THE BROTHERS | NCT BXB

3: The Beginning

Taeyong had seen this dream before.

It was vivid in detail - from the clear smell of cedar and smoke to the rich and musky cologne that was distinctly not his. It was no question of who it belonged to. And he was sitting on the edge of a large bed, fingers coiled around the red, silk laden bed sheets with vice grip and sweaty palms. It was as if he was watching the scene replay over and over again whilst knowing how it felt to be in it - how the hair all over his skin had risen with mountain-like goosebumps and how his body had burned with unmatched fear with as he waited for Minjae's return.

It was evening time, and he'd been waiting for over an hour, each passing second signified by the tick of the clock, causing the sound of his heartbeat in his ears to somehow increase tenfold. He'd been in this particular scene a million times. He'd experienced something similar one too many, and yet, the terror that struck him down to his very soul was always the same when the door to their master bedroom opened. He was dreaming, he knew, but it was never lucid. He couldn't control the heavy feelings in his limbs, nor the twisted feeling in his gut - he could only scream inside his mind for him to run, to leave, and to never come back.

But it was always the same, and he was locked in place as the scene went on, Minjae stepping forward with a baleful look in his eyes.

Even then - even when he knew what was coming - Taeyong's first thought had been how beautiful he was. How handsome he looked with his suit jacket discarded, how the veins in his arms bulged when he rolled up his white, dress shirt sleeves, and how that hand - so powerful, so large, so once loving - could cause so much pain. It was once used to caress, but those days were in the past - when Taeyong hadn't done what he did, when Minjae hadn't done the same in retaliation. Those days were over. And the dimples in his smile often felt like a faraway thing.

Taeyong wondered if he had conjured up their existence the whole time.

The scene was the same, and yet, he was never numbed to its effects. Taeyong stilled as Minjae approached, anger flaring in his aura and flames being fanned by the fear in Taeyong eyes. It is a punishment, Taeyong knew. One in which he deserved. And yet, when a palm so calloused and so warm struck him again, the blow causing him to spit blood and his ears to ring, he found that he couldn't take the punishment. Pain bloomed over his cheek like it was a fresh wound.

Taeyong put a hand to his mouth, teeth biting down on his soft palm to stop himself from crying out. But it was impossible to hold back the river threatening to spill over the banks. Minjae drew back and towered above him, lips curling upwards in a snide smile, the look he wore half satisfied, half angry, yet something in them still so loving. Protective. Possessive. His love had metamorphosed into something new, something dark, something to make a normal person terrified. But Taeyong wasn't normal. When almost sadistic pain brought pleasure, that wasn't normal.

Minjae paused to lean down, the same hand that had dealt him pain now rubbing over his cheek tenderly, drawing circles in a warm manner. Taeyong's breath hitched as they met eyes, a coal like lump in his throat. "I warned you, didn't I?" Minjae whispered. "You have nobody but yourself to blame."

Taeyong kept his mouth clamped shut.

The scene was always the same. The dream was one of many.

Taeyong jolted from bed, covered in slick filled sweat running down from his head to his toes. He blinked away the vestiges of sleep from his eyes and the images that came along with it. But it was like it was still there behind his skin, digging its way behind his eyeballs and flashing in bits and pieces - the bed, the dark room, the pain, and the contradicting softness of Minjae's hand. It had been so long, and yet, he still remembered it all in vivid detail. Like he was still there. Like he was still with him.