never been fond of him, not once since he was first brought into her home over seven years ago – on the verge of death with only childlike Korean in his lexicon – so he remains unperturbed even as she harrumphs and saunters out of his bedroom, leaving his question hanging in the air.

Sighing to himself, Jaejoong messily completes the last knot on his kimono. He straightens, standing before the wall length mirror placed next to his vanity. Pressing his palm against his refle