Euthymia

Pink Wine, Flowers, And Strawberry Kisses

The boss was onto something when he labeled Byun Baekhyun a spoiled rich brat.

A chauffeur to drive him every morning and manage his groceries. Two chefs waiting on his beck and call. A band of gangsters guarding him with their lives. Black suits and aggressive pheromones huddle into the penthouse with holsters on their hips and aviators over their eyes, watching Chanyeol's every move like wolves watching a deer. Human shields that gravitate together, surrounding one omega. One spoiled rich brat with a low adrenaline tolerance and a penchant for complaining.

Chanyeol sits at a square dining table. A perfect square, each side the same exact length. More ninety degree angles. One chair at each side made of rosewood to flaunt money, not a vocation to be interior designers. The overpriced chair offered to Chanyeol is the one turned away from the living room adjacent to the dining room, facing a wall. Another uninspired painting mounted before him. A drop of blue paint in the center of the canvas, like a raindrop turned to a puddle. Nothing more. Just a white void surrounding such little effort.

Chanyeol sits perfectly still, shoulders square like every piece of furniture in the penthouse, eyes boring into the rain puddle. Behind him, black suits and holsters bustle about, moving around the living room and never settling down, chatting amongst themselves. Sehun among them. Suho among them. Baekhyun among them, curled up on the couch, quiet after all the bitching he's been doing throughout the day. A pillow to his chest, suffocated in a tight hug. His eyes glued to a flat screen TV, watching children's cartoons. Smelling of flour and melted butter. And chamomile. The smell of fatigue. Crisp like apples, with a hint of smokiness.

Chanyeol won't turn around to watch the congregation, but he frequently hears men addressing the omega and receiving no response in return. Whatever he says can't be trusted, Baekhyun. Don't let him get in your head, Baekhyun. Surely you know better than to believe he's somehow your mate, right Baekhyun? Even for an omega, you're a good thinker, Baekhyun. He's just trying to confuse you, Baekhyun. Alphas think every omega is easy to fool.

Exhaustion slumps over Chanyeol's body like a dead weight. All these voices, all this chatter, all the futile chit-chat about the hitman and what to do and who to kill and where to go from here. The aromatic nuances of chamomile that float around his nostrils almost lull him right to sleep. Baekhyun is so exhausted. Someone ought to put him to bed.

"Why don't you shower?"

A suggestion from Sehun, who must not detect the tea in the air. He scoops up Baekhyun's arm, breaking his suffocating hug with the pillow, and hoists him to his feet. Slow fluttering eyelids and furtive yawns should be enough to change Sehun's mind; skip the shower, go straight to bed. But he insists. The warm water will do him good. Loosen him up, wash the anxiety out of his muscles. Then he'll sleep like a baby. While the rest of his conglomerate handle the vermin.

Sehun leads Baekhyun to the back of the house, out of sight. No more conflict for him tonight. An omega should only be subjected to so many stressors. When they leave the room, Suho orders the two chefs to bring out the food they've been preparing all evening. Set the table, get the wine bottles out. They fetch the groceries Baekhyun forgot in the car and make wagyu steak with grilled vegetables. Chanyeol keeps his head down as they place dishes across the table, drowning the lingering scent of sweets and sleepiness in rich, savory flavors.

Suho wobbles into a chair. The one on the left side of the square, back to a wall and facing the kitchen. He takes a pair of chopsticks, struggles to snap them in half with his shaky hands, and eats a green onion.

"What are you doing?"

Chanyeol peeks up, not entirely sure if the question is directed at him.

Suho clicks his chopsticks together. "Eat. You have to be hungry. You've been here all day, beaten bloody, with nothing to eat or drink." Then he poured him a cup of wine. Rosé. "Go on."