The first time Junmyeon sees the man in the mirror, he does a double take, twisting around only to find nothing but the bathroom tiles behind him. With his heart in his throat, he turns back to stare at his reflection in the foggy mirror, doubting his own eyes and his sanity when he is met with nothing out of the ordinary. 

The second time he sees him, he feels the weight of the hand that is laid on his shoulder in the mirror. His terrified screaming summons his neighbour, who barges into his apartment with a kitchen knife (laughable, really) and a wild look on his face. 

Junmyeon, in his nightshirt and with toothpaste foam smeared on his lips, points a shaky hand towards the bathroom. “There was someone in there with me.”

The neighbour, Kim Minseok, chooses to stay for a cup of tea after they ensure that the bathroom is clear of any intruders, supernatural or not. Junmyeon, sipping his tea around menial conversation, wonders if his neighbour now considers him a lunatic and took pity on him, or if he believes him.

It doesn’t really matter, either way, because he won’t see Kim Minseok again.

The third time it happens, it is in his bedroom mirror and not in the bathroom: That one is covered up with the ripped remains of an old bedsheet. He is also certain it is no longer a matter of him going insane, but rather some inexplicable supernatural phenomenon that is targeting him specifically. 

In the mirror, the man’s hand covers Junmyeon’s mouth to stifle his yelp at the sight. 

“Hush, now,” he murmurs into Junmyeon’s ear, keeping his head in place and his eyes on the mirror. “I just want to chat.”

Junmyeon knows, without a sliver of doubt, that were he free to look behind him, there would be no silver-eyed and -haired man. He only exists in the mirror, and yet Junmyeon cannot explain the very real press of the man’s body behind him, his hand on his mouth, or the soft puffs of air on his ear.

It begs the question: How to fight someone that isn’t there?

“That’s better,” the man says. Junmyeon can’t even pinpoint the direction of his voice. “Less fear in those eyes, more cunning. I know it’s in there.”

“Who are you?” Junmyeon asks around the offending hand. The man in the mirror frowns, then shrugs, and removes his hand so that Junmyeon can clearly repeat the question.

“I am called Lãy,” the man says. “However… I suppose, in your world, I would be going by Yixing.”

“In my world?” Junmyeon says, only to remember that he is talking to a reflection in the mirror that isn’t really here. Asking about other worlds when there’s another person inside his mirrors seems unnecessary. “Nevermind that – why are you haunting my mirrors?”

“I need you,” Lãy (Yixing?) says, as though it were that simple.

It isn’t. “You have thirty seconds to explain yourself,” Junmyeon sneers. “I recommend you stop talking in riddles and get to the point.”

“Ah.” Lãy hums. “Well. We encountered some… setbacks, shall we say, in our world, which cost us greatly. We are now at a disadvantage against our foe, lacking your particular set of talents.”

“No,” Junmyeon says. Lãy opens his mouth, a pinched look on his face, but Junmyeon gives him no chance to speak.

The glass shatters underneath his fist. It hurts like a , but when there is no actual face to strike, this must make do.

At least he got to see the moment of understanding dawn in Lãy’s eyes before he disappeared. It makes up for the bloodied mess that remains of the mirror and his smarting knuckles.

~

Junmyeon makes a point of avoiding mirrors in the weeks that follow. All the mirrors in his apartment are covered up, but ultimately, as time passes, the memories fade to the background. 

One night he returns home after a job, exhausted, and stumbles into the bathroom to wash away the grime and blood. His jaw aches. He figures a bruise is blooming there, so he tears the bedsheet down to get a look at the damage, and makes eye-contact instead with a less-than-impressed Lãy. 

Before he can do anything, an arm flings out of the mirror, grasps him by the scruff of his neck, and hauls him forward. He expects to crash into the mirror – squeezing his eyes shut against any errant glass shards that might take out his eyeballs – but instead the ground disappears beneath him. Everything tilts and swirls. Nausea rises to his throat, spikes of pain strike his skull, and his body feels more battered than any skirmish has ever left it. 

Solid ground returns under his feet, and Lãy’s grasp on him loosens. However, he does not yet open his eyes, both out of a sense of foreboding for what he will see when he does and because he feels so dizzy that so much as sneaking a peek will surely make it worse.

“What,” he heaves, fighting the urge to vomit, “the .”

“Welcome to our world,” Lãy says, his voice calm – and, Junmyeon suspects, a tad smug. This bastard – “I never tried crossing worlds before, so I am sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

Junmyeon opens his eyes, narrowly, to glare at Lãy. “I will kill you.”

A small, dimpled smile graces Lãy’s face. If Junmyeon weren’t feeling so sick, or, perhaps more urgently, if he weren’t moments away from putting a bullet between the ’s eyebrows, he could, perhaps, have taken the time to appreciate his facial structures. As it is, he itches to grab the gun he knows is in his back pocket, but he does not make a move for it. Yet.

If he has truly crossed worlds, then he is now on Lãy’s territory. Lãy is most likely also his ticket back home, so he can weigh the pros and cons of killing him while he waits out the vertigo. 

Swallowing back bile, he blinks his eyes once more to get a look at their surroundings. 

They are in a nondescript room. A hallway, of sorts, or an entry. While it is difficult to gauge anything worthwhile from the bare walls and wooden doors, nothing looks remotely different from what he expects from his own world.

This is surreal and if it weren’t for the fact that he definitely just went through a mirror, he would start doubting himself again.

Lãy waits patiently for him to get his bearings. The nausea subsides and takes with it the vertigo, leaving only a sour taste in his mouth and a headache that can be ignored for the time being.

“Good, the colour has finally returned to your face,” Lãy says. “Come. They are waiting.”

“Who are they?” Junmyeon growls, tentatively following Lãy as he moves towards one of the two doors in the room. 

“My brothers,” Lãy says. 

He grabs the handle and pushes down. The door opens into a much bigger room, and Junmyeon’s focus zeroes in on the nine individuals that all turn to stare at them as they enter. 

One of them Junmyeon recognises after a closer look. Kim Minseok – except, no. This is not his neighbour, Kim Minseok, but someone who bears his resemblance. Lãy mentioned having a different name in Junmyeon’s world – so perhaps this is Lãy’s Kim Minseok? He looks like a punk-emo version of himself. 

All of them look like punk-emo versions of people from Junmyeon’s world. They are sizing him up, some blankly, others with consideration, and a few with outright disdain.

“He looks… softer,” not-Kim Minseok says. It is a curious eye he’s got.

A white-haired man throws his arms towards Junmyeon and looks at Lãy in disbelief. “Hyung, are you serious? This – man cannot possibly take Suhø’s place!”

“Baëkhyun has a point,” another says, grimacing at Junmyeon. A large scar cuts across his eye. “We would be better off without him.”

“Lãy is our de facto leader now,” not-Kim Minseok says. “Allow him to explain himself before you charge at him.”

“I think,” says a man with a thin chain attached to his lip, pushing himself off the wall to slowly approach Junmyeon as he speaks, “Lãy hyung just saw someone with Suhø’s face and instinctively picked him without any regard for his abilities. Look at him. Tch.” He shakes his head and sneers. “He bears more resemblance to their leader than ours. Hell, how do we know hyung didn’t just kidnap him?”

Not-Kim Minseok has nothing to say to oppose that, it appears. Junmyeon spares a sidelong glance at Lãy, who appears perfectly serene in the face of his people’s insolence. Junmyeon would not have allowed it had they been his own. 

“Speak up, Lãy hyung,” Chain Man demands. “If you’ve got nothing to say, I might as well dispose of him. If he truly is their leader, I will be doing us all a favour by toasting him to ashes.”

“Chën,” someone cautions. Pale pink hair. What a bunch of misfits. 

“He does look eerily similar to their leader, doesn’t he,” someone else, green hair, murmurs. At his side, Scar Face and a young man with bright blue hair nod along to his words. “Perhaps Chën is right.”

“And you,” Chën spits, glaring at Junmyeon. “Do you have a voice, or did Lãy cut out your tongue?”

Junmyeon, familiar with Chën’s type, merely arches an eyebrow at him, which, sure enough, incenses him further. When Chën lifts his hand, lightning crackles to life within his palm, and his lips twist into a sardonic smile. Junmyeon does not think he has it in him to be surprised at anything at this point. Pink Hair stumbles forward, but halts again with a worried glance in Junmyeon’s direction. Chën, having looked over his shoulder to see if Pink Hair would oppose him, shrugs.

“Well,” he says apathetically, “ashes to ashes, I guess.”

Junmyeon has his gun pointed at Chën within a heartbeat. The lightning sparks and hisses, but the bullet is faster. Junmyeon’s aim is true, and Chën collapses to his knees with a pained shout. He presses his hand, now empty of lightning, into the bullet wound in his shoulder to staunch the bleeding, and raises narrowed eyes at Junmyeon.

Junmyeon the gun and aims at Chën’s head this time, but rather than cower or snarl in response to the threat, Chën starts grinning. 

“Ah,” he says, “perhaps you aren’t all that bad.”

“Anyone else got a problem?” Lãy quips. 

No one speaks, all looking between Chën still on the ground and Junmyeon. 

“Good,” Lãy says. “Chën, I’ll deal with your wound after I fill in Junmyeon.”

Junmyeon spins around to aim the weapon at Lãy. “Quit ordering me around. I –”

The gun flings itself out of Junmyeon’s hand and into Lãy’s waiting palm. Closing his fingers around the grip, Lãy smiles prettily at Junmyeon. 

“If you would, please,” he says, pointing the nuzzle at the door. “We have much to discuss.”

Junmyeon stares speculatively at the gun, and ignores Lãy to spite him. “Chën controls lightning, and you can move things.” He throws his eyes around the room. “Everyone here has some kind of power?”

“Lü Hãn is the one with the ability to move objects,” Lãy says. “I heal.”

“And Suhø,” Junmyeon says, “what could he do?”

“Water was at his beck and call.”

“He died.”

“No,” says Lãy softly. “He was murdered.”

“By them,” Junmyeon guesses.

“Yes.”

“And I resemble their leader.”

“You are him from another world. Suhø, as well, except he looked like us. You look like them.” Lãy his head and offers a sly smile. “Your uncanny likeness to this world’s Junmyeon will be our advantage over them. I fully intend to make use of it.”

“That’s it?” Junmyeon says. “You dragged me here to make me your spy?”

“No,” Lãy says. “I dragged you here to make you our leader.” He offers Junmyeon the weapon back; an olive branch, if Junmyeon has ever seen one. “Now, shall we?”

Junmyeon takes the gun and, after a show of deliberation, uncocks it.

“All right. Let’s talk.”

Bonus:

“How did you know I wouldn’t shoot to kill him?” Junmyeon asks.

Lãy smiles serenely. “I didn’t.”

Lãy eventually shows Junmyeon that in this world, he can control water just like his other selves, past and present. Junmyeon is ecstatic. Lãy is amused. Sadly, too much was happening and I didn’t have words to add it into the scene, so.

Hope you enjoyed!