Chapter 10 – Pretty Things Left Out in the Cold
In Velvet Eclipse, every surface had been slathered with glittering lies: garlands looped over velvet booths, mistletoe dangling above the bar where no one looked up, and a discount Santa with mirrored sunglasses grinding to synth-pop near the VIP booths.
Junseo, already flushed from his third free cocktail, leaned over the bar and shouted through the noise, “Santa’s a dom this year. He said you’ve been a bad fucking fox.”
Haneul didn’t laugh. He never did.
He adjusted the sheer black mesh shirt that clung to his narrow frame like frostbite, the silver stars stitched across it catching just enough light to look deliberate.
His collarbones flashed each time he turned.
His eyeliner was silver, sharp enough to slice.
And it had. Some rich patron had spilled his drink just to get closer.
Haneul had smiled, just barely, and whispered something about “acid in the eyes” before walking away.
Tonight, he wasn’t trying to be wanted. He was trying to be sharp enough not to be touched.
He failed anyway.
Minseok found him near the back hallway, far from the main stage, where the music didn’t quite reach and the shadows softened.
Haneul felt him before he saw him. A shift in the air. A tightening of breath.
“Busy tonight?” Minseok asked, voice too smooth, too calm. Dressed in designer charcoal layers, like he was trying to look unapproachable. His hands, though—those were always familiar.
“No more than usual.”
“I brought something.”
He reached into his coat. Pulled out a box. Small. Velvet.
Gold glinted inside—heavy chain, too ornate for Haneul’s angular throat. A small square pendant, faceted with green glass, emerald-like but gaudy. It looked expensive. It looked wrong.
Minseok didn’t wait for gratitude. He leaned in close, breath touching Haneul’s jaw.
“Don’t wear it here,” he murmured. “You’re mine. Not theirs.”
The words struck like a leash snapped taut.
Before Haneul could move—before he could breathe—Minseok added, too casually, “About the gala next week. I can’t take you.”
A blink.
“What?”
“My mother still doesn’t know. It’s not the time. I’ll bring someone else. A girl. Just a friend.”
“You said—”
“It’s better this way,” Minseok interrupted, already pulling back, already dismissing the conversation. “For both of us. You understand, don’t you?”
Haneul didn’t answer.
He took the box. Tucked it in his coat. And walked away.
??????
The apartment felt colder than usual.
The heating unit blinked uselessly. A water stain spread like rot across the ceiling. The mirror—long since cracked, spider-webbed across the top left corner—reflected half a boy with too much makeup and not enough skin.
Haneul stripped. Let the mesh fall like shed frost. His shoulders were pale, too edgy.
He opened the box. Pulled the chain free. It was heavier than he thought. Cold.
He slipped it around his neck. Watched himself.
The gold looked foreign. His throat looked too slender. The pendant sat too low, like a warning sign.
“Not pretty enough,” he whispered, voice hoarse with unshed things. “Is that it?”
He yanked it off.
The clasp tore a line across his neck. Thin red. Not bleeding. Not yet.
He dropped the necklace onto the floorboards. Didn’t pick it up.
??????
The dream came early that night.
He was sixteen again.
Curled on a mattress that stank of dust and bleach. The room dim, the wallpaper curling at the edges. The shadows moved when the door opened.
Minseok’s silhouette stood in the light. A wolf in silk.
“You’re beautiful when you’re like this,” he had said, brushing hair from Haneul’s face. The same hand had struck him a few hours earlier. The bruise was still fresh, blooming under the eye like violet petals.
That was the first time someone called him beautiful.
It twisted something inside him. It still did.
??????
At the club, Christmas night, the lights dimmed early. The last clients stumbled out with jackets half-buttoned and glitter in their hair.
Haneul sat at the edge of the bar, arms folded over himself, like cold didn’t belong to him.
Cha Yul approached without sound. He handed Haneul a scarf. Thick, dark grey wool. No tag. No brand. Handmade, maybe. Still warm from someone’s hands.
Haneul stared at it.
“It’s not payment,” Yul said. “It’s warmth.”
That was all. He turned. Walked away.
A moment later, Junseo tossed something wrapped in foil at his head.
Haneul caught it without flinching.
“Honey candy. Got extra from the lobby tray. Don’t get soft, ice prince.”
“I’ll throw this at your fucking eye.”
Junseo laughed. “Still prettier than you, fox.”
Haneul threw it anyway. Missed on purpose.
Later, when the lights shut down and the alley outside stank of beer and exhaust, Haneul curled on his side beneath the blanket in his apartment.
He didn’t wear the scarf. But he didn’t let go of it either.
His fingers stayed tangled in the yarn.
??????
That night, the dreams returned.
A man sat alone on a throne carved from scorched stone, high above something burning. Crimson robes clung wet to his arms. His hands—wide, heavy, blood and ash-covered—hung limp between his knees.
He didn’t speak. Not at first.
Just stared at his palms like they belonged to a god he didn’t remember worshipping.
Then his head tipped back.
And he reached.
Not forward. Not outward.
Up.
Like something was falling — like he was trying to catch it before it disappeared.
And when the word came, it was not a name. Not a call.
It was grief, shaped into sound.
“Sky,” he said.
Haneul bolted upright in bed.
Sweat prickled his neck. His heart galloped.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He shoved the blanket off, stumbled into the bathroom, flicked the switch too hard. The light was brutal, yellow, cheap.
He splashed water on his face. Blinked.
Then stared into the mirror, trying to find the line between skin and dream.
His hands were shaking.
So were his knees.
It took him too long to notice.
And when he did, he didn’t know why.
??????