Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hoseok hated writer’s block.

It wasn’t like this was his first time dealing with writer’s block. He had been a recording artist for decade, even writing and producing a solo album before he enlisted—he had plenty of experience finding ways to break through a writer’s block.

But it was his first time having writer’s block since returning to civilian life, and for some reason his usual strategies—listening to music, dancing, playing video games, hanging out with friends eating cereal straight from the box until 3 a.m.—just weren’t working.

Well, if he was being completely honest, he hadn’t really tried that last one. Frankly, he hadn’t been able to since he’d decided to hole up in L.A. to work on his next album. Sure, Hoseok knew people in L.A., but they were mostly people he knew from work or through work. Not necessarily people he’d feel comfortable inviting over to his house to consume ungodly amounts of soju from HMart and slightly stale Lucky Charms.

He’d tried calling Seokjin, but between the fourteen-hour time difference and his hyung’s hectic schedule, they never ended up doing more than a quick catch-up. Don’t get him wrong, he was happy to catch up with Seokjin, especially now that he didn’t have to worry about being overheard in the barracks, but it wasn’t the same as actually hanging out.

The truth was, Hoseok missed his brothers. Sometimes more than when he was still in the military. In the military he had been too tired and too stressed to think about how much he missed everything, it was only when he checked his text messages or hopped on a quick phone call during the narrow windows of time he was allowed to use his phone that he remembered to miss his friends and family.

He had been excited for things to go back to normal once he finished his service—to talk to whoever and do whatever and use his phone whenever he wanted. Except, here he was, in L.A. working on his album, exactly where he wanted to be doing exactly what he wanted to do, and nothing felt normal. He wasn’t waking up in his normal bed. He wasn’t working in his normal studio. His normal creative process wasn’t working, and his normal methods of working through a writer’s block were leaving him stuck spinning his wheels.

The words just weren’t coming to him, or worse, they were coming but they just sounded awful. He was trying to write English lyrics, and even though the producer he was working with via email kept telling him that what he wrote sounded great—he kept wishing he could get Namjoon’s opinion. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the producer, it was just that he trusted Namjoon more.

Normally, he would just call Namjoon and read him what he was working on to get his opinion, but Namjoon was still in the military and texting or calling him about work meant risking having his lyrics leaked.

Hoseok groaned, his finger hovering over the call button under Namjoon’s contact. It was probably around noon in Korea, which meant that even if he gave in and did call, he’d just get sent straight to voicemail. Flipping his phone over in disgust, he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of “not normal” every time he actively chose not to reach out to one of the other members.

Even during their hiatus, during those ten months between when they hit pause on BTS and Hoseok enlisted, the group had still practically lived in each other’s pockets. They were always bumping into each other at the Hybe offices or meeting up to grab dinner or showing up unannounced at each other’s front door. Even when people were immersed in a busy schedule or traveling out of the country or locked in a studio writing, there had always been the group chat.

Sure, Jin had gone into the military and texts from him slowly dwindled to a point where he didn’t do much other than like people’s messages in the group-chat, but that was understandable. He was busy. And Namjoon had been distant, slowly falling out of their orbit as he pieced together introspective songs that sometimes cut Hoseok to pieces to listen to. But it was like Jimin pointed out, he just needed some time to recharge, so there was no need to take it personal.

But even then, it had still felt normal. When he was working on Jack in the Box it had all felt normal.

They’d been apart for well over a year, this level of communication should feel normal—but it didn’t.

It was probably just the time difference he told himself. He’d run off to L.A. almost as soon as he’d gotten out of the military so that he could camp out and start working on his album. That was why he was feeling off. Probably.

Hoseok probably could’ve written his album in Seoul. Then he’d probably see Seokjin around the Hybe building and get roped into Run Jin shenanigans. They’d get dinner every couple of weeks where he’d let Seokjin listen to what he was working on. He’d even be able to pull the dongsaeng card and force Seokjin to buy him snacks every time he batted his eyes and called him hyung.

But after 16 months in the military, all he wanted was to exist somewhere without feeling like he was constantly being watched. That was next to impossible in Korea, where eyes were on him at all times and he was almost instantly recognizable everywhere he went.

Being in the military, he had been so strongly aware of all the soldiers around him, passively observing him. He knew that if he griped or complained too much, or if he got angry and fought with someone, or embarrassed himself or made a mistake, there was always a chance that it would make its was back to the real world.

It’s wasn’t like he really felt the need to gripe or complain or yell or fight, but the pressing awareness that he couldn’t meant that he hadn’t ever been able to really relax.

In LA, people were less likely to recognize him. He could casually go out to the store with a baseball cap or sunglasses and people wouldn’t give him a second glance.

In Beverly Hills where he’s renting, most of his neighbors understood the concept of privacy, maybe even craved it the way he did.

That’s why LA was supposed to be the perfect place to work on his new album. His new place was spacious and clean, with a dedicated studio space that no one else had access too. Hoseok was tired of feeling smothered. He wanted to be in a place where he could breathe, where he could relax, where he could think outside of the box and let the creative juices flow.

Except the creative juices weren’t flowing.

Maybe the problem was that he’d never written like this before—with time and space to really feel out the music and workshop the lyrics. They had always written in the narrow spaces between schedules, studio sessions wedged between photoshoots and dance practices and interviews. A growing part of him was starting to worry that he couldn’t write without it—without the stress and the scrutiny, without the shared studio and the producers he had to push back against.

Yoongi would get it. He’d listen to Hoseok while he worked out the problem with his lyrics in between sips of beer, and he’d find small things to praise, the small things on a track that only other artists ever really noticed and appreciated. Namjoon, on the other hand, would probably give him a short list of ways to break through writer’s block and they try them all with him until they found something that worked. He’d probably give him a pep-talk too, the kind that would be incredibly cheesy if it weren’t so earnest.

But if he tried to call, neither of them would pick up the phone.

With a sigh, Hoseok flipped his phone back over and looked at the rap line group chat, which had been dormant for months now. A text might work. He’d have to wait for a response, but it wasn’t like he was really getting anywhere anyways.

I can’t write anything. I’ve tried everything and nothing is working. Writer’s block sucks.

He waited a few minutes, staring at the glow of his phone screen in the darkness of his studio. As expected, there was no response to his message.

With another sigh, he decided to call it a night.

[. . .]

He actually missed it when they responded. He’d been floating in his, frankly, ridiculously large pool before breakfast in the hopes that the California sunshine would be enough to get his brain to relax enough that he could actually write something decent.

By the time he clambered out of the pool and opened the message on his phone with pruney fingers, some quick mental math told him that he’d missed the window of opportunity to have any sort of back and forth.

The first message was from Namjoon:

Ugh, writer’s block sucks. Have you tried going to museum or on a hike? That usually helps me. Fighting!

Yoongi followed it up a bit more bluntly:

Have you tried getting eight hours of sleep?

Hoseok decided he was going to ignore Yoongi’s hypocritical advice. He was running on a solid three hours of sleep and he felt fine! Maybe good even!

But Yoongi had also liked Namjoon’s message, which he decided to take as the shining endorsement that it was.

A museum or a hike.

Honestly, Hoseok wasn’t a big fan of museums. He didn’t hate them or anything. But there was something about the space in a gallery that demanded silence, it made Hoseok feel as though had had to be serious and solemn the whole time he was there—which was something he had never been good at.

Museums were better when he could go with Taehyung, or even Namjoon, because sure they’d talk about the artwork, but they’d also inevitably end up talking about random stuff and snickering over inside jokes in hushed voices.

Perhaps the only thing bleaker than the prospect of going to a museum alone, was going to a museum alone and being recognized as a celebrity. Going to such a crowded, public space would mean coordinating with the museum and a full security detail—and no matter how covert or subtle they tried to be, bodyguards always drew attention. The plain clothes bodyguard that shadowed him whenever he ran to the store or decided to grab a bite to eat from some hole in the wall restaurant invariably drew glances, even when Hoseok himself flew under the radar.

So, a hike then.

He could probably find a local park where he could walk around, but that felt like cheating. Namjoon had said hike not walk.

Pulling up Naver, Hoseok looked up nearby hiking trails. The first few results were things like the trail up to the Hollywood sign—touristy walks that wouldn’t take him outside of the city. He could imagine Namjoon shaking his head disapprovingly and insisting that the while point was to connect with and draw inspiration from nature. Yoongi would roll his eyes and claim that the point was to be somewhere quiet and alone, but he wouldn’t actually disagree with Namjoon.

Further down the search results, Hoseok found a web-page for Angeles National Forest. A quick cross-reference with his map app told him that the forest was a little over an hour away on the other side of LA. Perfect for a day-trip.

If we went early on a weekday and picked a less popular trail, he could probably get away with taking just one bodyguard.

For a moment, he toyed with the idea of renting a cabin, but that would require a security meeting and Mr. Lee, even though he was all the way in Seoul, would insist on a whole security detail for an oversight stay. Better to make it a short-day trip.

A little more searching led him to a highly rated trail called Trail Canyon Falls, which promised a gorgeous waterfall at the end of the trail. Apparently, the trail had a moderate difficulty, but Hoseok was still in shape from his time in the military, so he wasn’t worried.

Hoseok sent a quick message to his security team, requesting a bodyguard and a car to take him to out to the trailhead early the next morning.

[. . .]

The trail leading up to the waterfall began at an entirely unremarkable spot on the side of the highway, if you didn’t know it was there you would never actually stop—which, if you’re a global superstar looking for privacy, was ideal.

There was only one other car in lot when they arrived, that with the general isolation (wrong word) of the trailhead, made it surprisingly easy for Hoseok to convince his bodyguard to let him go alone after setting up a check-in time. Technically, it’s something the man should have never agreed to under any circumstances, but he had confided that this was his first “bodyguard gig” and Hoseok had taken advantage of his inexperience. He would feel bad about tricking him, if he weren’t so relieved to finally be able to do something alone.

(He definitely would feel bad later when the poor guy got chewed out by his superior—Hoseok privately resolved to take the fall)

For the first leg of the hike, he hummed to himself in satisfaction. He tried whistling a bit too, it was off-key and grated at his ears, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. There was no one around to hear or judge. It wasn’t until he came up on a creek that he remembered that he was supposed to be drawing inspiration from nature.

As he slipped of his shoes and rolled up his pant legs to wade through the stream, he tried to come up with an insightful mediation on the quiet stream of water. If Namjoon were there, he’d think of something easily. He’d be in the middle of sharing a philosophic quote on the nature of time and water or something, only for Taehyung to interrupt by splashing water on the leader. Jungguk would join in after that, drenching Seokjin, and the whole thing would turn into a water fight where the Yoongi would be the only one to miraculously avoid getting soaked.

He smiled to himself at the mental image as he crossed to the other side of the creek and shook the water off his legs. His feet were still a little damp when he slipped his socks and shoes back on, but he was in such a good mood he didn’t even care about the way the fabric stuck to his skin. The water had been refreshing. Even though it was November, it was still warm in Southern California and Hoseok had already started to work up a light sweat.

The second creek he came across was narrow enough that Hoseok had been able to hop over it without too much trouble. The third had a some fallen logs that he used as a bridge; his arms flung out wide to help keep his balance on the slippery bark.

The fourth stream he came across gave him a little more trouble. November was the start of the rainy season (contrary to popular belief, Southern California does have one), so the current was high and strong. Water rushed around the stepping-stones that spanned the creek, drenching them in the spray. About halfway across Hoesok’s left foot slipped, plunging him in cold water up to his ankle and nearly causing him to fall over. He cursed violently as he windmilled his arms, only staying upright thanks to his impressive core strength.

With one foot entirely soaked and his expensive Balenciaga X Adidas sneaker squelching with each step, Hoseok’s cheery mood dimmed a bit. The forest around him was still beautiful, the trail was shaded, and the path was lined with spiky yucca plants and shrubs dripping with white flowers that looked like tiny fairy bells.

But it was like the cold water had suddenly snapped his brain back to the problem at hand—his insurmountable writer’s block. This entire walk was somehow meant to somehow help him fall back into the rhythm of writing.

He was supposed to have at least two of three singles done by the end of the month.  While he wouldn’t be releasing any songs until well into the new year, he was going to be too busy between photoshoots, music video shoots, and stages to get any work done in the studio. On top of all of that, he would most likely end up featuring on a track as part of his role as a Louis Vuitton brand ambassador. Hi managers were still working out the details, but Hoseok had already given his official approval for the project. He had no idea who he would be working with or how involved the project would end up being—but he knew he’d at least have to write an original verse and go to two or three recording sessions.

As he picked his way across the sixth stream—and really, if he had realized just how many creeks he was going to have to cross he would’ve picked a different trail—with his shoes in hand and his pants pulled up to his knees, Hoseok could feel the tension creeping back into his shoulders. The creek was deep and strong from the recent rain. So much so that he had to brace his feet (and even his hand) against the large boulders cutting the current of the river to keep his balance.

This hike was a terrible idea. He was going to call Namjoon and curse him out—the threat of being overheard by random soldiers be damned. It would be good to fight with Namjoon. His fellow 94-liner was hard to rile up, but once he was mad, he could yell with the best of them.

Yeah, a fight would be good. Cathartic—the way it was back when they all lived on top of one another in that tiny dorm, wedged in like sardines. Back then, fighting had almost been a ritual cleansing. Like cleaning out your sinuses with a neti pot, only it flushed out all the stress and tension instead of mucus.

Momentarily distracted from his frustration by that terrible metaphor, Hoseok wrinkled his nose at himself. He sagged onto a fallen oak tree beside the trail to rest his legs and give them a chance to dry off a bit.

How was he meant to finish writing anything if the best metaphor he could come up with was comparing fighting to fucking neti pot?

This was the problem. Hoseok was supposed to be writing songs about romance and love. The entire concept for his comeback was supposed to be sensual, mature—sexy. But every time he sat down to write, he kept getting frustrated with himself.

With a huff, he jammed his shoes back onto these feet and continued the trail. Maybe tiring himself out would help. A physical release for the tension tightly wound up in his chest. Maybe the sound of a rushing waterfall would be enough to clear his head and help him meditate.

There were two more creeks to cross (luckily, both shallow and slow) before Hoseok reached the waterfall. He could hear the rushing water as he picked his way down a pile of rocks into the clearing at the base of the falls, tightly gripping the rope that had been conveniently installed.

The end of the trail was beautiful, the rush of the falls loud enough to dampen the typical backroad sounds of the forest, like birds and chipmunks and other assorted woodland creatures. Water cascaded over the edge of a cliff at least 9 meters tall, and tumbled into a shallow pool that drained into, yet another creek.

The clearing was more pebble and stone than dirt, a fact that Hoseok was grateful for as he settled himself on a small boulder. He’d already half ruined his shoes; he didn’t want to get dirt stains on his new, Nike athletic pants.

He took a deep breath and let the white noise of the falls wash over him—muting the frustration that had been boiling over. He let the fresh Autumn air fill his lungs and enjoyed the feeling of sunshine seeping into his skin. Back in Seoul, the first snow had already fallen.

The other members who were still trapped on base would be in their winter fatigues and shivering their way through drills. Seokjin would be driving everywhere insisting it was too cold to walk and public transport would be too crowded to risk it. Yoongi, on the other hand, would be wrapping a scarf around the bottom half of his face and pulling a hat over his eyes, and wedging himself onto crowded subway cars on his way to work relishing in the anonymity of it all.

He let the thought go, let the rush of the river carry it away. Pulling his wireless headphones from the Louis Vuitton fanny pack slung around his hips, Hoseok popped them in and started listening to the demo he’d recorded for his second single.

Technically, he was still procrastinating. This single, tentatively titled “Sweet Dreams,” although one of the marketing managers was making a strong case for calling it “Take You Home,” was meant to be the second single he would release next year—specifically to allow buffer time in case there were any delays with the featured artist.

The first single he had slated to drop, was still untitled. And while he had a killer beat to work off of, the lyrics just weren’t coming.

For some reason, the second single had just been easier to work on. Maybe because he didn’t have the pressure of a looming release date. Or maybe because it was the more romantic of the two songs, sweet and sensual where the first single was sexy.

Despite being one part of one of the most popular K-pop groups in the world, Hoseok had never considered himself to be all that good looking. He wasn’t sexy—never had been.

It usually didn’t bother him too much. Why would he have to worry about being hot when there was Seokjin with his perfect face? Or Taehyung with his effortless sensuality? Or Jimin with his siren-like quality that made both men and women swoon? Or Jungguk who happened to be extraordinarily handsome on top of everything else?

Hoseok had always known that his charm laid in his personality—bright and sunshiny. Fun, but decidedly not sexy. He even took a bit of pride in it, the fact that he could confidently say that it was his talent and hard work that made him a success, and not his visuals. (Not that the other members weren’t also talented and hard-working—but, that wasn’t really the point).

So yeah, Hoesok was having trouble writing the sexy song. “Sweet Dreams” on the other hand, was almost finished, although there was still something bugging him about the pre-chorus.

The last line just sounded wrong—which was a problem because it was supposed to be repeated at the end of the chorus.. The American producer on the track had assured him at least three times that it was right, but it felt wrong. It didn’t feel natural.

He hummed thoughtfully to himself as he watched the sunlight dance on the cascading water. How he really wanted to sing it was, ‘Til theres nothing left but diamond necklace on you girl. In fact, he had to rerecord the line a few times for the demo because he kept forgetting the article.

A diamond necklace. That was the correct way to say it, but Hoseok kind of hated how it sounded.

“Excuse me,” A man said in English, drawing Hoseok’s attention from the falls. “Will you take a picture for us?”

He turned around in surprise to find two men standing behind him in the clearing. The man holding out a phone to him looked to about Hoseok’s  height, but probably at least twice as broad as him. Hoseok let his eyes skim over the man’s biceps straining against his shirt as he reached out to take the phone with an obliging nod.

The two men picked their way across the stony beach to pose in front of the falls, arms looped around each other’s shoulders. They were wearing matching outfits—long pants, long sleeved shirts, and big floppy hats that cast shadows over their faces.

“Your hats,” Hoseok called out in English and gestured flipping the brim back, “I can’t see your faces.”

The second man, who was a little shorter and slimmer, laughed and tried to wave him off, “It’s alright!”

But the taller man used the hand already sitting on his friend’s shoulder to grip the brim of his hat and held it at an angle that didn’t cover his face but still shielded his eyes from the sun. It reminded Hoseok of the kind of thing Seokjin would do.

The shorter man giggled a little, before returning the favor—reaching over to lift his friend’s brim—and the two of them breamed at Hoseok with barely suppressed laughter.

Hoseok quickly snapped the picture, making sure that he got the waterfall behind them in frame, before holding out the phone to let them know he’d taken it.

“Thanks,” The taller man jogged over to him, his voice surprisingly deep, “You saved us the trouble of having to mess around with self-timers.”

The other man followed, peering over his friend’s shoulder as they looked at Hoseok’s handwork, “Oh, that looks great!”

“Do you want us to take one for you?” The taller of the two asked, flashing Hoseok a kind smile. He had well-trimmed facial hair that sent a small spark of jealousy shooting through Hoseok’s gut—he could never grow facial hair like that.

The man tilted his head slightly, and Hoseok realized he had taken a second too long to answer, having been distracted by his facial hair. A picture would be nice to send to Namjoon and Yoongi—proof that he actually went on the hike.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

Hoseok put his phone in the man’s waiting hand, his fingertips stinging against calluses in a way that sent a small jolt up his arm. He shuffled over to the falls and posed, adjusting his fanny pack and the sweatshirt he had stylishly tied diagonally across his torso. Like a true professional, he didn’t lift his face to the camera until he was ready with his best smile and a V-sign.

“Wow.” Hoseok heard from behind the camera.

He got his phone back quickly, barely glancing at the photo they had taken. It didn’t seem likely that either of these random men knew who he was, but he’d been a celebrity long enough to know that it was better to keep these kinds of interactions short if he wanted to stay anonymous.

“The falls are amazing!” The shorter man gushed, as Hoseok tucked his phone back in his fanny pack, “Have you seen the view from the top pf the falls yet?”

“Ah, no.”

“Dude, you have to. We were just up there. It’s incredible.” The shorter man continued, elbowing his friend, “Right, Mark?”

“Right.” The other man echoed. His dark eyes were heavy on Hoseok, and he was starting to worry that the other man had recognized him.

Hoseok excused himself with a quick bow and a thank you half thrown over his shoulder as he shuffled back to the trail. He thought he could feel eyes watching him as he climbed up the rocks, but when he glanced back, both men seemed engrossed by the waterfall.

When he got to the top of the rock pile, he noticed that the trail continued—presumably to the top of the falls.

Honestly, before he had been interrupted, he had felt close to a breakthrough. Maybe sitting at the top of the falls would be what finally broke through his writer’s block. At the very least, it didn’t seem likely that the pair of strangers would return to the top of the falls and sitting there for a bit would probably reduce his chances of bumping into them on his way back to the trailhead.

Decision made; he continued the winding trail up. The elevation gain was tricky, but at the very least he didn’t have to cross any more streams. Eight creeks on a single hike was honestly excessive, and Hoseok was not looking forward to having to cross them all again on his way back.

Just as the shorter stranger had promised, the view from the top of the falls was a spectacular view of the canyon. The trail at this point was winding and overgrown, making it so that Hoseok had to hop from boulder to boulder to get back down to the creek bed. It was honestly kid of impressive, how such a narrow creek could create such a large waterfall.

If he wanted, he could probably sit by the creek bed and look out over the California foothills—there was just enough room for him to fit cross-legged on the craggy stone. But the sun was beating down on him and he missed the shade and the cool spray from the bottom of the falls. He would rather sit back on that flat boulder in the clearing with the white noise of rushing water echoing off the canyon walls.

But he also wanted to be alone so that he could focus on his music (Yoongi would be so proud). Maybe the two men had gotten bored and already started making their way back to the trailhead.

Hopefully, Hoseok shuffled closer to the edge of the falls and craned his head down to see if the clearing was empty. Suddenly, his right foot slipped slightly on the water-soaked stone and Hoseok stumbled to the right, directly landing in the creek and catching his shoulder against the large boulder on the other side of the riverbed.

With his heart pounding in his throat, Hoseok scrambled back onto the creek bed, shuffling away from the edge. He laughed at himself in relief as he dusted himself off and waited for the dizzying adrenaline rush to subside.

It was lucky that he had fallen sideways, instead of forward. Instead of cracking his head on the bottom of the pool below him, he’d only ended up with soaked ankles and a bruised shoulder.

Moving decidedly away from the wet stone by the creek, Hoseok shuffled along the edge of the canyon side, carefully staying about a meter back and picking his way down dry boulders to a spot that looked like it would give him a better vantage point to look down into the clearing.

He carefully picked a position that let him brace himself between two boulders for stability. He didn’t notice that the ground beneath the two boulders was mostly loose gravel on a slight incline. He didn’t think about how the shallow tread on his designer sneakers was.

When his foot fell out from under him, he actually fell back first—slamming the back of his head onto one of the boulders and scaping his back up as he slid down and landed hard on his tailbone. Pain flared through him and gravity did its work as he slipped on the loose gravel, pulling him towards the edge of the cliff.

To his credit, Hoseok did manage to twist and grab at the stone to try and stop his descent, but all he succeeded in doing was shedding his nails. He had too much momentum. Instinctually, Hoseok squeezed his eyes shut.

There was nothing but open air beneath him.

Chapter Text

Hoseok blinked his eyes open to find himself looking up through the canyon into the expanse of a great blue sky.

The first thing he noticed is that it doesn’t hurt. Turning his head slightly, he can see the falls stretching out above him—from a fall from that height, there was no way he didn’t have at least one broken bone. Thank goodness for the power of adrenaline, because without it dulling his senses there’s no way he wouldn’t have passed out from the pain.

The adrenaline in his system wouldn’t last forever though, he needed to take stock of his injuries and call for help before the shock wore off and he was in too much pain to do anything.

Only, his body refused to cooperate with him when he tried to sit up—all he managed was to shift slightly, alerting Hoseok to the sharp stone digging into the base of his neck, and the sensation of something warm and wet smeared in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

A cold rush of fear filled him as the realization his him: Hoseok couldn’t move.

He was starting to panic, his lungs desperately spasming as he sucked in breath after rapid breath that did nothing to ease the heavy, suffocating weight on his chest.

Yah! Take a deep breath, Hobi. His internal monologue chided him in Yoongi’s voice.

Obediently, Hoseok forced himself to take a slow, shuddering breath then another, holding his breath for a moment before exhaling.

You’re still alive. A calm voice in his head that sounded like Seokjin said, If you can call for help, your bodyguard will find you and take you to a hospital.

Hoseok tried to force his fingers to move. Shifting his head slightly, he could see where his hand was laying, just centimeters from where his phone was in his Louis Vuitton fanny pack. He glared at his hand and tried to visualize it moving. He tried to remember what it felt like to flex the muscles of his fingers, hoping the memory would trigger movement. He tried praying to the Buddha. But no matter what he did, his hand remained limp and lifeless on the forest floor.

Hot tears of frustration pricked at Hoseok’s eyes. He was going to die, uselessly on the ground because he couldn’t so much as get his hand to cooperate. It would be another two hours before his absence would raise alarms. Hoseok thought about the warm wetness on the back of his neck—he wasn’t stupid, he knew it was blood. He might bleed out before help ever found him.

Darkly, Hoseok thought it might be better if he did bleed out. He couldn’t so much as move his pinky. He would probably never dance again. Just the thought of it was so painful that he involuntarily let out a dry sob.

Dance was the foundation of everything Hoseok did—the foundation of everything he was. Without dance, he wasn’t J-Hope of BTS. He wasn’t even Jung Hoseok. Without dance he was nothing.

The group would go on without him. Yoongi and Namjoon would take over his parts during performances, the way he and Namjoon had when Yoongi was recovering from his shoulder surgery. Or maybe they’d finally let Taehyung rap. Hoeseok knew they would miss him, but he also knew that none of his brothers could ever give up performing—performing was the reason they went through the lack of sleep and the relentless hate, the reason they did it all. They’d never give it up, not even for him.

It would kill him to watch them, but he’d find a way to smile and cheer them on. Maybe they’d let him write still. Of course, it was his inability to write had put him in this situation in the first place, so maybe not. Hoesok felt hot tears trailing down his face.

Hobi, you can’t give up. The memory of Namjoon’s voice cut through his misery, We can’t do this without you. There is no BTS without you.

Hoseok sniffed as he remembered the words Namjoon had told him over a decade ago when had thought about quitting shortly after debut. Those words had gotten him through hard times, crises of confidence, the days when he was almost too exhausted to go on. He tried to hold onto them, but instead of comfort, he found himself wanting to yell at Namjoon. This stupid hike had been Namjoon’s idea in the first place. Hoseok could barely lift his head, what could anyone possibly expect him to do except give up?

Scream. Imaginary Namjoon’s voice offered.

And, well, it wasn’t like Hoseok had any better ideas.

[. . .]

A distinctly human scream pierced the air just as Mark was about to sink his fangs into a rabbit. He hesitated for a second, glancing first at Ethan whose eyes had gone wide and round with surprise, then at Amy who was looking out into the woods with raised brows.

“What was that?” Ethan giggled nervously.

“Probably just a hiker who tripped and fell,” Amy said after a moment, “It didn’t sound like fear as much as it sounded like pain.”

She was probably right—Amy usually was. Mark lifted the rabbit back to his mouth, his nose itching at the warmth of the blood pulsing through its small body. A rabbit of this size, he wouldn’t be able to drink more than two ounces if he wanted to let the little guy live—but even a shot of fresh, live blood was a welcome treat.

The voice screamed for the second time.

Exchanging a look with Amy, Mark held the rabbit out to Ethan with a reluctant sigh, swallowing down his disappointment.

“Remember to be careful not to completely drain it,” Amy told him firmly, “It needs at least 60% of its blood if it’s going to hop away.”

“Shouldn’t I go with you guys?” Ethan asked, his brow furrowed in concern as he looked between the two of them, “What if you need back up?”

“It’s probably a hiker who fell and twisted their ankle. No need to waste the snack.” Mark reassured him.

“Wait here. We’ll be back.” Amy flashed Ethan a relaxed smile. Watching them as they left, Ethan gently sunk his fangs into the back of the rabbit’s neck.

Together, Mark and Amy started making their way towards the screams, which incidentally was taking them back the way they came—towards the Trail Canyon Falls. A third scream, this one weaker than the first two, let them know that they were headed the right way. Exchanging a look, the pair picked up the pace.

As they got closer, Mark could feel his nose start to tingle—there was blood spilt nearby, and a lot of it. He didn’t have to see Amy’s face to know that she could sense it too. He glanced at her anyways of course, he couldn’t help it. Even in a moment like this where his pulse was kicking into high gear, or maybe especially in a moment like this, his instinct was to find her.

Mark pulled out his phone and started looking for the forest ranger number—whatever they were about to find, it was going to be bad and probably require the help of human authorities.

“Wait, put your phone down.” Amy stopped him, just as Mark was getting ready to dial. He looked up at her in surprise, only to see her eyes locked on something in the clearing—presumably the source of the screaming.

Following her gaze, Mark turned to see a crumpled body lying flat on its back—unmoving—a dark pool of blood expanding in little rivulets between the pebbles on the ground. Mark’s fangs ached at the sharp iron taste in the air. He was suddenly reminded of the time he had dropped a gallon of milk at the store and watched it explode, sending milk all over the linoleum floor.

The body was still warm but bleeding out.

“We should still call.” Mark said after a moment, “If we can stop the bleeding, he might make it long enough for paramedics to get here.”

Amy shook her head, “They won’t get here fast enough.”

He understood the unspoken message, that calling the authority’s and getting involved in this could get messy very quickly. Both because they were minor celebrities and because they were vampires.

“We have to at least try to help.” Mark said after a moment.

“Yeah.” She agreed softly—just like he knew she would.

When they moved closer to the body, Mark suddenly recognized him as the tourist who had taken a photo for him and Ethan—the one with the South Korean accent. His eyes were glossy, but open and moving around like he was trying to find something to lock his focus onto.

“Hey,” Mark said in Korean, kneeling beside his head in the growing puddle, “My name is Mark. Can you hear me?”

The man startled a bit, but when he looked at Mark his eyes were clear enough. His pupils dilated as they flitted across Mark’s face, gaze dragging from his eyes to his lips and back again—a sign of concussion.

“I can’t move.” The man said, his voice sounded like it had been scraped raw, most likely from the screams. Mark winced sympathetically as he watched the man wet his dry, chapped lips with his tongue.

Mark glanced up, making eye contact with Amy, who’s mouth was pressed into a grim line.

“You can’t move?” Mark said looking at the man again, “Can you wiggle your toes?”

“No.” He coughed.

“Try for me.”

Mark watched the man’s legs for any sign of movement, but they didn’t so much as twitch.

“Did you try?” He asked, hoping against hope, that maybe the man had simply not followed his instructions, but the man just gave a shallow nod in response—little more than a jerk of his head.

“What about your fingers? Can you wiggle your fingers?” Mark pressed, but the result was the same.

The man was paralyzed. Mark’s phone was still in his hand, his thumb hovering over the button to call for help. The man was alive—he was already paralyzed, so it wasn’t like Mark could do anymore damaged by moving him into a better position to try and stem the flow of blood—there was a chance that the paramedics would get there in time, that they’d be able to get him to the hospital in time. But Mark hesitated to hit the call button anyway.

It wasn’t that Mark thought you couldn’t have a fulfilling life as a quadriplegic—he knew that disability may impose some limitations, but that didn’t mean that there was no quality of life. Friendship, joy, laughter, love, romance, and a million other good and worthwhile things didn’t require an able body.

But he couldn’t help but look up at Amy to see if she was thinking what he was thinking.

“It’s a bad idea, Mark.” Amy said gently, shaking her head. She was thinking it too, then.

“He’s going to die if we don’t do anything.” He said, switching back to English and hoping that the man beneath him was too out of it to translate. Blood was soaking through the fabric of Mark’s pants where he was kneeling on the ground.

“We don’t know anything about him.”

“We know he’s going to die if we don’t help him.”

“Dammit, Mark.” Amy huffed in frustration, looking up at the sky like she was looking for patience, “Just call the forest rangers.”

“They can’t help him like we can.”

Mark waited for Amy to look back down, waited for her to look at the man who was glancing between the two of them with fear shining in his dark eyes, waited for her to let her kind heart override her cool head.

“If we do this,” Amy said after a long moment, “You’re responsible. If he goes on a rampage or starts bullying Ethan or something, it’s on you.”

Mark slipped his phone back into his pocket. They wouldn’t be calling for help.

[. . .]

At some point between when help came in the form of a handsome stranger who had hovered over Hoseok speaking in rapid English that he only half understood and foggily blinking his eyes open, Hoseok must’ve passed out.

As he took stock of his surroundings, the first thing he noticed was that he was no longer sprawled out on the ground. He was sitting up, his weight supported by something hard with a rough texture digging sharply into his back. The second thing he noticed was the beautiful woman sitting next to him, firmly pressing a wad of fabric against the side of his neck—her other hand resting against his collar bone to hold him steady.

Hoseok had just enough time to process these two new pieces of information before he was inundated with a wave of boiling pain. It was like every nerve ending in his body was screaming out at the same time. With a groan he squeezed his eyes back shut. His body tried to curl in on itself, like that could somehow shield him from the pain that was already inside him, but the press of a hand against his chest pushed him to recline again.

“Try not to move,” A soft, feminine voice said in English, “You’ve had quite the fall.”

Quite the fall. Hoseok turned the unfamiliar phrase over in his mind trying and failing to make sense of it. Using Seokjin’s trick of locking onto the last word of the sentence when he couldn’t follow the conversation, he forced himself to try and come up with a coherent response.

“I—fell.” Hoseok said intelligently, forcing his eyes back open—even his eyes hurt. Namjoon would be dying of cringe if he could hear his flaccid attempt at English.

The woman nodded and smiled at him, revealing a row of glinting teeth, “Yeah, you fell. But you’re ok now.”

She waited patiently for a moment while he absorbed that information. With a head full of cotton, he looked down at himself checking for injuries. He couldn’t see any obvious wounds. Hoseok frowned to himself. He must have missed something—he could’ve sworn he had been hurt beyond the throbbing pain of every muscle in his body.

“I’m Amy,” the woman continued, apparently determining that Hoseok had nothing to say, “What’s your name?”

“Hoseok.” He replied, shifting slightly to alleviate whatever was digging into his spine. He reached back to press his hand against the surface at his back and felt the cold surface of stone.

Hoseok froze. If there had been music playing it would’ve screeched to a halt with a record scratch. He had just moved his hand. Suddenly the memory of lying flat on the ground, a helpless sack of meat and skin that couldn’t so much as lift a pinky slammed into the forefront of his mind.

He lifted his hands in front of his face and wiggled his fingers—and sure enough, they moved. Even that small movement ached, but Hoseok couldn’t help but smile at the pain. It must have been shock making his muscles lock-up before.

“I can move.” He whispered to himself in awe. He looked over at Amy giddily, only to find her looking back at him with an amused expression. Slowly, gently she peeled back the cloth she had been holding against his neck and leaned back.

“I think the bleeding finally stopped.” She said. His hand flew to the back of his neck, only to find a shallow cut; he could feel the edges of it already beginning to scab.

“Mark should be on his way back with Ethan,” Amy told him, although the names didn’t register as familiar, “When they get here, we’ll get you something to eat. You’ll be hungry soon.”

It took a second between the fuzziness in his head and the fact she had spoken in English for Hoseok to understand what she was saying. She wanted Hoseok to go with her and some other people. His initial gut reaction was to say thank-you and go with her—no questions asked. To his groggy mind food sounded amazing. Before he could open his mouth to agree, his phone buzzed in his fanny pack.

Unzipping the bad and pulling out his phone, Hoseok found himself looking at a message from his bodyguard. He had missed the check-in time he was meant to be back at the trail head by.

“I have to get back to the—“ Dammit, he’d forgotten the English word for it, “The start of the path. Where the cars park. My friend is waiting for me.”

Amy nodded slowly, like she was thinking hard. Maybe he had said something wrong? Hoseok sent a quick message to let the bodyguard know that he was alive and, on his way, so that we wouldn’t freak out and start looking for him. (It wasn’t really a lie; he’d probably be on his way back soon).

From the trees on the other side of the clearing, two men stepped out from the tree line. Hoseok recognized them as the guys who’d asked him to take their picture earlier.

“Hey, guys,” Amy waved them over, “This is Hoseok. We’re going to help him back to the trailhead so he can catch a ride with his friend.”

The broad-shouldered man frowned at Amy, “I thought we were going to take him home to eat.”

There was something about the way he said it that made Hoseok shiver—like his deep, rumbling voice was a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. He could suddenly feel every inch of his skin, from the stinging scrapes on his spine from his fall to the gooseflesh that had erupted on his arm standing at attention.

He felt his gaze flicker over the man’s body, involuntarily noting just how built he was. Even through his clothes, it was obvious he was at least as muscular as Jungguk—only, he didn’t have the same child-like vibe that made Jungguk’s hulking frame feel softer, smaller.

Hoseok suddenly remembered that he was famous and that going somewhere with strangers was a bad idea for so many reasons. Before he could speak up and make an excuse as to why he really couldn’t go with them, Amy stepped in.

“He already has plans. I’m sure his friend is already worried.” Amy and the man exchanged meaningful looks—it was the kind of seamless telepathic communication he was used to seeing between Jimin and Taehyung. After a moment, the man stepped back, a nonverbal acquiescence.

“Welp,” The other man cut in, breaking the tension by flashing a boyish smile at Hoseok, “I’m Ethan. Let’s get you up!”

Ethan held a slender hand out, which Hoseok took after only a moment of hesitation, and pulled him to his feet with surprising strength. Hoseok’s legs trembled under him, a fresh wave of pain threatening to make him lose his balance, but in the end, he managed to stay upright. Ethan held onto him for a moment, giving him a chance to steady himself before letting go.

“You good?” Ethan asked, and the shape of the word brought Hoseok’s attention to the red smudge at the corner of his mouth. Maybe lipstick? It wouldn’t be that out of place in LA, although technically they were at least an hour outside of the city.

“Good.” Hoseok echoed, flashing a weak thumbs up.

As the little group exited the clearing and started up the trail towards the trailhead, Hoseok turned to take one last look at the waterfall. His gaze caught on the surprising amount of blood glistening on the pebbles at the base of the falls. He felt his eyes widen and involuntarily his hand moved to press against the back of his neck. That was a lot of blood. Too much blood, he thought. Had it really all come from him? He felt the rough edges of the beginnings of a scab against his fingers.

He couldn’t wait to get home and take a long, hot shower. After that, he’d text Namjoon to tell him that hiking sucks. Then he’d sleep for fourteen hours.

Next time he was going to a fucking museum.

Chapter Text

The hike back to the trail head had to be the most miserable, humiliating hour and a half of his entire life. He barely made it back, his body refusing to cooperate. Ethan and the other man—Mark, as Hoeseok learned—practically had to carry him at some points, and he fell over at least twice while crossing a creek, meaning that by the time they made it back to the trailhead he was sopping wet.

The three strangers were kind about it, at least. Ethan chattered the whole way back in rapid English that Hoseok didn’t even try to follow, luckily Amy was busy nodding along like what he had to say was the most important thing in the world. It let him pretend that they weren’t paying attention to him and the embarrassing way his entire body was trembling with every step, even though they were both attentively watching him out of the corners of their eyes—over a decade of being in the public eye meant he could always tell when he was being watched.

Mark, unfortunately, didn’t bother to pretend. He hovered at Hoseok’s elbow, ready to reach out and steady him any time he stumbled. And to make matters worse, it turned out that Mark spoke Korean. Heavily accented Korean, but Korean nonetheless.

Which meant that every few minutes when Mark would ask him in a deep, soothing voice how he was feeling or if he wanted to take a break, or when he would mummer reassurances or offers of help after Hoseok faltered, he wasn’t able to pretend like he didn’t understand—by the time they’d gotten back to the parking lot and the trio handed him off to his very worried “friend” (read: bodyguard), his entire face was burning from shame.

So yeah, it was miserable, humiliating, and exhausting.

The bodyguard tried to insist on going to the hospital, but Hoseok put his foot down, threatening to have the man fired if he didn’t take Hoseok straight home. He didn’t usually make threats like that, but he usually wasn’t so exhausted that even keeping his eyes open hurt. Hoseok promised himself that he’d apologize later—he’d give the man coffee or a paid day off or something—but later, after he’d slept for fourteen hours.

When he finally made it home, the sun was high in the noon day sky. He had barely enough energy to lock his front door behind him and shuffle his way to the bedroom, leaning against the walls and shedding a trail of damp clothes on the floor as he stripped. Hoseok flopped face first on his bed and almost immediately passed out—but not before he managed to leave a short message for Namjoon in the group chat.

Fuck you.

[. . .]

The sky was dark when Hoseok woke up—head throbbing, muscles screaming, and his throat drier than the Sahara. And still, the first thing that caught his attention was that he was hungry.

He was so hungry that it hurt, his stomach clenching brutally. He was no stranger to hunger pains. As an idol he’d gone on extreme diets—fasting, the liquid only diet, the paper cup diet, the ice cube diet, and more—and still, he could safely say that never in his life had he felt like this. He was starving.

With a groan, Hoseok pushed himself to the edge of his bed and tried to stand only to crumple to the ground the moment he tried to support his own body weight. Swearing violently under his breath, he forced himself on his hands and knees, ignoring the way his muscles shook and his head spun. He was fairly confident that if he could get to his feet, he’d likely be able to limp his way to the kitchen by leaning on the walls for support. But of course, that meant that first he’d have to find the will power to push himself to his feet.

Fuck it. He thought to himself and began to shuffle forward in a tottering crawl. It was demeaning and humiliating, but at least there was no one around to witness him feebly dragging his body to the kitchen like some over-grown toddler. Putting food into his stomach was a higher-ranking priority than preserving his dignity, which was already in shambles after the entire hike debacle.

His sense of time was probably skewed by the pounding headache in his head and the fact that there was absolutely no light in his house—Hoseok was relying on muscle memory to safely find his way to the kitchen—but it felt like it took him ten minutes to crawl a distance he usually walked in 30 seconds. He wished he could say that he felt a sense of accomplishment or satisfaction upon finally arriving at his destination, but his only reward was sharp burst of pain across his brow as he accidentally banged headfirst into a kitchen cabinet.

After another round of profuse swearing and clutching his forehead, Hoseok carefully pulled himself into something that resembled standing using the countertop to support most of his body weight. His eyes adjusted to the hazy moonlight filtering in through the window above the kitchen sink, and there it was. The prize for completing the laborious Odyssey from the bedroom to the kitchen. A box of slightly stale Lucky Charms.

His mouth practically watered at the thought of the sugary cereal. He didn’t bother with trying to find a bowl or spoon, instead opting to tilt the box and dump the Charms directly into his mouth. They didn’t taste as good as he had hoped, even the dehydrated sugar-bombs that General Mills claimed were marshmallows were disappointingly bland. Hoseok supposed that that was what he got for settling for stale cereal.

As disappointing as the cereal was, it helped clear his head a bit. Enough that he was able to balance enough that he could shuffle over to his fruit basket and grab himself an apple. Normally, he would peel it first, but he didn’t trust his shaky hands with a knife at the moment, so Hoseok settled for biting straight into it and spitting the skin out into the sink. Was it the most hygienic option? No. But the idea of trying to wash the fruit was frankly too exhausting to even contemplate, even if it would only take a couple of seconds.

Although now that he was thinking about washing fruit and, therefore, running water, he was suddenly reminded of just how thirsty he actually was. His dry throat swallowed a lump of apple almost painfully. There was no way in hell he was going to toddle around his kitchen to get a glass, so Hoseok settled for bending over and drinking water straight from the tap—ignoring the way the water ran down his chin and left a cold trail down his neck to his bare chest.

The unfiltered hard water tasted surprisingly fine, almost like nothing. Which is odd, because Hoseok had taken to only drinking bottled water in L.A., even avoiding accidentally swallowing in the shower, to avoid the slightly chemical, bitter taste of the local tap water. It was probably just that he was so dehydrated, anything would taste clear and refreshing—even sewer water.

Whatever. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. After drinking enough water to feel heavy and full, Hoseok plopped onto one of the stools at his kitchen island, ignoring the way his waterlogged stomach sloshed. He pressed his forehead against the cold granite counter and continued to nibble at the flesh of his apple, avoiding the skin as much as possible. He already felt slightly better, at least better enough that he was confident that once he finished digesting, he would be able to balance and move without feeling like a railroad spike was being driven through his skull.

Unfortunately, the pain in his head subsiding meant that he now had the bandwidth to feel the persistent ache in his entire body, and the slow building thrum of anxiety tying itself into a knot in his throat. It was similar to the panic that had flooded him when he had thought he couldn’t move, but different.

Instead of rushing panic, Hoseok felt this growing feeling that he was unsafe—like there was something or someone watching him. Something or someone that was waiting in the shadows to creep up on him. He felt… weak. Vulnerable.

Of course, Hoseok knew that there was no one watching him. There was, of course, the guardsman monitoring the security cameras placed around the property, but that was for his own safety. To make sure that no one else was watching him or sneaking up on him. Besides, there were no cameras inside the house—something he had been very insistent on, despite Mr. Lee’s disapproval.

So logically, Hoseok knew that there was no one watching him, and that he wasn’t in any real danger. Instinctually, he felt the need to get out and get somewhere safe.

He chewed on another chunk of apple, feeling the crunch of the crisp fruit in his jaw and wishing it were sweeter, and swallowed around the lump in his throat. He’d feel better once he’d actually digested his food. Probably.

[. . .]

“I don’t like this.” Mark admitted, peeking through the blackout curtain to glance out the front window of the house. He’d somehow managed not to say anything until now, hours after saying goodbye to Hoseok at the trailhead, although he was sure that Amy and Ethan were fully aware of his unease. He’d tried to make himself busy—setting up the guestroom, cleaning the house, editing an episode of his podcast—but now it was the middle of the night and there was still no sign of Hoseok.

“He’ll be ok.” Amy said soothingly, rubbing her hand down his back. The touch made his shoulders involuntarily relax.

“He could die. He could starve to death because we let him leave.” He wasn’t being paranoid. A newly turned vampire was incredibly vulnerable, unable to hunt and physically weak. Letting Hoseok go off on his own had been an incredibly risky move.

“The Sire Bond is strong,” Amy reminded him, “He’ll find us. Or if he isn’t here by tomorrow evening, we’ll go find him.”

Mark hummed in acknowledgement, but not agreement.

“Babe,” Amy sighed, resting her head on his shoulder and looping her arms around his ribs, “What your sire did to you—leaving you to fend for yourself—it’s unforgivable. That’s not what we’re doing. We’re just being cautious. Trust me. He’ll come.”

Mark hoped she was right.

[. . .]

Hoseok did not feel better.

He braced his forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, hoping it would somehow help to quell the roiling in his gut. Instead, it backfired. Another wave of nasuea hit him when he thought about the fact that he was essentially pressing his face against the toilet (even though he kept his bathroom clean), and he found himself heaving over the bowl again.

Hoseok couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at the puke, which was still warm from his stomach in a way that made his nostrils itch. He could see the soggy, chunks of cereal floating on the surface of the toilet bowl. Most of what he had expulsed into the toilet bowl was just water, lightly tinged yellow from his bile.

Essentially, it was the kind of sick you would expect from your standard stomach bug or bout of food poisoning. But when would he have gotten sick?

With a groan, Hoseok pushed himself to his feet. The pounding headache from earlier was still gone, but he was beginning to feel lightheaded. Leaning heavily against the sink, he turns the tap on to splash cold water on his face. He rinsed out his mouth, gargling to try and wash the acidic burn of bile from the back of his mouth before hunching over and taking long pulls of water straight from the faucet like an animal.

His reflection in the mirror above the sink was bleak. Hoseok had never been the most good-looking guy, especially not by idol standards, but he wasn’t horrible to look at. He was actually proud of his bright, luminous skin and his healthy tan.

The figure looking back at him from the mirror was sickly pale, his skin taking on a sallow, greyish hue. He had bruise-like dark circles under his eyes and his lips were chapped and colorless. The only spot of color, the only indicator that there is blood pumping through his veins, were the two dark red scabs about six centimeters apart on the side of his neck. He watched the two little red dots bob as he swallowed.

If he’s being honest with himself, Hoseok looked about one step away from keeling over. He felt like it too.

It didn’t make any sense. Hoseok tried to ignore the thrum of anxiety in his gut, holding his hand under the cold stream of the tap in the hope that it would somehow help him clear his head. The persistent ache in his bones, the headache, the gnawing hunger he woke up with could easily be explained by his fall, dehydration, or exhaustion after his hike. But the nausea? The throwing up? The feeling that he was in danger? The instinct to run and hide?

Hoseok was not a paranoid person. He was used to being watched, used being followed, used to pushing the discomfort of always having someone lurking behind him to the back of his mind and pretending it wasn’t there. He wasn’t the type of person to jump to wild conclusions.

And yet, he finds himself jumping.

I’ve been poisoned. Hysterically, he laughed a bit at the thought. Oh god, maybe he had been poisoned. And now that the thought had taken root, Hoseok couldn’t shake it off. Poison explained the nausea, the fear, the paranoia. Hoseok knew when he was being watched. He knew when he was unsafe.

He had been poisoned. And not just regular food poisoning. He hadn’t had any take-out or outside food. No, he’d only eaten food from his kitchen. Food that he had bought himself. Food that should be safe. Unless, it had been poisoned.

The food in his kitchen was bad, unsafe. Just the thought of it turned his stomach, threatening another round of vomit. If he ate it, he would die.

Of course, if someone had poisoned his food, that meant that someone had been in his house. His blood turned to ice in his veins. Someone had access to his house. Someone who wanted him dead.

He had to get out of there. He had to get out and go away. Somewhere where no one would find him. Because you can’t poison someone you can’t find, right? Hoseok turned the logic of it over and found it solid enough. You can’t poison someone you can’t find.

Pushing himself away from the sink, he turned and stumbled drunkenly out of his bathroom, through his bedroom, and down the halls towards the garage. Snatching his keys off the hook, opting to take his Audi with tinted windows over his flashy Porsche convertible. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he knew he had to get away from there.

He didn’t turn his headlights on until he was out of his neighborhood and pulling onto the highway. With every mile he put between him and his house, he felt the knot of anxiety choking him loosen.

Chapter Text

Hoseok had no idea where he was going. He had no destination in mind. He didn’t even know the name of the highway he was on, or what direction he was going. He vaguely hoped he was driving West—it might be nice to watch the sunrise on the beach.

He had planned to choose his direction at random to hopefully try and shake any tail, but really he was following gut instinct. As he exited something that wasn’t quite a voice in his head told him where to go, and he followed, turning left and then taking a right onto the highway. That same voiceless instinct told him to keep on driving, affirming his choice and settling his nerves as he pulled into the left lane and pressed down on the gas.

It was almost like a telepathic game of Marco Polo. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew that he was getting warmer.

As he checked his rearview mirror to make sure no one was following him, the car radio was tuned into the local hip-hop station playing a new Tyler the Creator song. Hoseok could feel his heartrate settle to match the percussive stomping of the song. Music always had that effect on him. It was almost like the rhythm became a part of him, his limbs as fluid as a melody.

Even now, he could feel the panic that had sent him running in the first-place melt into the music until there was nothing more than an anxious thrum simmering under his skin. Hoseok could deal with anxiety. He was a professional performer, if he didn’t know how to handle jitters he wouldn’t have a career.

Of course, a little bit of stage fright was easy to conquer when he had his brothers at his back and his in-ears filtering the roar of the crowd. Nervous energy was easy to direct when there were cues to hit and steps to execute. Performing—dancing, really—always made Hoseok feel better. He couldn’t do much more than tap the steering wheel and bob his head while driving, so maybe that’s why his stomach was still churning, even though he was almost 100% sure that no was watching him.

He turned the radio up hoping that he would be able to focus on the music to avoid obsessively checking the rearview mirror or thinking about the way his eyelids felt like they weighed a hundred kilos.

Suddenly, he blinked himself back to awareness only to notice that he was drifting towards the concrete barrier. Snapping his wheel to the right, the car jolted and swerved—overcorrecting and cutting into the next lane.

The only thing that prevented Hoseok from colliding with another driver was the fact that the road was relatively empty at this early hour.

Heart pounding in his ears, Hoseok straightened the wheel and forced himself to stay awake. Wherever his gut was taking him, he hoped he got there soon—at least before he accidentally drove off the road.

[. . .]

Mark was sitting with his feet on the coffee table and his laptop balanced on his knees when Amy burst into the living room. Curious, Chica and Henry lifted their heads to look at her, only to be ignored as she immediately zeroed in on Mark.

“He’s here.” Amy said with a relived smile.

In about five second flat, Mark had tossed his laptop onto the couch and made a beeline for the front door, ignoring the way Amy laughed and the skittering of paws as the dogs got up to follow.

Sure enough, there he was—standing in the front drive wearing nothing but slides and a pair of boxers.

He looked pale, the moonlight sliding over the bare skin of his toned torso, casting him a ghostly light. Bleary eyes blinked at them in the darkness, and Mark couldn’t be sure how much Hoseok was actually processing.

He remembered what it had been like for him when he was first turned—the way he had stumbled around an unfamiliar city in a daze, his stomach cramping painfully as he desperately tried to follow the pull of his Sire Bond which only led him nowhere.

Mark had almost died then.

He wondered how Hoseok had handled it—the pain, the confusion, the fear. He hated the fact that he’d had to undergo any of it at all. He should’ve been here, with them. He should’ve been safe and cared for from the get-go.

Well, he was here now. Safe and sound. And if Mark had anything to say about it, that’s where he would stay.

[. . .]

Hoseok stepped out of the car and looked up at the giant house in front of him. It was huge, verging on a mansion, with clean, modern angles. It reminded him of the house he was renting except instead of sitting exposed on a hillside, this house was surrounded by large trees, inky canopies blotting out the indigo sky.

The front door opened, almost as if someone had been expecting Hoseok. Which surprised him, even though it shouldn’t have, because the gate had opened automatically when he drove up, so it was only reasonable to assume that somebody knew he was coming.

The though should’ve been off-putting. It should’ve sent a flare of fear up his spine.  Instead, the humming anxiety that had guided him here had finally gone quiet.

His head was too heavy, physically and emotionally, to try and figure out why he felt so calm as two people stepped out of the house and approached him. Maybe he was too tired for his senses to kick in, his body no longer able to even summon his most basic fight or flight instinct. He definitely knew he was too tired to care.

Two figures approached him from the dark. He blinked in surprise as he recognized the first figure drawing closer to him—it was Mark, who spoke Korean and manhandled Hoseok over the excessive number of creeks on their trip back to the trailhead. Even in the darkness of early morning, he could see the broad cut of Mark’s shoulders and the way his eyes glinted with an emotion he couldn’t quite place.

Stepping through the shadows behind him was a smaller, more delicate figure. Amy. She smiled at him, a broad thing that showed all her teeth, the same way she had when he was laid out in that clearing.

He should be freaking out. The fact that he had gotten up in the middle of the night, started driving and ended up at the house of a group of strangers he bumped into on a hike the day before was… weird? random? insane?

Whatever it was, it should be unsettling. Hoseok should feel suspicious, he should feel worried. But in spite of everything his heart rate stayed steady and calm.

“I don’t know what’s happening.” Hoseok admitted in English as the pair drew closer.

“That’s ok,” Amy said soothingly, her soft voice carrying in the quiet of the pre-dawn, “You’re safe here.”

“You must be tired and hungry.” Mark added in accented Korean. His deep voice sent a chill up Hoseok’s spine.

“Come inside.” Amy gently wrapped her hand around his forearm, long nails lightly scraping the sensitive skin on the inside of his arm. It felt nice to his sleep addled mind.

And look, Hoseok knew that logically, this was a bad idea. He’d attended all the safety briefings, paid attention to all of Mr. Lee’s lectures and Namjoon’s worried reminders.

You never go anywhere alone, and you never, ever follow anyone to a second location. Especially not strangers. Especially not people whose identity you cannot verify.

But Hoseok was starving and exhausted, and all he knew was that he didn’t feel safe until he arrived here. And now that the adrenaline that pushed him to get in his car and drive was beginning to wear off, his limbs felt like lead.

Maybe they had drugged him or hypnotized him or something. Maybe this was all an elaborate scheme to kidnap him.

In that exact moment, he didn’t really care.

Gingerly, Mark wrapped his arm around Hoseok’s ribs and slung Hoseok’s arm over his shoulder. With every step, Hoseok could feel a sharp twinge of pain radiating through his chest, but he didn’t have the strength to pull away. Mark was supporting almost all of his body weight, taking the pressure off of his exhausted, aching legs. He tried to focus on the way he could feel the shift of Mark’s muscles under his arm, and that helped.

The inside of the house was dimly lit, and once they reached the foot of the staircase Amy slipped away from them disappearing somewhere out of sight and Mark half lifted Hoseok up the first step. Unbidden, a high whimper welled up in Hoseok’s throat.

“I know. I know.” Mark soothed in Korean, “We just need to get you upstairs. Amy is going to come back with some food.”

After an agonizing (and mortifying) failed attempt at lifting his foot to the second step, Mark hoisted Hoseok on his back and piggy backed him all the way up the stairs. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was Jungguk manhandling him in the green room before a shoot—Jungguk and Mark were about the same height, although Mark was broader.

Hoseok figured that Mark was going to take him to a bedroom or someplace where he could lie down. Instead, he found himself being toted into a bathroom. Mark gingerly lowered himself to the ground, practically kneeling on the tiled floor, to gently deposit Hoseok on the edge of the bathtub.

Hoseok swayed a little once he let go of the other man to let him stand up. If it weren’t for Mark’s steady hand pressed between his shoulder blades, he would surely teeter backwards and crack open his skull against the porcelain.

“Here. Drink this.”

Hoseok blinked in surprise find Amy crouched in front of him, holding out a purple Stanley water bottle to him with a gentle smile. When had she come back? He must be losing time.

Gingerly, Hoseok took the bottle and tried not to be too offended when Amy kept her hand on the bottom of it to help support its weight. He could barely keep his eyes open, so as embarrassing as it was, it was probably for the best. The metal was warm to the touch and his nose itched as he lifted the straw to his lips and took a long sip of a warm drink.

Maybe hot chocolate? It had a thick texture, like milk, but there was no sweetness to it, just a slight metallic tinge from the bottle. He gulped it down anyways, relishing the way warmth spread through his chest.

It might be the best meal Hoseok’s ever had—even if it wasn’t technically a meal. Just the idea of trying to swallow down something more solid would probably be enough to make him sick, but this, whatever it was, was perfect. He drank so greedily that he was barely breathing, nearly choking when his lungs demand he inhale before he fully swallowed. He let himself cough for a minute, leaning into the warm hand rubbing soft circles into his back before lifting the straw back to his lips.

He was so desperate that he didn’t notice that the beverage was gone until the sound of air passing through the straw prompted Amy to reach out and take the bottle from him

“How do you feel?” Amy asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Hoseok couldn’t help but track the movement—her fingers were thin and delicate, the same fingers that had stopped him from bleeding out in the middle of the woods.

How does he feel? Exhausted. Achy. But also, full. With the gnawing hunger in his stomach finally gone, Hoseok could feel his eyelids growing heavy.

“Tired.” Hoseok said slowly, careful to get the pronunciation right even as his head grew fuzzy with sleep.

“You can sleep in a little bit,” A deep voice rumbled from beside him in Korean—huh, he had forgotten Mark was there, “First, you have to go to the bathroom. Amy and I will wait outside.”

Hoseok nodded to show that he understood, and the hand on his back disappeared. There was a tense second where he felt himself sway and he readjusted, but he managed to stay upright. Apparently satisfied with Hoseok’s ability to stay upright, Mark and Amy retreated from the bathroom—leaving him alone to figure out the puzzle of how to get to the toilet without giving himself a concussion.

It was easier than when he crawled to his kitchen, but he still had to brace himself against the toilet tank as he relieved himself. (He was choosing to ignore the fact that he blinked himself awake and found himself standing in front of the toilet with his pants around his ankles. No one witnessed it and, therefore, it didn’t happen.)

By the time he opened the bathroom door, leaning heavily on the doorframe, he was about ready to collapse again. It must’ve showed because without a word Mark stepped forward and scooped him up—one arm around his ribs and the other under his knees.

On instinct, Hoseok tried to push away from Mark’s restrictive hold, but he let himself lean into him as Amy tutted at him and smoothed his hair.

“I’m taking you to bed.” Mark explained lowly, so softly that Hoseok felt the words in the rumble of his chest more than he heard them.

He was asleep before they made it down the hall to the guest room.