The evening bled orange and pink, the air humming with cicadas.

You and Ho sat outside a run‑down diner. The neon lights flickered pink against his washed-out blue hair, ice cream in hand melting, his face half-covered in bandaids. All are plain beige. But on you? Some goddamn cartoon-bright mess — tiny frogs, galaxies, smiling fruits. One — with tiny little hearts — at the edge of your jaw, another on your wrist where the pulse thumped fastest.

“Matching,” he’d said, grinning too wide. “You look fixed.” He leaned back on his elbows, his other hand found yours, fingers intertwining, sticky palms and all.

“Do you remember that club?” Ho asked suddenly, eyes darting between you and the horizon. “Jesters, I mean. Weirdos.”

A sharp, breathy laugh burst out of him, like the idea itself was a joke. Ironic, really, calling them weirdos, considering… what he was.

“You get what I’m saying, right?” You just smiled, and he reached up, rubbing the bandaid on your jaw with his thumb before kissing your cheek.

You always understood him. Always. He loved you for that — absolutely, recklessly.

“They’re not bad,” he went on, voice playful. “I mean, the pres — Cheshire — he’s sick. Big‑ass smile and all that. Cool guy. Sugar’s uncanny… he’s got kittens, you know? One real, one’s his lover. Cute, I guess.” He wrinkled his nose, grin flickering. “But I’d rather call you my human than my kitten.”

He cringed at himself immediately, laughing as he pinched your cheeks. “Even though you’re cute. So cute.”

And then, like a sudden lightning bolt, his eyes widened with another burst of thought. “Oh, and Freak! Man, he’s like… freaky, you know? Drooling over one of the other members. When I saw him, I think he was doing something…”

The guy scrunched his nose, shuddering dramatically. “I think he needs a bandaid. To fix it, you know?”

He snorted, eyes glinting. “I won’t let him near you anyway.”

Ho sighed, rubbing his chin with ice‑cold fingers, the edges of his grin twitching. “There’s more I didn’t talk to yet. But Koschei — he’s something else.”

He leaned closer, voice softening, almost conspiratorial. “Old man. Like, 40. Suuuuuper old.”

Then chuckled, low and fond. “He’s funny, though. Always joking. Says he got a scar from a bear. No wonder he’s Russian.”

His eyes glazed with a kind of strange wonder. “I wonder how many bandaids it’d take to cover it…”

Your gentle nudge brought him back. He blinked and barked out a laugh, licking the melted ice cream from his hands before shoving the cone in his mouth whole.

“Look at this,” he giggled, pointing at your hand. “Looks like my baby’s a piggy~”

You rolled your eyes, but he was already leaning forward, catching your wrist and licking the drips clean, tongue slow and deliberate. It made your heart stutter, breath catching — and of course he saw. He always saw.

“Jesus, so sensitive?” He laughed again, softer this time, and kissed you. Just a brush of lips — quick, affectionate, messy. “Adorable. I might have to put more bandaids on you.”

He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small handful of colorful bandaids. After a long, serious inspection, he chose one with bunnies on it and pressed it gently to your cheek.

“There,” he murmured, smile flickering between sweet and crooked. “Your blush is fixed.”

The world could have burned down around him, and he wouldn’t have noticed. All he saw was you.

To everyone else, Sam Du-Ho was a freak, a lunatic, a boy drowning in his adhesive delusion — but to you, he was just Ho. And to him, you were the only one that made him feel real.

He smiled again, infinitely tender this time. “You know… if you don’t want me in this club, I won’t go. I mean, I just want you happy, is all. Thought maybe we’d fit there — people like us. Weird like us. No?”

His thumb brushed the bandaid on your cheek again, soft and uncertain. Beneath all his laughter and quirks, there was a tremor of fear — the kind that lives in people who’ve never truly belonged anywhere.