"Misery, thy name is Choi Beomgyu," Kai says at lunch-time, dropping by with an enormous pile of feathers that the costume department is supposed to stick onto some shitty showgirl costume. Beomgyu takes one look at it and sneezes so loud the entire department turns to stare. Roseanne, his breakdown artist, almost jumps into the pile of flamingo-colored dresses she's been meticulously ripping for a dream sequence. "You look awful. Just saying."

"Gah," Beomgyu says, stabbing himself with the needle for the sixth time in the last hour. He's taking out a few stitches from an under-dress but suddenly everything in this room is making him sneeze, from glue to feathers to the ticklish lace of the extras' costumes. "Yeonjun hyung only called me slow like five times today, so better than yesterday I guess. Did he get that stupid set to rotate the way he wanted?"

"Yep."

"Did anyone fall in the machinery and die yet?"

Kai blinks. "...not that I know of, you morbid child. Why?"

"I told him it's bad luck to say the name of the Scottish play," Beomgyu says, squinting through an eyelet at a particularly odd darn. "Y'know. Making conversation, and all. He just started chanting it."

"What, Macbeth?"

Beomgyu claps his free hand over Kai's mouth. "No, don't say it. It's witchy. You'll curse the set."

There's a rustle from behind him, and then a dark whisper: "Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth."

Beomgyu nearly leaps up in surprise and stabs himself again. "Hyung," he whines, and Yeonjun just cackles behind him like Hecate come to earth herself. The all-black he's wearing today definitely doesn't help matters. "It's true. Some things are just cursed."

"Say the name, Beomgyu," Yeonjun says, gravely. "Fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself."

Beomgyu squints up at him from where he's sat on the floor, in the midst of a mountain of fabric and tissues and he's rapidly depleting cold medicine syrup bottle. "Was that a Harry Potter reference, hyung?"

Yeonjun just shrugs, looking entirely bored.

"Could it be that that was a...joke?"

Yeonjun shucks his hands in his pockets. His expression remains carefully disinterested, completely devoid of mirth or amusement. "Was it?"

"What?"

"A joke?"

"It wasn't?"

Yeonjun thinks a bit. "Could it be?"

"Hyung," Beomgyu groans. "Did you need something, or can I go back to torturing myself with this needle?"

"You've stabbed yourself eight times now," Yeonjun informs him, lightly, flicking through his task notebook. "Is it just that you're completely klutzy today or is there some Fifty Shades of Grey sort of shit happening that I should know about?"

"I don't know, hyung," Beomgyu says, dropping his voice to its sultriest cadence. "You were watching. Counting, even. Do you, maybe, want to prick me? Is that the sort of thing that interests you?"

Yeonjun gives an indignant snort, but his sneer mutates slowly to hesitant fear when his gaze lands on Kai. Beomgyu wouldn't blame him: Kai's grin could rival the Cheshire cat's in its pure girth and promise of giddy mischief. He stuffs his face with a kimbap roll when Yeonjun glares stormily at him, but when his eyes flicker to Beomgyu he looks pleased.

"Y'know," he drawls, all filthy smirk, dusting a bunch of feathers in one straight line from Beomgyu's shoulder to Yeonjun's legs. "Y'all should hate bang. 10/10 would watch."

Yeonjun's face distorts in an odd way and he flushes. "Why the fuck would we let you watch?"

"Because I'd pay, hyung," Kai looks gleeful. "You don't say no to money. Ever."

"Why are you like this, Kai-ah?"

"Coping mechanisms," Kai says, simply. "For all the trauma you put me through."

Yeonjun rolls his eyes, color still ruddy in his cheeks. "Is the PVC rolls here yet? Didn't we need that by two pm?" He looks at his watch, a slow and theatrical glance, eyes narrowing cat-like when he looks up again. "Wow-look at the time. Two pm, Kai-ah. What a coincidence! Right?"

Kai pales and dumps all the feathers in Beomgyu's lap. "Oh shit."

Beomgyu sneezes. By the time he's done and blearily grabbing for his box of tissues, Kai's disappeared, only the half-eaten kimbap roll serving any hint as to him having ever been here. That, and the feathers.

"How long will you take for the under-dress?" Yeonjun asks. "We only have one more slot with the actress at four."

"Considerably less if you stop watching me prick myself for your weird gratification," Beomgyu sniffs, viciously pulling at a stitch. "This is delicate work."

"You said you have hands made for delicate work."

"I meant that in a completely different context."

Beomgyu means restoration-he swears he does. He's fucking awesome at restoration. But restoration is sure as hell not what Yeonjun's thinking of when he gapes at him, just for a few stricken seconds before he schools his face into nonchalance. "All talk, aren't you?"

"And s-sneezes," Beomgyu says, overloud as he grabs his tissues to sneeze into again. "So, hyung, can I please get back to my already snail-like pace so I can give you this dress by three thirty?"

Yeonjun leaves him alone after that. Beomgyu's done with the dress by three-fifteen and responds to a volley of texts from Taehyun, stating that things are on track, that he'll be at the airport by ten-thirty for his twelve-thirty am flight to Tokyo. He's a bit sneezy, still a little feverish, but everything is in place and a tiny cold could never stand in his way anyway.

And then things start going haywire at four.

It's the actress, first, refusing to wear a corset. She knows she did before, she says, but not anymore. Yeonjun just looks at Beomgyu, eyebrows furrowed, hands on his hips as he stares at the Dior gown that was to be the costume for the main photo shoot tomorrow.

"Can you take apart the under-dress again? Leave it without the corset?"

"Maybe?"

"An answer, Beomgyu," Yeonjun says, quietly. " Can you, or can you not?"

Beomgyu shrinks a bit into his own skin. "I can."

And then there's the outdoors gown, the yellow Emilio Pucci that Taehyun had pulled the night before, which needs to be shortened. Taking scissors to vintage is always painful, but this at least is a quick job for the tailors, and Beomgyu only has to supervise. But by then the lead actor's glittery 70s trot-jacket's caught a snag and a layer of sequins have come undone. Beomgyu will need to restore, and he knows those sequins are little motherfucking bastards. To top it off, the feathers have gotten somehow into an open pot of glue, and one of the sticky things have somehow managed to get adhered to the front of a minidress Roseanne had been working on. There's a glue stain and everything.

Beomgyu feels his heart sink, a slow and gentle slide to the dreary morass of his melancholy inner swamp.

He sits with the minidress (it whispers gently of waves and sand and other nice things and Beomgyu grits his teeth) while Yeonjun placates the actress, a confused Taehyung, and a beady-eyed Jimin who's managing his own enormous yellow notepad of lists.

"The US cameraman for the photo shoot is only here tomorrow, so there really is no wriggle room," Jimin's saying, rubbing lightly at his temples. "Also, Sun-woo has another shoot at seven, you need to let her leave at least by six-thirty-"

"I said six-fifteen, hyung," Yeonjun says. "That generally means six-fifteen."

"I know, I know, I'm just reminding-"

"Got it written down. Right here. Sun-woo, six-fifteen."

Jimin looks unflapped by Yeonjun's less-than-warm responses, completely distracted as he flips through baby yellow notes. "Okay, fine, that's great-Taehyung, d'you-?"

Taehyung asks, "When can we see the final sets?"

Yeonjun blinks. "Well. Right now, if you come this way..."

Then they're gone and Beomgyu's left to figure out the glue-stain on his precious, precious dress. He works his magic gently, pausing every so often to sneeze, and by the time he's done the dress is good as new but his throat hurts. He yawns and starts work on the Dior, taking apart the stitches again...

It's rushed and manic because the actress has to leave soon, and Beomgyu hates rushed and manic. He bears with it, though, because he wouldn't trust someone else with this fabric-not in this room at least-and because Yeonjun will have his hide if he doesn't turn this around. He nips and tucks and pulls and separates. He runs to find buttons and silk thread. He builds in support that isn't corset-like. He sneezes a lot, but the cold medicine is helping somewhat, even if his mouth feels sticky and tastes like chemical-stuffed strawberries.

The world fades around him except for the continuous whispering of the gown (wine, headiness, a gaudy gala of glitter and high, high heels) and he loses himself in the work for a while. Kai brings him tea that sits there, untouched, until it goes cool. Then Kai heats it up and brings it again, hovering until Beomgyu takes a break to burn his tongue on it. It still feels really good with his sore throat.

"I put some ginger in that."

"Thanks" he mumbles, already reaching for his sewing kit again, not even pausing when he notices Yeonjun watching. "I told some people the Scottish play is witchy. Look what's happening now. No one ever believes me."

Yeonjun rubs slowly at his eyes. He goes over to Roseanne to discuss something, the both of them talking in conspiratorial whispers. He plucks an errant feather out of Beomgyu's hair as he walks back.

"Macbeth," he whispers, grinning savagely. Beomgyu nearly pricks him.

It's six by the time he finishes. There's a horrid window of ten minutes within which Yeonjun calls Sun-woo back, and they help her get into the dress. Beomgyu sits in one corner, holding his breath, clutching his metaphorical pearls and freaking out that fitting won't be perfect. He barely even looks. What if he has to take it apart again? He might just curl up and die, pathetic as a salted snail.

But then Jimin is making an excited whoop-whoop sound, and Taehyung is sighing in relief even as he starts barking orders to get Sun-woo's people to quickly get her out of here. Even Yeonjun sounds subdued and soft when he discusses hair and make-up with her personal stylist. Everybody's talking over everybody else but nobody sounds terrified or freaked out or mad at him, so he peeks-one eye closed, looking out the corner of the other-and it's perfect.

The fitting's perfect.

"Oh, holy goddess, thank you," Beomgyu mumbles, sneezes a bit more, rolls over, and promptly falls asleep.

***

"-hey. Beomgyu, hey."

"Wha-?"

"It's eight. You have to-Beommie, wake up."

"Nnngh, noooo..."

"-Tokyo. You have a flight. The auction, Taehyun said-"

Beomgyu jerks and tries to sit up. Kai nearly falls backwards onto his ass. "A-auction?"

"It's eight. You gotta go, you have a flight. You have to pick up your stuff from home, remember?"

Beomgyu rubs at his eyes. Everything feels slow like molasses, and he thinks he has a headache. "Um. My dog?"

"I'm taking care of him. We discussed this last night. Don't you remember?"

"No?"

"Wow, jeez. It was right after the moose-dick discussion."

"Uh huh. Don't recall."

" You really looked awake," Kai marvels. "Your eyes were open and everything."

Beomgyu nods, wisely, and closes his eyes again. "Good story, Kai."

"No, no, don't go back to sleep-" Kai is tugging at his shirt, now, and Beomgyu blinks blearily at him. "Up. Come on!"

It's probably all the cold medication he's been taking, and the sneezing, and all these feathers. He feels weird and warm and heavy, like he's sinking into a pot of honey. This corner is nice and smotheringly warm; someone's even dumped a large jacket on top of him like a blanket. He just wants to curl into it and sleep.

"Kai," he blubbers, grabbing a fistful of Kai's shirt. "Can I go tomorrow-there's a big flight-much bigger-"

"You're not making any sense. Wait, let me call Taehyun."

"No! Don't call Taehyun."

"Are you getting up, then?"

Beomgyu considers. "...No."

Kai sighs. Beomgyu rearranges his limbs so that he can hug the jacket, which is thick and buttery soft and smells faintly like mint and hyssop. He thinks he dozes a bit more, and then Kai tries to wake him up again by almost jumping on top of him. He wonders faintly if Taehyun told him to do that. But that's Beomgyu on a good day, and Beomgyu on a bad day-like this one-can sleep through an earthquake.

So he sleeps.

Beomgyu had been dreaming of tigers. Tigers in a clump of grass, something about a moon, and fuck he's getting some sad, cold vibes from this jacket. He just wants to coddle it. Make it better. He's in the process of doing just that (Taehyun says he really does give the best hugs) when the jacket is yanked out of his grasp abruptly.

"Your friends are too busy to pick up their phones and Kai has shit to do here," Yeonjun says, looming over him. "Get up. I'm taking you to your apartment, and then to the airport."

Beomgyu thinks vaguely of protesting-his limbs are still heavy as lead and his sleep-fuzzed mind thinks flipping Yeonjun off is a great idea-but then Yeonjun presses an ice-cold toe into the warm skin of his back where his shirt is riding up and he jolts upright, moaning. A shiver passes down his spine. He pulls the jacket from Yeonjun's arms to wrap his hands around it, not caring if he comes across as a soft, pathetic creature.

Nothing in his brain is working.

"Gimme that," Yeonjun deprives him of the jacket again. "Why're you even going if you're sick?"

"I'm not sick."

"You drank nearly a bottle of syrup and made your way through an entire tissue box. Not sick, my ass."

"Important auction," Beomgyu grumbles. "Can't miss."

"Come on, then."

He's still half-asleep and slumped against a wall when Yeonjun brings around a large black car, and then still half-asleep and slumped against the window of the passenger seat for most of the drive. His head throbs, skin feels hot; he hopes it's not a fever. He spends most of the distance to his apartment thinking long, involved thoughts about cloud-shapes and light-smears and the shape of Yeonjun's jawline. Nearer to his area, something important breaks through the murky peat bog of his thoughts and he giggles.

Yeonjun turns sharply to look at him. "What?"

Beomgyu waves an arm, half caught up in a sneeze. "There you go again."

"That's the vaguest shit you've ever said, and considering it's you that's saying something."

Beomgyu pats Yeonjun's shoulder. "Taking care of people. You didn't have to drive me, hyung."

Yeonjun's expression turns stormy. "It's not my fault you're completely incapable of self-care, Beomgyu. Do you know people can take advantage of that? Are you honestly that fucking gullible?"

Beomgyu blinks in confusion. "But I'm with you?"

"That doesn't even-what do you mean?"

"I know you're a good person, hyung. You're mean to me, but you're a good human," Beomgyu's still patting his shoulder. That's probably a bad idea, but right now he doesn't care. "I only adopt good humans."

"You're not a fucking puppy, Beommie. Jeez!"

Beomgyu's mouth feels split wide with his grin. He tugs gently at Yeonjun's sleeve. "Beommie?"

Yeonjun's knuckles go tight on the steering wheel and his eyes are widen slightly. "Out of everything I said in the last five minutes, this is what registered?"

"Beommie. Beommie. I like it."

"Oh god, fuck off," Yeonjun groans, just as they pull into Beomgyu's street. "Come on. Let's get your stuff."

This turns out to be easier than expected. Soobin's packed everything and an empty suitcase for the clothes that will come home with them. Beomgyu's passport is lying on the coffee table, his letters of invitation to the auction is printed in Japanese and placed in an envelope, and the hotel's address is on a Post-It note. There's even a little cat charm and a thick card, placed front down on the table.

"Foul weather warning," Beomgyu reads, frowning. "Oh, that can't be good."

Yeonjun's looking at him in utter disinterest because Yeonjun is Yeonjun. "If you're done getting your horoscope can we please go?"

"It says foul weather."

"I'm a good driver."

"That's not what," starts Beomgyu, and then cringes as he spots Yeonjun's murderous glare,"-uh. Yep. Let's go."

He still makes Yeonjun wait a bit. There's a funny little stain on his jacket that he isn't sure of the origin of, and Beomgyu's not going to the airport without changing. Yeonjun stomps around the living room while he finds a sweater and chucks off his work shoes in favor of sandals.

When he reemerges, Yeonjun's looking through his collection of figurines. "You have way too much anime merchandise for a grown man working in fashion."

"I don't believe in stereotypes, hyung," Beomgyu says, carefully extricating a very expensive Hinata figurine from Yeonjun's lax grip. "Besides, Kai told me about your Doraemon thing."

Yeonjun colors a bit at that, then tries to look unfazed, and ends up looking slightly constipated. "Kai's the biggest gossip."

"He also makes the best pancakes."

Yeonjun looks affronted. "He's never made me pancakes."

"Oh, Beomgyu, you idiot," Beomgyu sings, in a grumpy drawl he thinks imitates Yeonjun pretty well. "It's so stupid to accept love and affection from your friends. So stupid to trust them. All relationships are transactions. Right, hyung?"

"That's not what I said."

"That's precisely what you said. Sounds stupid when I say it, doesn't it?"

"Everything sounds stupid when you say it," Yeonjun counters, hunched defensively over an Ichigo figurine. "It's a critical issue with you."

He's not even looking at Beomgyu, but Beomgyu thinks his face is set and cold, a hard leer replacing a momentary flicker of prior hurt.

Beomgyu hovers, unsure of what to do. He hadn't meant to push- he really hadn't - but his head is swimming and he doesn't even regret it and really, he just wants to yell at Yeonjun about how he's a stupid ass with all his walls up. He has to tell himelf that is a terrible idea. He has to tell himself in Taehyun's voice that it's a terrible idea.

Yeonjun clears his throat and puts down Ichigo. "We'll be late," he says, devoid of inflection, and starts moving to the door. "Move your fucking ass to the car, already. I'm not waiting around."