a/n: Once again, this is technically a sequel to Fire that Refines. I do encourage you all to read that one first, although it isn't completely necessary. Thank you~

“Chanyeol, hurry up!” The boy laughed as he continued running ahead, chasing butterflies out of the tall grass.

Chanyeol struggled to get closer, but there was always a gap between them. His legs moved sluggishly, his body was heavy, and he couldn’t shake the feeling no matter how badly he wanted to be near the other boy. Chanyeol reached out an arm and made to speak, but nothing came out. ‘Wait!’ he wanted to cry, but his voice was lost.

The brown haired boy eventually stopped when Chanyeol couldn’t move anymore and turned around slowly. He smiled sadly and Chanyeol’s heart literally ached at the sight.

“Chanyeol, come on.” His voice was starting to fade slightly. Chanyeol was still paralyzed in place.

“Chanyeol…”

“Chanyeol.”

“Chanyeol!”

The resounding slam of a book sent Chanyeol shooting up out of his seat and onto the floor. The entire class began to snicker while the instructor shook his head wearily. His face flushed red as he picked himself up and sat back in his desk.

“Asleep again? Chanyeol, of all people, why are you like this?” The disappointment in the teacher’s voice made Chanyeol cringe, but at least he controlled his face enough not to look completely exasperated.

Of course everyone expected something great from him. He was his namesake after all.

“I’m not my grandfather.” Chanyeol mumbled under his breath after Sir Kim went back to his podium and continued the lecture on modern history. He sighed.

This is exactly why he’d fallen asleep in the first place. He’d been hearing this same story since the day of his birth, probably even before that. How the land used to be much more divided. How small villages ruled by corrupt elders fabricated a concept called The Marked. He’d heard all about different “purification” rituals and ancient magic being used to deceive villagers. And of course he’d heard the wonderful tale of him. The story of his grandfather for which he was named after, the Chanyeol who grew up a “Holy Man”, the one who eventually connected all the villages and did away with the destructive tradition of The Marked.

He’d heard the story countless times, from his father, his mother, every one of his teachers, and just about any person who recognized him off the streets. Apparently he looked a lot like his grandfather too, or something stupid like that. Chanyeol muttered grumpily all the way home after lessons, dodging towns people who would only serve to annoy him further at this point.

“I am not my grandfather.” Chanyeol grumbled again as he finally reached his home. He stormed up into his room and threw his school bags down, uncaring of the various scrolls and parchments that spilled out. He couldn’t care less about anything they taught at that prison called “school”. Yet another reason Chanyeol loathed being a descendent of him; now, he was automatically expected to become a councilman and “maintain the peace” like his father and grandfather before him.

He scoffed at the thought of stuffy robes and diplomacy, digging under his bed for a fresh canvas and his paints. If there was one thing that place had taught him, it’s that honesty is a precious thing; something he’d never genuinely seen. Because as long as his lineage remained unchained, people would continue to deceive and worm their way into his presence. He had no desire for cheap people.

He sat down and began working, sighing contently as the smell of oil paints filled the room. Chanyeol had always loved painting, and he would love more than anything to follow the career of an artisan. But his bloodline wouldn’t allow that. Damn his famous grandfather to hell.

At some point, Chanyeol was so absorbed in his painting, that he didn’t hear the knock at the door, didn’t hear someone come in and watch him work. Only when he finally finished did he hear a throat clear behind him, turning to meet the disgruntled face of his father. He sighed internally, waiting for the usual lecture, about how he needed to “stop wasting time with his finger paints and focus on the future”. He was a little surprised when his father did nothing of the sort, just continued staring at his painting with the same disgruntled expression. Chanyeol looked back at his painting, trying to find anything out of the ordinary about it. It was a portrait, like dozens of others he had, all of the same boy. The boy from his dreams, with the blinding smile and sad eyes.

“Chanyeol…” he was brought back to attention by his father’s hesitant voice, “Chanyeol, who is that in your painting?”

Now that he thought about it, his father had never really bothered looking at his work in recent years. Of course he wouldn’t recognize the all too common face.

“It’s my muse. I paint him a lot. You would know if you bothered to care.” Chanyeol didn’t even try hiding the venom in his voice. Their relationship was strained at best, and neither felt like holding up a farce outside of the public eye.

“It’s um…very nice. Where did you meet him?” His father questioned, completely ignoring Chanyeol’s malice.

He was taken aback by the question. His father had this almost unreadable expression on his face. Something between confusion, pensiveness, and…amazement? Chanyeol scrunched his own face into one of confusion and turned to answer his father more sincerely.

“I’ve never met him. I think I made him up. Um, like, I guess I dream about him a lot. That sounds really weird, but yeah…” Chanyeol flushed red at his admittance. His dreams were nothing but pleasant, but saying you paint a boy from your dreams can definitely sound a bit strange. However, his father just nodded, seemingly unfazed.

“How long have you been painting him? Or dreaming of him…or whatever came first…” Chanyeol gaped at his father’s question, definitely not expecting to be having this conversation (or any conversation) with him.

“A few years now maybe…okay, why are you asking me this? Why do you care? You’ve never cared about my art before.” Chanyeol huffed in annoyance.

His father simply nodded and continued to stare at the painting. Chanyeol sighed one more time and turned back to his canvas, intent on ignoring his father’s strange behavior and finish his work. He dipped his brush in black and began outlining a design on his muse’s face. He always wondered what the design meant, why the boy in his dreams had such an intricate tattoo on his face. But it was beautiful nonetheless, a black star sitting starkly against porcelain skin. As the design grew clearer, he dimly registered his father gasping, before finally turning to leave him in peace.

Not ten minutes later, his father (unfortunately) returned. Chanyeol groaned and got up to confront him, but was distracted by the box he came bearing. He places the old looking chest on Chanyeol’s bed and they stood in silence for a while.

“I always thought…you looked way too much like dad.” His father breathed this remark, and perhaps Chanyeol wasn’t meant to hear, but he did, and almost retaliated at being compared to his grandfather again. But his father spoke up once more.

“Chanyeol, this chest belonged to your grandfather, for which you are the namesake. I…no one really knows what’s in it. It’s been collecting dust in our attic since before you were born. Before he passed, he said that no one should open it, unless they remembered him. Chanyeol, you’ve learned about reincarnation, right?”

“Yeah I learned about it.” Chanyeol mumbled, on the border of irritation and intrigue. Reincarnation was pretty common knowledge. It didn’t tend to happen too often, but every now and again, a memories would get reborn; no one really knew why it happened, and they probably never would.

“Chanyeol, do you know why you’re named after grandfather?”

“I assume it’s something about how I look like his doppelganger or something-”

“No. Believe it or not, we didn’t give you that name. You told us your name when you were about three years old.” Chanyeol gaped at his father, who took it as a cue to continue.

“Your mother was calling for you once, but you refused to come. When she finally found you and asked why you didn’t listen to her calling, you stared at her and said ‘but you didn’t call my name. My name is Chanyeol, right?’ Since then, we knew that somehow, you were born with some of your late grandfather’s memories. I’ve…been doing all this, the schooling, the pressure to become a councilman, because it was the path your grandfather took. But looking at you know…maybe I didn’t know my own father all that well after all…” He ended in a near whisper, giving Chanyeol a moment to digest the information.

“I’m not my grandfather…” Chanyeol whispered his retaliation weakly, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.

“No, you’re not grandfather. But you do have part of him with you. Here, take this,” his father held out a folded paper, “it was the only thing he left with the chest, along with instructions that no one should open it. I’ll…leave you now.” Taking one last look at his son, the man walked out of the room at last.

With shaking hands, Chanyeol unfolded the piece of paper and felt his heart catch in his throat. On it was a simple sketch, a portrait, identical to the dozens he had scribbled in sketchbooks. The same face that adorned his current canvas.

“Who…are you?”

∞

His name was Baekhyun.

Inside of the chest were dozens upon hundreds of letters and journals dedicated to the boy. Chanyeol read them all. The more he read, the more he remembered. It was so bizarre, remembering a past life. After each entry, his mind resounded with an “oh yeah, how could I forget?”.

He’d always been an artist. Baekhyun had appreciated his portraits, even if he pretended to be embarrassed by the attention.

He’d never had a good relationship with his parents.

The key difference, of course, was that in his other life, he strived to unite the populace and abolish destructive rituals. But there was one thing he couldn’t seem to remember, something he couldn’t figure out.

What happened to Baekhyun?

All the letters he read referred to memories of happy times spent together, and most all of them spoke as if the boy had already passed. Chanyeol felt a gnawing in his chest as he pulled out the last journal. This was it, he could feel it; this would tell him what happened.

28^th day of July

It has been nearly 3 weeks since meeting you. I never believed I could feel this way about someone, especially not someone like you. This kind of thing was never supposed to happen. I can’t understand it. I can’t understand you. Why do you do this to yourself? The self-torture, the self-degradation. Why do you tear yourself down to pieces and let others trample all over you? I don’t understand. Why are you so sad all the time?

Chanyeol blinked, somewhat taken aback by the sudden change in tone. This journal, it was definitely different from the other letters he read.

No, I take it back. I know, deep down, I really do know. You are one of The Marked, you don’t know any better. You were raised to believe you were nothing but evil. But I can’t help but feel it, sometimes…when I look in your eyes, I know that you can see past this farce. Yet you loathe yourself to a point that not even I may be able to reach. And that is what I fear the most. That I won’t reach you in time.

Chanyeol put down the journal, tears welling in his eyes.

“Oh yeah, how could I forget…”

Baekhyun had been a village boy, one of The Marked. He’d fallen in love with someone he was meant to break. He couldn’t reach him in time. He’d watched him burn.

That night, Chanyeol cried himself to sleep. His dreams were filled with smoke and sad smiles.

For the next week, Chanyeol refused to leave his room. He didn’t move from his desk usually, intent on finishing every letter and journal left behind. There had to be something more than sorrow at the end of this. Knowing himself…knowing his past self as well, he would’ve never left behind a crate of memories if there wasn’t something to do about it.

It was while reading through that journal, when he noticed a strange seam in the leather. Curious, he took a small blade and undid the binding, opening a fold on the inside cover. There was something in there. He pulled out a crumpled envelope and felt a flash of recognition. This was it, this would tell him what to do.

Inside the envelope rest a single piece of parchment and a necklace. He placed the accessory aside for now, not wanting to touch it before he remembered.

It was a story. He’d written a story on the parchment, about a lonely boy that fell in love with someone incredibly doomed. He remembered now. It was Baekhyun’s story. The one he told the night before he died. The necklace was a final gift.

“…take comfort in the stars. In the heavens, they lived happily ever after.”

“The stars…the stars!” Chanyeol bolted out of his seat, frantic tears in his eyes.

“I’m so stupid, so so stupid. How could I forget?!” He grabbed the bundle of letters and unfolded them in chronological order.

Then, he flipped them all over.

“A map. I mapped the stars.”

On the back of every letter lay a fragment of one big picture. But there was a gap in one spot, where things didn’t line up. He shifted the papers before moving back to retrieve Baekhyun’s story from his desk. Of course it was the last piece.

“The stars…will bring us together again.”

That night, Chanyeol packed his bags

∞

It was difficult at first, to map out the heavens. Unlike his past life, this Chanyeol hadn’t been as avid as a star gazer. But he eventually got the hang of it, without the help of others usually.

Travel does things to a person. It opens your eyes to so much beauty, and only makes wickedness that much clearer. Chanyeol always believed that people were liars; it was an inherent nature. Hadn’t his past life realized this and made a living off of it? But he’d changed, hadn’t he, after meeting Baekhyun. Someone so brutally honest. Someone more valuable than all the riches in the world.

This thought drove him forward, on those colder nights. During those times where he felt like giving up, frustrated with how he kept mixing up the constellations, he would remember those honest brown eyes. He would remember how it felt to truly trust, to truly love, and pushed forward with the determination to find it again.

It took somewhere up to an entire year. A year spent in the wilds, surviving between villages and the occasional town. But here he was, atop a hillside all too nostalgic. This was their hillside. The view had changed, somewhat; the old village was gone, replaced instead bustling town. But he knew this was the right place, because when he sat down and looked up, the stars were all in perfect alignment.

Chanyeol was tired, oh so very tired, but he had finally made it. So he continued gazing at the heavens, and let himself be wrapped in their warmth. He didn’t mean to, but slept overtook him soon enough, and it was the most peaceful night he’d slept in months.

It was almost a shame to be woken hours later, but the rising sun and morning birds refused to let him sleep much more. For some reason, it was also becoming unbearably warm. As his mind drifted closer to consciousness, he began to register that the warmth was coming from beside him. Something that felt like a soft caress grazed his forehead, and soft murmurs of “sir, can you hear me?” are what finally made his eyes flutter open.

His breath was taken away.

“Baekhyun…” Chanyeol murmured the name that had plagued him for months, and felt his lips twitch into what could only be a stupid grin.

The brown haired boy before him paused, before revealing a grin brighter than the rising sun. His eyes crinkled in delight and Chanyeol reached a hand out to trace a star-shaped birthmark. And then, in a voice more vivid than even the clearest memory, the boy whispered.

“Chanyeol, you’ve finally found me.”

And in the heavens, they lived happily ever after.

a/n: my kokoro is satisfied with happy ending baekyeol