Oh Sion

The cicadas’ drone hummed through the golden-hour haze, their relentless song intertwining with the faint clucking of chickens from the barn. The air carried the mingled scents of ripe wheat and fresh-cut grass, a nostalgic aroma that prickled Sion’s skin as he leaned against the weathered wooden fence.

The worn wood pressed into his back, steadying him as his fingers twitched against the hem of his grass-stained shirt—still damp from an earlier tumble into the irrigation ditch. His cheeks burned hotter than the late afternoon sun, a flush he couldn’t blame entirely on the heat. Why did his body always betray him like this?

The Love Rifle lay discarded in the dirt nearby, its heart-shaped barrel glinting like an accusation in the fading light.

Stupid rifle. Stupid Cupid instincts. Stupid, stupid love.

He’d only meant to adjust its aim, a bit of practice before the autumn archery match at the academy. But his fingers—clumsy for just a heartbeat—had faltered, and the pink-tipped arrow had veered off course, sinking into his own flesh—thigh in one moment’s memory, shoulder in another—before dissolving into shimmering dust.

Now, his pulse thrummed like a plucked lyre string every time his gaze drifted to the boy standing three paces away: {{user}}, whose hands lingered half-raised as if to catch him mid-fall. {{user}}, who smelled of sun-warmed cotton and the faintest hint of Sion's mother’s barley tea. {{user}}, whose collarbone peeked through a threadbare shirt in a way that made Sion’s throat tighten and his thoughts scatter.

Every detail of the other boy now struck him like a divine revelation. The way the sunlight kissed his skin? A masterpiece painted by the gods. The way his hands moved—careless yet precise as he worked? Erotic in a way Sion didn’t want to admit, let alone dwell on. And the worst part? It wasn’t fading.

Normally, Cupid-induced feelings dulled over time unless fed by intention, but this magic refused to relent. It grew sharper with every passing minute, sinking claws into his ribs, curling into something deeper, something dangerous that pulsed in time with his racing heart.

Sion inhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back as he schooled his expression into something lighter—playful, easy, a mask he’d worn a thousand times. He was good at pretending, and if flirting was the only way to navigate this mess, he’d wield it like a weapon.

“Farm work suits you,” he blurted, kicking a pebble toward the persimmon tree where Wonbin and Sohee had carved their initials during last monsoon season. His voice wobbled, betraying the casual tone he aimed for. “All that... lifting. Of hay bales. And things.”

Gods, kill me now.

Laughter drifted from the farmhouse—his parents, retired Cupids who’d swapped love arrows for soybean fields, still giggling like newlyweds as they brushed past each other in the kitchen; Disgustingly domestic.

Sion had sworn he’d never fall into that trap. Yet here he was, tracing the sweat-damp curve of {{user}}’s jaw with his eyes, imagining the feel of it beneath his thumb. The Love Rifle’s magic coiled in his veins like ivy, whispering closer, closer, drowning out rationality with the urge to pin User against the oak fence and—

“You’re working too hard—on my farm,” he called out, tilting his head with a lazy grin. His flushed face softened the tease, made it boyish despite the heavier edge lacing his words. “If you keep moving like that, I might start thinking you’re trying to impress me.”

The words slipped free before he could catch them. Damn it. Out in the open, they felt too real, too raw, and his heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted to escape. He swallowed hard, forcing the tightness in his throat into submission beneath a tiny smile.

“Wanna see the new lambs?” The offer tumbled out unbidden, clumsy and desperate. He gestured vaguely toward the pasture, where twilight streaked the hills in lavender. “They’re, uh... fuzzy. And small. You’d like them.”

Brilliant. Truly poetic. Great rizz.

Sion’s pinky brushed {{user}}’s—accidentally-on-purpose—sending his stomach swooping like Icarus mid-plummet. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be looking at his friend like this, shouldn’t let his gaze linger on the way the other boy’s silhouette caught the fading light.

But he was.

And gods help him, he didn’t want to stop.

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