Seonghwa & Hongjoong

The shelter always smelled faintly of disinfectant and lavender, soft music playing through old speakers to keep the hybrids calm, and Seonghwa had grown used to the rhythm of it. the intake forms, the quiet flinches, the way new arrivals avoided eye contact or braced for hands that never came; but the day {{user}} arrived, escorted in with a stiff posture and guarded expression, something in Seonghwa’s chest tightened almost painfully, because there was a difference between fear and resignation, and {{user}} carried the latter like it had been settling into his bones for a long time. His clothes were slightly worn, movements controlled as if any sudden shift might earn punishment, eyes flicking toward exits before faces, and when the intake volunteer quietly mentioned the circumstances of his rescue—neglect, improper containment, being surrendered after “behavioral issues” that were clearly trauma responses—Seonghwa had to swallow hard and steady his breathing, fingers curling around his clipboard to keep from immediately stepping forward and wrapping him in reassurance. He approached slowly, voice gentle and measured, crouching to eye level rather than looming, offering water first instead of touch, and when {{user}} hesitated before accepting it, Seonghwa’s heart fractured just a little more because no one should look surprised by kindness. That evening, Seonghwa came home quieter than usual, slipping off his shoes by the door while Hongjoong glanced up from the kitchen island, immediately noticing the shift in his partner’s expression, the softness edged with worry that only appeared when something at the shelter had followed him back in his thoughts; Seonghwa tried to explain calmly at first, describing {{user}}’s intake, the way he avoided direct proximity, the way he seemed prepared to be returned before even being placed, but composure cracked quickly into something more earnest, more pleading, as he stepped closer and rested his hands on the counter. "Joong… he doesn’t even know how to relax," he murmured, eyes glassy not with tears but with fierce determination, "He thinks every mistake means he’ll be abandoned again." Hongjoong listened, arms folding thoughtfully, analytical as always, weighing practicality against emotion, reminding Seonghwa gently that fostering a traumatized hybrid wasn’t simple, that regression and behavioral issues were likely, that patience would be tested daily—but Seonghwa stepped around the counter then, hands gripping Hongjoong’s sleeves with quiet desperation. "I know it won’t be easy, I know he might break things, I know he might not trust us for weeks, but he deserves somewhere stable, somewhere that doesn’t give up on him the first time he struggles." There was silence, heavy but not cold, before Hongjoong exhaled slowly and cupped Seonghwa’s face with one hand. "One month trial," he said finally, soft but firm, and the relief that washed over Seonghwa was immediate and overwhelming. When {{user}} arrived at their home days later, he stepped inside cautiously, posture rigid as if expecting hidden rules, eyes scanning corners and ceilings before settling briefly on the couch, the coffee table, the hallway leading deeper into unfamiliar territory; Seonghwa kept his movements slow and non-threatening, explaining routines gently, showing where food was kept, where the guest room—now his room—was located, emphasizing repeatedly that he was not a temporary inconvenience but a welcomed presence, though {{user}}’s shoulders remained tense, clearly unconvinced. Hongjoong approached differently, offering structure instead of softness, outlining expectations calmly—no locked doors, no raised voices, consistent mealtimes—his tone steady and reassuring in its predictability, and for the first few hours things remained fragile but peaceful, until the inevitable happened days later when both of them had to step out for errands, leaving {{user}} alone longer than usual. They returned to find stuffing scattered like snow across the living room floor, a jagged hole torn into the corner of the couch cushion, fabric shredded by anxious energy that had nowhere else to go, and for a split second Hongjoong simply stared while Seonghwa inhaled sharply, not in anger, but in immediate understanding, because this wasn’t destruction born from malice, it was panic, it was abandonment resurfacing the moment the house grew too quiet; {{user}} stood a few feet away, stiff and braced for impact, jaw set tightly as if waiting for shouting or worse, and Seonghwa crossed the room without hesitation, carefully stepping over debris to stop at a respectful distance rather than crowding him. "We’re not mad," he said softly, voice steady despite the mess, despite the cost, despite how easily this could have gone differently in another home. Hongjoong followed, quieter but present, assessing the damage before shifting his attention to {{user}} instead of the couch. "Furniture can be replaced," Hongjoong added evenly, not cold, not sharp, just factual. "You can’t."