onemorechansoo | 2015: all, and yet nothing (for prompt 19)

Author: ANONYMOUS until July 15, 2015

Title: all, and yet nothing
Rating: NC-17
Length: 10,701 words
Summary: On Kyungsoo’s 21st birthday, he receives a dollhouse from his grandmother as a birthday gift. To furnish the dollhouse, Kyungsoo hires a mysterious miniaturist – who also sends him lifelike dolls to complete the collection. One of these dolls is of a man named Park Chanyeol – who may or may not be related to Kyungsoo’s past, present and future.

Notes: I’m so sorry if this isn’t what the requester has asked for. I did insert the ‘Chanyeol doting over Kyungsoo’ bit, and I hope that I’ve managed to inject some horror/cracky elements to it. That said, the simple prompt has grown arms and legs and PLOT!!!! before basically boiling down as an excuse to write smut.

“You’re awake—,” he hears a voice say from behind him.

Husky. Pleasant. Kind. Deep.

Like honey plunged into water.

Kyungsoo moves away from the window and turns around.

The doll he has been obsessed about is alive – breathing and talking to Kyungsoo, as if this is an everyday occurrence.

“I’m not— you’re not real,” Kyungsoo stutters as he backs away in fear, eyes wide and unblinking at the tall, smiling man in front of him. The lurch in his stomach has travelled up to his gullet, to his throat. His fingers feel as cold as ice – his heart rate ascending in tempo, thumping sharply like staccato.

“You keep telling yourself that, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says calmly. “I’m as real as you are.”

“Because you’re a doll! You’re not— human!” Kyungsoo’s hands tries to reach for anything that he could grab for purchase, but all he could do is to clutch at the wooden panels that serve as walls. He grimaces when he hears the ugly sounds of his fingernails scratching against the varnished surface.

Chanyeol narrows his eyes, his register dangerously low— a treacherous threat to Kyungsoo’s flitting soul. “You told me that I’m the most human out of the other dolls.”

Kyungsoo could feel the blood draining away from his face. The other dolls. “Where are they? What happened to the other dolls?” he demands, glaring up at Chanyeol. Incensed by that languid smirk on Chanyeol’s face. Confused by his own attraction to this unhallowed creature in front of him.

“You put them out of the house, don’t you remember?”

Kyungsoo’s round eyes widen in panic. He stares agitatedly out of the window of the dollhouse, where he could see the other dolls lined up lifelessly on his bed. On his real bed— which seem gigantic from his current vantage point.

“How did I end up here?” Kyungsoo asks. Chanyeol saunters closer – trapping Kyungsoo in one darkened corner of the living room; crouching, almost hiding under the table.

“Didn’t you wish that you could talk to me?” Chanyeol asks in a sing-song voice. “Didn’t you wish that I could come to life, so that I could talk to you?”

“Not like this,” Kyungsoo shakes his head fervently. Beads of sweat are forming on his forehead, his breaths becoming ragged and unsteady. “Not while I’m stuck in this dollhouse.”

Chanyeol reaches over and touches Kyungsoo’s hand. His skin is cold – but smooth, like a new-born child’s.

Chanyeol appears human, but too perfectly so that Kyungsoo still has trouble believing that he is real. Kyungsoo flinches at Chanyeol’s touch, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. Chanyeol squeezes his hand softly, and pulls him back to his feet. Kyungsoo tears his gaze away from Chanyeol’s intrepid stare – before he sees his own name scratched at the corner of the table. He traces them with the pads of his fingers, and immediately he thinks about the mysterious miniaturist who has sent Chanyeol to him.

Damn you, whoever you are.

“Who made you, Chanyeol?” Kyungsoo asks, as he wills himself to calm his beating heart. “Who made you and the rest of the dolls, the rest of the dollhouse furniture?”

Kyungsoo needs to know. The miniaturist may have been avoiding his questions, replying to his letters with agonizingly cryptic answers. But Chanyeol is the miniaturist’s proxy – his maker’s messenger, and Kyungsoo will get his answers from Chanyeol.

“You know him,” Chanyeol replies unflappably.

Kyungsoo slams his fist on table. It will hurt later, but Kyungsoo doesn’t care. “Don’t give me that shit. I don’t know who he is. You do. He made you. So who is he?” Kyungsoo says.

“He is the Miniaturist,” Chanyeol says – his eyes glazed, almost dreamlike. “He foresees. He foretells. He has been waiting – and yet he is afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of you, Kyungsoo.”

Kyungsoo gazes up sharply at Chanyeol. “Why is he afraid of me?”

“I am not my creator,” Chanyeol shakes his head remorsefully. “I do not know what was in his mind when he built me.”

“Why did he give you a name and sent you to me, when I’ve never met your human counterpart before? Other dolls in the dollhouse – I know them. They represent my friends. But I don’t know you,” Kyungsoo rambles, unable to stop thinking out loud as Chanyeol watches him intently. “So who are you, Park Chanyeol?”

His voice raises an octave – echoing within the walls of the room. The resemblance is uncanny. Even the smell of peppermint and vanilla reminds Kyungsoo of his grandmother’s home; where the dollhouse is based on. The only thing out of place is Chanyeol – whom he has never met, let alone befriends. And suddenly he’s here, part of Kyungsoo’s dollhouse, when he has never been part of Kyungsoo’s life.

“I am but an image of my human counterpart,” Chanyeol insists stubbornly.

A hollow shell without the memories of the human he portrays.

Kyungsoo rubs his face and pulls the fronts of his hair in frustration. “If you know nothing, then what is your purpose?”

Chanyeol doesn’t even bat an eyelash when he replies, “To please you.”

Kyungsoo’s mouth falls open in surprise.

---

-----

To understand the story, we have to return to the start.

And the start is how it begins.

On Kyungsoo’s twenty-first birthday, his grandmother gave him a dollhouse cabinet as a present.

The cabinet is almost as tall as Kyungsoo – reminding him of the ancient cupboard at his mother’s house. It was the exact replica of Kyungsoo’s family home— albeit a miniature version sliced in half, exposing its interior for the whole world to see. It contained nine rooms of proportionate sizes to the real family house – the walls decorated with such unnerving accuracy, down to the minutest detail.

Although Kyungsoo’s first initial response was, “I’m a grown-up male and I don’t play with dolls,” there was a charm about the dollhouse that has enchanted Kyungsoo to keep it. It is made of heavy elm and oak, gilded in pewter and gold, lacquered with tortoise shell to prevent the wood from losing its shine. Eight curved feet holding the cabinet upright, with two curtains made of damask weaved in black and gold, which could be drawn across its front if Kyungsoo ever chooses to hide the display.

It was majestic.

Four months on, and Kyungsoo may be a little bit too obsessed with making sure that the details in his dollhouse matches that of his grandmother’s house. It wasn’t his fault, though.

It wasn’t his fault that he accidentally came across the miniaturist’s address in Yellow Pages four months ago – who uses Yellow Pages anymore these days? But as if by fate, he has picked up the battered Yellow Pages with the intention of throwing it away, when he came across the address on a half torn page.

The advertisement was quirky – unlike other listings on the page, there was no phone number. There wasn’t even a name of a company, or a named person that Kyungsoo could contact. There was only a heading – and an address. The advert couldn’t sound more like a puzzle, or a treasure hunt clue –if they’d tried.

THE MINIATURIST

Residing at the Sign of the Crown, on the Seonji-gil, door sixty-one

Trained with the great Korean clockmakers, the Byun brothers.

Request by handwritten letters to the address above. Typed letters and/or emails not accepted.

Payment by cash only.

ALL, AND YET NOTHING

Kyungsoo had kept the torn page before tossing the Yellow Pages into the recycling bin. Later that day, he wrote to the miniaturist, requesting some small furniture for his dollhouse.

He should have known to stop contacting the miniaturist when the first parcel was delivered two weeks later.

Kyungsoo has conveniently dismissed it as coincidence when the chairs and the tables – down to the grandfather clock are similar to the ones in his grandma’s house, only scaled down in size. All grandfather clocks look the same, Kyungsoo thinks – and rocking chairs too. He tries to overlook the fact that the chair appears exactly the same as the one he had sat in when he visited his grandmother a while ago. He tries to ignore the familiar scratch on the surface of the miniature table.

A name.

His name.

Kyungsoo, it says, carved on the right hand corner of the table.

And Kyungsoo remembers.

He was five years old when he had scratched his name on the real table at his grandmother’s house, at that very same spot. He was still learning alphabets, back then – and he had been keen to practice writing his name at every opportunity, marking his territory everywhere he went. The childish scrawl was never painted over – his grandmother had said that it will stay there to serve as a pleasant memory of Kyungsoo’s childhood.

How did the miniaturist know about the table?

For three days and three nights Kyungsoo mulls this over repeatedly in his head, until he gets distracted by his work – and forgets about his abject concerns regarding the miniaturist.

Until he receives the second parcel.

It arrives on a Sunday.

The post never comes on Sundays.

When Kyungsoo tears the first part of the parcel, there is a note written in what he believes to be the miniaturist’s hand –

YOU ARE THE ARCHITECT OF YOUR OWN FORTUNE

Kyungsoo ponders what this means, before putting the note aside and lifts the box lid. There are two separate packages, both wrapped in red silk. Kyungsoo picks up the first one – the smaller of the two – and unties the silk knot.

And then, he gasps.

He has only asked for miniature beds for the two dollhouse bedrooms, a study desk, and a non-specific doll to live in the dollhouse—to add signs of life to the empty living space.

Kyungsoo should have known to stop while he has the chance, but he hadn’t. Uneasiness begins to creep in Kyungsoo’s bones when he reveals the items, one by one.

The miniature bed – is the same bed Kyungsoo had slept in a month ago, when he last visited his grandmother. The second bed – is a downsized version of the one his parents had used in the guest room. Kyungsoo drops them quickly as though the items are burning hot coal, clenching his fists as he stands upright – unsure whether he should unveil the next set of items.

Taking a deep breath, he begins to unfold the second package.

Kyungsoo tips the contents of the wrapped silk onto his bed, and he thinks he could feel his throat constrict at the sight of the items laid before his eyes.

Seven dolls, all of which are instantly recognizable from their physical attributes. He picks up Sehun’s doll – a cheeky smirk painted on his lips, the tallest of all the dolls. There is Zitao, a stern look on his face, with his deep eyes and the heavy-lidded stare. There is Jongin, Minseok, Jongdae and Yixing, and there is Junmyeon – a touch of perpetual concern colouring his façade.

Kyungsoo looks up around his room warily, worries if he is being watched. There is no way that the miniaturist should know who his friends are – this has to be a mistake, he convinces himself. There is no way that the miniaturist should know what the furniture at his grandmother’s house look like.

Who are you?

This must be a prank, Kyungsoo muses. Maybe it’s Jongin and Jongdae, trying to figure out what makes him tick. But how would they know that Kyungsoo would be in contact with the miniaturist, when he has never told anyone about his secret pastime? If this is a real prank, it would have cost them a fortune.

Feverishly, Kyungsoo grabs a paper and a pen, before setting out to write another letter to the miniaturist.

Dear Sir,

Thank you for sending me the items as I have requested. I admire your talent and craftsmanship – for I have never seen anything like it in my life before. Your fingers work wonders – miracles, even. The accuracy is outstanding.

Kyungsoo pauses; the tip of his pen hovering over the surface of the paper.

Enough pleasantries, Kyungsoo thinks. The miniaturist has to be reprimanded for his impertinence. The dolls – particular in their make, to match the personalities of each individual. The chairs, the beds, the table – so exact, that Kyungsoo can’t help but lividly surmise that the miniaturist has been utterly intrusive, having been able to capture the perfect view of Kyungsoo’s life and memories.

Before Kyungsoo could stop himself, his pen glides onto paper seamlessly – translating his thoughts into written words.

Nonetheless, if you think you have managed to intimidate me with your artistry, you are mistaken. You have extended your courtesies far beyond your allowance, by sending me items which I have not asked for. From here onwards, I shall curtail our business transactions.

Yours faithfully,

Do Kyungsoo.

He sends the letter on Monday, simply addressed to ‘The Miniaturist, 61 Seonji-gil’.

But he doesn’t return the dolls, or the furniture. Instead, he arranges them in the dollhouse cabinet – seven dolls scattered across the nine rooms. They all look perfectly at home.

Two more dolls, Kyungsoo thinks, and the house would be complete.

Kyungsoo has not heard from the miniaturist in weeks. Not that he’s eagerly waiting for his reply, but Kyungsoo is hoping for some form of closure. In the meantime, Kyungsoo visits other toy stores and searches the Internet to look for other craftsmen who would be able to complete his collection. He searches relentlessly to the point of obsession.

Their dolls are undeniably pretty – but often they lack the meticulousness that the miniaturist possesses. The generic expressions on each doll’s face leaves a bitter taste in Kyungsoo’s mouth, since none of them reaches the aesthetic that he desires. Despite almost settling for second best, Kyungsoo always decides to hold back, to wait – hoping that he could find a better artisan, who could create dolls with as much individuality as the miniaturist does.

This is how he finds himself at five o’clock, with the heat of the sun fading away from the tarmac, dried sweat cooling on Kyungsoo’s skin. He hasn’t even planned to come here, but ends up walking along the Seonji-gil anyway – where the miniaturist resides. Kyungsoo ambles along, unable to stop himself – as if he is a puppet, pulled by the red string of fate. He looks at each shop carefully – counting the door numbers, and holds his breath when he reaches door sixty-one.

The doorknocker is crown-shaped.

Sign of the Crown, Kyungsoo realizes in exhilaration. He could feel his pulse skidding through the roof, his spirit soaring to the skies.

Standing at the doorstep, Kyungsoo knocks the door three times before biting his lower lip expectantly. He looks around – the street is empty, but the familiar prick against his skin is unmistakeable.

Someone is watching him.

No one answers the door.

Kyungsoo knocks three more times, and waits for another full minute before standing back. Staring pensively at the quaint, heavy door, Kyungsoo lets out a heavy sigh, before his eyes catches a flicker of movement from the window upstairs.

A man is looking down at him – peering through the curtains.

Kyungsoo may not remember much, but he memorizes that piercing glare – filled with a mixture of curiosity, acrimony, and fear. The man has a small face with a sharp chin, and his eyes are lined with dark kohl. Kyungsoo returns the stare with equal terseness, before the man shuts the curtains, shielding himself from Kyungsoo’s view.

Cat-Eyes, Kyungsoo thinks.

The keenness of his stare; the coldness in his eyes. It reminds me of a cat.

Thinking that his presence is not welcomed, Kyungsoo skulks back home – leaving his questions unanswered, right in the heart of the Seonji-gil.

On Friday, Kyungsoo hears from Yixing that Zitao has broken his left ankle after a wushu tournament. He doesn’t think much of it, until he visits Zitao at the hospital and learns that he will return to China to recuperate.

Kyungsoo doesn’t think much of it, until he rearranges the dolls in his cabinet, to ensure that they are not collecting dust.

He nearly drops Zitao’s doll to the floor when he discovers the uncanny anomaly. Studying the doll’s left ankle carefully, Kyungsoo gingerly traces the bandage to make sure that his eyes are not deceiving him. He pushes at the doll’s left ankle – it is obviously more fragile than the right, as if the left ankle has been broken – and is only fixed by the bandage that keeps it in place.

He has never noticed the bandage on the doll’s ankle before, at least when he last inspected them a few weeks ago. Nor has he noticed the fracture on the doll’s leg, or he would have written to the miniaturist asking for a refund. And who would have tampered with Tao’s doll, when it is only Kyungsoo who has been looking after the cabinet?

A sudden, disturbing thought crosses Kyungsoo’s mind, leaving him frozen in his footsteps.

Did the miniaturist know that Tao was going to injure his leg? How long has this been here for, sitting, waiting for Kyungsoo to notice? Is the miniaturist some kind of seer who is trying to warn him about the future?

Kyungsoo lays Zitao’s doll on one of the beds, as if urging him to take a rest. He picks up the other dolls, his heart racing unsteadily as he inspects them for any changes, any signs— any predictions.

I’m going crazy, Kyungsoo thinks – as he restlessly runs a hand through his hair, fingers trembling, and places Sehun back on the sofa.

There’s only one place to go for answers, Kyungsoo decides.

This time, there is no doubt about it.

Kyungsoo is acutely aware that the man is watching him as he stands waiting outside door sixty-one –he could just about make out the man’s silhouette, as he stands across the street with a hand over his forehead, trying to cover his eyes from the glare of the sunlight.

“Hey! Wait!” Kyungsoo shouts, but the man has run off into one of the back-alleys. Kyungsoo tries to chase after him, but he has disappeared without a trace. Cat-eyes, Kyungsoo has dubbed him. Kyungsoo may not remember much, but he remembers the man’s smirk, his eyeliner. He is just about Kyungsoo’s height – wily in appearance; mischievous.

Are you the miniaturist? Is that why you’ve been stalking me?

From the opposite side of the street, Kyungsoo gazes up at the window again. The Cat-Eyed man is not alone. There is someone else there, watching, waiting.

But no matter how hard Kyungsoo tries to peer through the curtained windows, he couldn’t see the man’s face.

The third parcel arrives two days later, despite Kyungsoo not sending any prior request at all.

It is lighter than the last one, but heavier than the first. Kyungsoo’s hands tremble as he opens the packaging, and almost doesn’t dare to lift the two separate weights wrapped up in red velvet.

He closes his eyes and wishes that the miniaturist would stop tormenting him.

Kyungsoo picks up his own doll first – from the heart-shaped lips that his friends often tease him about, down to the big, round eyes and the quizzical brow. He has to look away – because he thinks that the miniaturist hasn’t just captured his physicality perfectly – but it also seems as though he has delved deep into Kyungsoo’s soul.

It is then that Kyungsoo finds a roll of parchment clutched in his doll’s hand.

He picks it up and unfolds it. The note reads—

THINGS CAN CHANGE

What do you mean? Can’t you just tell me?

When Kyungsoo unveils the second doll from its wrapping, he feels his breath catch in his throat. It is of someone that Kyungsoo does not recognize – but Kyungsoo is transfixed, all the same. He appears a little bit older than Kyungsoo, and much, much taller. Kyungsoo compares it with the rest of the dolls – he is about as tall as Sehun. He tries to stand the doll up on its long legs, putting them as wide as they would go. Crowning the pale face is a messy mop of raven-black hair, with a soft fringe that covers his forehead. His ears are a little pointy, reminding Kyungsoo of an elf.

His clothes are casual, simple – less detailed than the rest of the dolls. Minseok’s doll, for instance, wears three layers of clothing – similar to the ones he has worn yesterday, including that puffy orange jacket. Jongdae’s doll wears the exact distressed Golden Goose sneakers as the real Jongdae. This doll is wearing a plain white dress shirt, untucked—accentuating the broad shoulders and the sharp angles of his body. A pair of black trousers, with creases down the bottom – matched with a pair of black, faded Oxfords.

His dark brown eyes, unblinking— challenging Kyungsoo into a stare. Kyungsoo feels as though he has been held prisoner by them, unable to pull away.

He swallows uneasily, his throat suddenly feeling parched from the doll’s unnerving gaze.

Then, he notices another note held in the doll’s tiny hands—

PARK CHANYEOL

“Is that your name?” Kyungsoo asks the doll. “Chanyeol,” he mutters under his breath, as he traces the doll’s bright countenance with his thumb. A pleasant smile on the doll’s face – a stark contrast to the impassive mask of Kyungsoo’s own doll. He picks up his doll with his free hand, and stands the dolls facing each other. “Looks like you have a new friend now, Kyungsoo,” he chuckles nervously.

Kyungsoo holds on tight to the miniature version of himself, unsure what to do now. He would keep his own doll – but what about this stranger, Chanyeol? Kyungsoo has never seen him before, nor does he recognize the name. Still, he would loathe returning the handsome figurine to the miniaturist, even if his mind insists that it’s the right decision. His heart tells him to hold on, to keep the doll as part of his collection.

He wonders if the miniaturist is giving him a sign – if he is going to meet this Park Chanyeol soon.

Days go by and nothing ever happens.

Kyungsoo has taken to googling for Park Chanyeol on the internet, but to no avail.

Each night, he would watch each figurine carefully, examining them for changes, for any sign that could point to their futures. Each night, he would labour more attention towards Chanyeol’s doll – since there is very little that Kyungsoo knows about his background. “What secrets do you hold?” he asks Chanyeol’s doll— and he wishes that the doll could speak. Each night, he would receive the same silent reply, mocked by Chanyeol’s brilliant smile, by the twinkle in his eyes.

The more he spends time looking at the doll, the more he believes that Chanyeol—despite the simplicity in his design, has more soul than the rest of all the dolls combined. His features less frozen; his natural expression, the inexplicable kindness in his eyes. That knowing smile. “Sometimes I think you’re the most human out of all them,” Kyungsoo says to Chanyeol’s doll one night, gently brushing his hair with the tip of one finger— before sighing contemplatively and switches off the lights.

I could easily fall in love with him if he actually exists, Kyungsoo thinks – before falling into deep slumber.

I could fall in love with Chanyeol.

Kyungsoo is alarmed by the first thought that springs to his mind when he wakes up.

It is the same last thought he had before falling asleep – a thought that gnaws into his brains, peeling through the layers of his stone-cold heart, sticking a needle dead right in the centre of his soul.

The thought is still there, stubborn and unmoving.

No matter how hard he tries to shake it off, the thought of falling in love with Chanyeol continues to pervade Kyungsoo’s mind, causing him severe distress. But Kyungsoo convinces himself that he is a rational man. He will not let this destroy him.

No one falls in love at first sight, he thinks.

The real Park Chanyeol could be a horrible man, with horrible manners. He could be vain and merciless, the worst pig-headed scumbag that Kyungsoo will ever have the misfortune of ever meeting. His physical attributes could be a mask to the terrors that lie beneath. He could have a hideous soul.

Kyungsoo decides to end this once and for all.

“I’m sorry, Chanyeol,” he whispers as he folds the doll back into its red velvet wrapping, placing it in the centre the box before sending it back to the miniaturist.

The miniaturist returns Chanyeol to Kyungsoo three days later.

Still in pristine condition; still wrapped in the rich red velvet as Kyungsoo has remembered it.

Sighing, Kyungsoo delicately holds the figure up and stands it next to his doll, in the bedroom of the dollhouse.

He doesn’t know why, but he pulls off the other dolls from the cabinet, before lining them up on his real bed – leaving only Chanyeol and Kyungsoo in the dollhouse. “What are you trying to tell me?” he asks to nobody in particular. "Why won’t you accept Chanyeol’s return?”

Unsettled by the miniaturist’s non-answers, Kyungsoo sits at his desk and pens down another letter—

Dear Sir,

I have received the Park Chanyeol doll from you again today – and I do not understand why you have returned the doll to me. All I have wished for is to return it to you, since I believe that you have been mistaken. I have not yet been acquainted with anyone named Park Chanyeol, and if I have I would certainly remember. It makes me wonder if this person is going to play an important part in my future – and I wish that you would be so kind to reply.

Yours faithfully,

Do Kyungsoo.

He puts down his pen and folds the letter, deciding that he will post it tomorrow. Kyungsoo slides into bed, careful as not to disturb the seven dolls sitting atop his bedcovers. He turns sideways, to his left, where he sees the dollhouse cabinet and its remaining occupants – himself, and Chanyeol. From here, they look as if they are deep in conversation about something – and Chanyeol is smiling at whatever Kyungsoo is saying.

It hits him that he has never heard Chanyeol speak. He wonders how Chanyeol’s voice would sound like in real life. Kyungsoo imagines that Chanyeol probably has a deep tone, sweet – like rich molasses.

Like honey plunged into water.

It’s a shame that Kyungsoo is likely never going to hear it.

Kyungsoo wakes up and finds himself in his bedroom.

In his grandmother’s house.

He peers around wildly as he sits up in panic, clutching the bedcovers to his chest. The patterns on his duvet are still the same, but the texture is different.

Coarser.

This is not his grandmother’s house, although his eyes have tricked him to think that it is so. He staggers ungracefully towards the window, pulling the curtains apart. He gapes in shock as he sees the vista splayed before him outside the window. Outside this bedroom is Kyungsoo’s real bedroom – large and wide and seemingly Brobdingnagian. It is as if Kyungsoo has been shrunk in size; Liliputian.

Small enough to live in the dollhouse that he owns.

Kyungsoo is in the dollhouse that he owns.

“You’re awake—,” he hears a voice say from behind him.

Husky. Pleasant. Kind. Deep.

Like honey plunged into water.

Kyungsoo moves away from the window and turns around.

---

It is raining outside, in the real world. Kyungsoo could hear the gentle patter against the windowpane, although he couldn’t see it. Within the halls of this dollhouse, there is a tangy smell— familiar, papery. He is reminded of the miniaturist’s doorstep, from where the furniture of this dollhouse has been delivered.

In this dollhouse, everything seems timeless.

Kyungsoo is not hungry. He has not eaten in what feels like hours, maybe days – and yet he does not feel that he needs to do what any functional human being should do. Eat, piss, defecate. Sleep.

He is awake; hyper-vigilant. He could hear the clock ticking, but the hands of the grandfather’s clock are not moving. In its stillness, Kyungsoo feels suffocated. And yet, the heaviness is lifted each time he steals a glance at the brightness that is Chanyeol.

Chanyeol worries over Kyungsoo, dotes over him as if he’s the most precious human Chanyeol has ever encountered. He tucks Kyungsoo to sleep at night – makes him breakfast each morning, knows exactly how Kyungsoo likes his tea. He helps Kyungsoo up to his feet when Kyungsoo stumbles upon one of the uneven planks on the floor – and Kyungsoo shudders at every touch. His skin burns with every yearning gaze that Chanyeol throws at him, his heart skips a beat every time his name rolls of Chanyeol’s tongue. Kyungsoo tries to resist – tries to be cruel, tries to push Chanyeol away.

Chanyeol is always near, but yet always too far. Close, but difficult to reach.

Sometimes Chanyeol holds Kyungsoo in his arms, for warmth, for comfort. To sooth Kyungsoo’s fears away. Chanyeol is all sharp angles and jutting bones – and with his height, it is difficult to determine where Chanyeol begins, where Chanyeol ends. Sometimes Kyungsoo thinks that Chanyeol is all over, even when he is not in the same room.

Chanyeol is the figurine in Kyungsoo’s dreams. Chanyeol is the soul of the house.

While Chanyeol lives, the dollhouse brims with life.

Sometimes Kyungsoo finds himself holding tight at the doorframe of this damned dollhouse, connecting one room to another – silently watching Chanyeol when the taller man thinks that no one could see him. In Kyungsoo heart, he wishes that he is shining at Chanyeol, the way that Chanyeol is shining at him.

Up close, Kyungsoo thinks that Chanyeol is the most beautiful creature he has ever laid his eyes on. But he would never dare speak his thoughts out loud, for he fears that Chanyeol would hear—

For he fears that the miniaturist would know.

Although sometimes he thinks that the miniaturist has known— since the beginning of time. Way before Kyungsoo ever learns of Chanyeol’s existence.

Way before Kyungsoo understands the contents of his own heart.

How is it possible to love someone whose creation is a folly, whose sole purpose is to lull Kyungsoo away from the real world? How is it possible to love someone who probably doesn’t even exist in real life?

There is plenty of talking, but even then Kyungsoo has run out of things to say with Chanyeol.

Some nights, Kyungsoo lets Chanyeol into his room – sometimes for a conversation, but sometimes just for the sake of Chanyeol’s presence. They have become comfortable in each other’s silence. There is only the sound of Kyungsoo’s breathing – slow and steady, and the rustling sounds of Chanyeol on the bed, as his limbs move to form a starfish position, a contented smile on his lips.

“Why am I here?” Kyungsoo sighs, as he lies still on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. “Why can’t I get out from here?”

Chanyeol is lying next to him – close, but not touching. “So that I can look after you.”

“No, Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo warns sternly. He turns his head to look at Chanyeol, who remains blissfully unaware of Kyungsoo’s discomfort. “For the last time. We’re not going there.”

“You’ve looked after me all this while,” Chanyeol whines. “You’ve given me a beautiful home to live in. At least let me return the favour.”

“If you really want to help me, the least you could do for me is to try and find a way out,” Kyungsoo says, rubbing at his temples in frustration. “As much as I appreciate your intentions, you can’t trap me here forever. I’m not your prisoner.”

The hurt on Chanyeol’s face is unbearable to watch. “Sorry,” he says, before attempting to roll off the bed. “I don’t wish to make you unhappy.”

As if he is on autopilot, Kyungsoo’s arm stretches just in time to grab at Chanyeol’s shoulder, to stop him from leaving. “No. Don’t go – please. I’m sorry that came out a bit too harsh.”

“You called me beautiful, once,” Chanyeol sighs – his lips pursing into a wry smile.

“I regret that sincerely,” Kyungsoo says, before Chanyeol’s face contorts into one of horror. “I’m kidding— Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo attempts to placate Chanyeol, before breaking into a tiny laughter. “You are beautiful,” Kyungsoo tells Chanyeol. “More so when you’re alive, like this. But that doesn’t matter— if you’re not beautiful in here, too,” he points to Chanyeol’s heart. “You’re faithful, I know that. Naïve, probably.”

“Why didn’t you throw me away—,” Chanyeol begins, “—or return me to the miniaturist again, if I don’t fit in with the rest of your dollhouse collection?”

Kyungsoo bites his lower lip. This is a fact he could no longer deny, no matter how much he wants to. He lifts his gaze up at Chanyeol, finding security in his cheerfulness, in his unremitting enthusiasm. “Because I don’t want to. There’s something about you – I can’t quite tell what it is,” he says. “Because—,” he hesitates, before a blush starts creeping up his neck, to his face, “—I’m attracted to you. You are one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever laid eyes on, but it’s not just because of that. There’s something else.”

He sits up now, with his back turned away from Chanyeol – unable to look at the other man, because Kyungsoo wouldn’t have said things like these if he could help it. He grips at the bedsheet, scrunching it in his fists, his whole body tense – unsure if anything good will ever come out of his confession.

Kyungsoo hears shuffling sounds from Chanyeol’s end – before the weight lifts and changes on the mattress. Chanyeol is kneeling right behind him – Kyungsoo knows this – before he feels Chanyeol’s breath at the back of his neck, Chanyeol’s arms moving around him, Chanyeol’s chest pressed against his back.

Chanyeol’s chin against his shoulder.

It’s a relief.

Chanyeol feels like comfort, his arms like peregrine wings to keep Kyungsoo together.

“You keep telling me that I’m beautiful. You have no idea how beautiful you are to me, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol whispers.

He breaks the back-hug – and a guttural sound of dissatisfaction escapes Kyungsoo’s throat, before Chanyeol puts his hands on Kyungsoo again— his fingers kneading on Kyungsoo’s shoulders, his thumb pressing against the base of Kyungsoo’s skull. Kyungsoo lets out an appreciative moan, before lolling his head back in gratification. Chanyeol moves down to work on Kyungsoo’s paraspinal muscles, at the base of his spine, down to his sacrum.

Chanyeol doesn’t dare to move his hands lower.

Kyungsoo reaches to his back to hold Chanyeol’s hand, before pulling them forward again, across his stomach. Up, up to his chest, against the wild thumping of his heart. “Can you feel that?”

He could feel Chanyeol’s head nodding against his temple.

“That was all your doing,” Kyungsoo exhales raggedly, before turning his head and bumping his nose against Chanyeol’s in the process. Their gazes meet for a split second, before Kyungsoo leans forward and presses their lips together.

Chanyeol tastes of almonds and dark chocolate.

It isn’t possible for dolls to taste of such sweetness, with such exquisite and precise flavours on Chanyeol’s tongue. But Kyungsoo wants, and Kyungsoo gets. Chanyeol laps at Kyungsoo tongue with equal fervour, as if he has waited so long for this – just waiting for Kyungsoo to say yes, just waiting for Kyungsoo to allow Chanyeol to provide him with the pleasure he has promised his master.

Chanyeol pulls away abruptly at the last minute, extracting himself from Kyungsoo’s arms. “I can’t do this.”

Kyungsoo’s eyelids flutter open, his lips parted in confusion. “Why?”

“I cannot defile you – I cannot taint you like this,” Chanyeol exhales sharply. “Not when he watches. This was not how he intended it to happen— even if it has happened in his visions repeatedly,” he says, his brows furrowed in distress. “He has expected you to retaliate, Kyungsoo. Not to reciprocate.”

Chanyeol is talking about the miniaturist, Kyungsoo realizes. If he doesn’t know better, he almost swears that there are tears brimming in Chanyeol’s eyes. “He has seen us in his visions?”

“I’m sorry, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol shakes his head and closes his eyes. “I would give you my all, and yet I could give you nothing.” Tears begin to roll down his cheeks – and Kyungsoo has never thought that he’d ever see dolls cry.

But Chanyeol isn’t just a doll –

“Why are you sorry, Chanyeol? What have you done? Talk to me,” Kyungsoo presses closer, holding Chanyeol’s head in his hands, against his chest.

“I am him,” Chanyeol reveals quietly. “And I cannot bring myself to hurt you more than I already have.”

“What do you mean, Chanyeol?”

I would give you my all, and yet I could give you nothing.

Chanyeol lifts up his head, before tracing the curve of Kyungsoo’s cheekbones with his soft fingertips. He gazes longingly into Kyungsoo’s eyes, before revealing the truth about himself.

“Park Chanyeol is the miniaturist,” he says. “He made me. And I am him.”

And just like that, the spell is broken.

All, and yet nothing.

Things can change.

Kyungsoo wakes up on his own bed, the next morning.

The first thing he does is to check on his doll – it doesn’t seem to have changed. Nothing could prepare him for what he witnesses on Chanyeol’s doll.

It is a subtle difference – but one that means and proves many things. Gone is the smile from Chanyeol’s lips – in its place, a deep frown. Almost as though he is in suffering, full of agonizing sorrow. Kyungsoo is reminded of the tears that have stained Chanyeol’s perfect, porcelain features.

He is reminded of Chanyeol’s confession.

This was Chanyeol at that very moment, frozen in time.

What was it that he has said to Kyungsoo?

The miniaturist has expected Kyungsoo to retaliate – not reciprocate, and—

Park Chanyeol is the miniaturist.

He made me.

I am him.

‘What games are you playing with me?’ Kyungsoo mulls angrily, kicking a pebble off the street as he paces determinedly. “Why can’t you just speak to me like a normal person instead of sending your doll to do the work?” he mutters, making his way purposefully towards 61, Seonji-gil, at the Sign of the Crown. “Why do you want me to hate you, when all I want to do is admire you?”

Kyungsoo stops in is tracks when he reaches his destination.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. He should have seen it coming.

When he arrives at the doorstep, the sign of the crown has disappeared. The heavy door has been partially torn down – the paint flaky, as if the address has been abandoned for centuries. As if tempting Kyungsoo to enter, the wind pushes the unlocked door slightly ajar, creaking menacingly in its wake. ‘You coward,’ Kyungsoo whispers. ‘How long do you want to keep hiding? How far do you want to keep running?’

Kyungsoo steels his heart, and takes the leap forward.

Things can change, he thinks.

He pushes the door and makes his way inside. He thinks he could hear the rush of his blood singing in his ears, pulsating through his veins with each step that he takes. He reaches a winding staircase at the end of the dark, dank, empty corridor – and he carefully climbs each step, wondering what will be waiting for him upstairs.

The first thing he sees are the stacks of wood – oak, elm, mahogany – all propped up against one side of the wall. Kyungsoo ventures further into the loft, the only source of light being the sunlight filtering through the apertures. He covers his face with one palm of his hand, careful not to inhale sawdust collecting on the floor. He thinks his heart could leap out of his ribcage when he finally sees the dolls, hundreds of them lined up on the workbench. They all hold different identities, different faces, different histories.

Different lives.

A bowl of dark chocolate and almonds, untouched, sitting quietly at the corner of the table.

The scent of vanilla, peppermint and marzipan.

On one of the stools lay stacks of handwritten letters, sent from all across the country. There is a letter from a twelve year old girl asking if the miniaturist could make a doll of her pet cat. A note, written in haste – “So you think I shouldn’t marry him?” Another angry letter in a different hand, demanding that he should cease from sending anymore of his cursed Wiccan dolls.

A letter drops onto the floor, and Kyungsoo knows that it was his – written in what felt like a thousand years ago.

Dear Sir,

Yours faithfully,

Do Kyungsoo.

Kyungsoo feels suffocated, all of a sudden. He drops the letter to the floor, as if the paper is dripping with venom. Kyungsoo doesn’t remember sending it to the miniaturist – so how did the letter arrive here?

Scribbled along the margins of the papers are annotations in the miniaturist’s handwriting, like: ‘I wish I could tell him,’ and ‘Dead-end’, or ‘Together, then what?’ and ‘I can’t protect him.’

What is the miniaturist trying to protect him from? What is it that he wishes to tell Kyungsoo? Why is he so afraid of meeting Kyungsoo in person?

The sounds of rushed footsteps running up the stairs causes Kyungsoo to swiftly turn around – only to be faced with the Cat-Eyed man, who is panting breathlessly.

He’s not the miniaturist, Kyungsoo thinks. Sometimes he wishes that this is him, so that his task of hunting the miniaturist would be over and done with – but Kyungsoo knows it isn’t that simple.

Cat-Eyes continues to stare unblinkingly at Kyungsoo – alarmed, concerned.

It is Kyungsoo who asks the first question. “Where is he?”

“He’s not here.”

“I can see that,” Kyungsoo replies acridly. “Who are you?”

“My name is Byun Baekhyun. I’m a clockmaker. And the man you’re looking for—,” he pauses, “—he’s my brother.”

Kyungsoo raises an eyebrow. “Brother?”

“My father was a clockmaker – and he adopted him. We are brothers not by blood, but by apprenticeship in our art. But I grew up with him nonetheless – therefore, he is my brother much the same.”

This is one of the Byun brothers, Kyungsoo realizes. The ones who have trained with the miniaturist. “But you’re not like him, are you?” Kyungsoo asks.

“He sees things for more than what they are beneath the surface. Sometimes I wish that he would just stick with making clocks, but his talents reach further that what your mind will ever conceive.”

“Where is he now?”

“He has gone away – where you can’t find him.”

“Why did he run away?” Kyungsoo presses further. “What was he trying to hide? Why now?”

This man – Baekhyun – he is just the miniaturist’s lackey, to offer false breadcrumbs, to throw Kyungsoo off the miniaturist’s scent. “He’s running away from you,” Baekhyun narrows his eyes. “He fears you more than anything else in the world. He fears of not knowing, he fears of becoming blind.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head in frustration. “What are you talking about?”

“He has always found comfort in his art – in his craftsmanship,” Baekhyun explains. “All he has wanted to do is to help— to guide people into making the right decisions, but with you he has reached a dead-end.”

Kyungsoo fails to see the relevance of his existence, his importance – the magnitude of his power that would make the miniaturist fear him. “Why is he so afraid of me? If he had been afraid of me from the beginning, then why did he send me those dolls?”

Baekhyun sighs, before rubbing his eyes tiredly. “He has been curious of you— but he knows that the farther he meddles with your life, the more he wouldn’t be able to control his own,” he says. “He is trying to save you. He is trying to save himself.”

A slap falls across Baekhyun’s cheek. The sound reverberates through the hollow halls, satisfying to Kyungsoo’s ears. “Stop talking cryptically,” he pleads, “—and start making some sense, please!”

“If you haven’t noticed – the miniaturist has many talents,” Baekhyun hisses, as he rubs at his reddened cheek, grimacing at the pain. “In each miniature figure that he carves, he could see their past, present and future. There was a time when he could see yours too – the clearest path of them all – but now that is no longer the case.”

“Why?”

“That is a question you will have to ask him yourself.”

“Stop playing around,” Kyungsoo says – with a low tone, to hide his fury. He bangs the table in exasperation, causing some of the dolls to fall onto the floor.

Baekhyun remains painfully silent.

“Tell me this, then,” Kyungsoo exhales, willing himself to calm down. “Is his name Park Chanyeol?”

A flicker of panic crosses Baekhyun’s eyes.

“That is his name, isn’t it?” Kyungsoo demands further, before reaching into his bag and hands Baekhyun the doll wrapped up in silk. “Is this him?”

Baekhyun backs away. “He has never—,” he begins, before looking up at Kyungsoo, as if begging him to put the doll away.

“Never what?”

“He has never carved a likeness of himself. He must have been truly desperate if he has done so – and sending it to you, of all people.”

“Is he a dream-weaver as well? Can he manipulate dreams? Is that one of his many talents?” Kyungsoo asks, as his mind drifts to the events that has occurred in the last few days. Of being trapped in the dollhouse cabinet, of being held captive by Chanyeol’s sweetness and charm. A part of Kyungsoo would like to believe that it was all a dream. He absentmindedly licks his lips and remembers Chanyeol’s taste on his tongue.

Kyungsoo’s memories tell him otherwise.

“I don’t know.”

This conversation is proving to be more circular with each ticking second. “How can I find him? Please,” Kyungsoo pleads. He grips Chanyeol’s doll tightly, as if it’s the last thing that he believes in. As if it’s the only thing that could save him.

“I don’t know where he is,” Baekhyun confesses. He too, is at a loss. Desperate. “I’m looking for him too.”

Kyungsoo pushes past Baekhyun, running down the winding steps – exiting the abandoned shop into the crisp morning air. He gasps— but each shallow breath torments him, as if there are hot iron rods torturing his innards. It hurts, but why does it hurt so much?

He glances up at the window upstairs – and tries to imagines Chanyeol’s face, peering through the curtains as he watches Kyungsoo at his door. Baekhyun is looking for his brother, now.

What am I searching for, then? Why is Chanyeol important to me?

When the answer eventually finds him, it doesn’t even come as a surprise.

Yes, things can change. Kyungsoo is the architect of his own fortune.

Yet, he chooses to embrace his fate.

Because Chanyeol is my soulmate.

His mind becomes clearer once he accepts his destiny.

This must be how Chanyeol feels, Kyungsoo muses. When he sees my past. My present. My future.

Kyungsoo finds Chanyeol at the porch of his grandmother’s house, sitting glumly at the swing – gaze downcast. He doesn’t even realize that Kyungsoo is approaching.

The fresh scent of after-rain fills the garden. Of the wet earth; petrichor. Of magnolia and roses, balmy and healing. The rays of the sun piercing gallantly through the silvery clouds.

A sign that they should start anew.

For the first time, Chanyeol doesn’t run away. His hands are clasped together, hiding them from Kyungsoo’s sight. He is wearing a white shirt, damp from the dews of the morning rain, clinging to his toned body. His pale cheeks are flushed scarlet, like roses in full bloom.

“I should have known it was you,” Kyungsoo begins gently. He sits beside Chanyeol on the swing. Chanyeol doesn’t budge. “I need answers,” Kyungsoo continues. “You’ve seen my future. You know my past. Why do you keep avoiding me after what you’ve done?”

“I’m sorry, Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says, before tipping up his chin to look at Kyungsoo.

Kyungsoo inhales sharply as Chanyeol’s face comes into full view. The doll has nothing on the real Chanyeol.

This is the miniaturist – a real human being, the man who foresees and foretells. Kyungsoo has imagined him to be exuberant and magnanimous; lofty and king-like. A grand vizier, akin to the Wizard of Oz. Watching Chanyeol now, the only word that Kyungsoo could use to describe him is sinful.

Kyungsoo’s gaze falls down on Chanyeol’s hands – at the tips of his fingers, how those hands have carved such exquisite masterpieces – and how they are scarred, burnt, splintered, tainted with ink from all the work he has done.

He is sinfully beautiful, despite his simplicity, with all his imperfections.

He is human.

Chanyeol’s fringe is pushed up, revealing his countenance with such sparkling clarity that Kyungsoo has never witnessed on his doll’s features. His eyes – deeper, darker than what Kyungsoo has thought they would be – an abyss full of meaning and untold secrets. Kyungsoo thinks he could drown in them forever.

The only thing missing is the vivacity in his eyes, the upturned curve of his lips.

How Kyungsoo wishes he could see them again.

“You were the first doll that I’ve ever made,” Chanyeol tells him. “Long before I even met you. I don’t know why—,” he winces, “—but my hands carved your face, your body, your likeness onto the wood – and when I painted it to completion it was you,” he says. “And I immediately knew your name, and I know your fate.”

Kyungsoo thinks his heart probably has stopped beating.

“I’ve made thousands, millions of other dolls since then– and I know them all. Their lives, the ins and outs of their souls. The hidden darkness. The light,” Chanyeol explains. “But none as deep and clear as I know yours. I hide myself from the world, trying not to get involved with people’s petty worries and futures. I try to guide them with the hints that I send through the dolls that I made – but only if they notice.”

Kyungsoo remembers Zitao’s doll – the fractured ankle, the bandaged leg.

He remembers Chanyeol’s doll.

“Did you send them a figure of your own likeness to them as well, Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol shakes his head pensively. “Only to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I see my own future tangled with yours,” he sighs. “I’ve tried to avoid it, but providence has decided that you should send that first letter, asking that I make the furniture for your dollhouse.” A wry smile touches Chanyeol’s lips. “I couldn’t help but tempt fate. I responded to your request— but I wished that you’d stop writing to me afterwards,” he frowns. “I wish that you are going to fear me once you realize that I know about you— about your past, about your future. But you keep coming back.”

“Is that why you’re afraid of me, Chanyeol? Because you can see my fate entwined with yours— but you will lose your prophetic abilities if you choose to be with me?”

“I can’t see my future beyond you – because you are my future.”

“And you’re running away from it. From me,” Kyungsoo says, grabbing Chanyeol’s shoulders and shaking them, as if to shake some sense into him. Chanyeol glances furtively into Kyungsoo’s eyes, and he could see how much Chanyeol desires him. “I’m here now,” Kyungsoo says, before brushing his fingers against Chanyeol’s cheek. The touch lingers. “If you want me – you can have me. All you need to do is ask, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol turns away – taking Kyungsoo’s hand down, but not fully letting him go. “I’m scared,” Chanyeol says. He covers his face with his calloused palms, his splintered nails in full view. “If I do this, I can’t— I’ll still be able see other people’s future. But not mine,” Chanyeol shakes his head wistfully. “Not yours.”

“Ours, you mean,” Kyungsoo insists.

Chanyeol falls silent.

He’s afraid that he won’t be able to protect me if he loses his Sight, Kyungsoo realizes.

“What’s the last thing that you see? About us?”

“Together—,” Chanyeol says with a tremble, before screwing his eyes tightly and hangs his head low in shame. His cheeks are burning red. “Together,” Chanyeol repeats – this time with an air of finality.

Even with that one single word, Kyungsoo understands.

He remembers the dollhouse; he remembers what has happened within it – between him and doll-Chanyeol. Like a waking dream. Yet it wasn’t just a dream. Chanyeol has foreseen it – but would not allow it to happen in real life.

Yet Chanyeol yearns.

Chanyeol wants. But he cannot take.

“Was that why you sent your doll to me?” Kyungsoo asks gently. “As a proxy? As representative of yourself, because you feared the consequences if you had come to me on your own? You wanted to scare me away?”

“Kyungsoo— I—,” Chanyeol begins, before Kyungsoo holds his hands and kisses his knuckles. There are scars on the back of his hands, callouses and papercuts on the pads of his fingers. The fingers that have created art; a tour de force. The fingers that have written those cryptic notes and letters – with the sole intention of scaring Kyungsoo away, and yet—

“It only brought me closer to you, Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo says. “I’m a curious cat— and I’m insatiable,” he continues with a smile, as he places a warm hand on Chanyeol’s cheek— guiding him closer towards Kyungsoo. “You don’t have to hide anymore, Chanyeol. It’s okay with not knowing. You’ve looked out for me for so long. Let me take care of you now.”

“But I—,” Chanyeol resists, but Kyungsoo silences him with one shake of his head.

“I don’t want just a miniature version of you. I don’t want a hollow shell. I don’t want perfect,” Kyungsoo says. “I want the real thing. I want you, with all your scars and imperfections.”

Kyungsoo kisses his forehead, before pulling back softly. “Let yourself go, Chanyeol. Let go. I’ll catch you if you fall. I won’t let you break.”

When Chanyeol finally breaks free – and tilts his head to kiss Kyungsoo for the first time, it feels like victory—

Like a meeting of two souls on lover’s lips.

Chanyeol follows Kyungsoo home.

At the doorframe of Kyungsoo’s bedroom, Chanyeol hesitates to cross the threshold. Kyungsoo stretches his arm, palm held upright. “Take my hand— it is only me,” his eyes seem to tell Chanyeol.

Chanyeol swallows heavily, before taking one step forward. He inhales deeply, before letting out a quivering breath. He places a hand over his heart, as an idyllic smile touches his lips. “If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic,” he says, as he stands tall and proud in front of Kyungsoo.

Kyungsoo inches closer towards Chanyeol – at an arm’s length. He takes out Chanyeol’s doll from his bag – and stands it upright in the dollhouse, next to Kyungsoo’s doll. The cabinet’s grandeur is lost in the presence of its maker. In Kyungsoo’s eyes, this man with his flaws, with his heart worn on his sleeves – is far more superior to any of his faultless creations.

Chanyeol watches Kyungsoo patiently, like a sleepless eremite.

“When I first made a doll of you – I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’ll ever make. Nothing will ever top that – I thought it was an idol I could worship,” he says.

“Has that changed now?”

“Why would I worship a lifeless piece of wood, when I have a godlike being in front of me?”

Kyungsoo keeps a steady gaze on Chanyeol, as he begins to unbutton his shirt – his fingers trembling. The movement of Chanyeol’s throat as he swallows is fascinating to watch. He leaves his shirt on, even as the last button pops free. Kyungsoo draws nearer – as his hand moves to undo his own belt, unzipping his trousers – leaving them hanging dangerously low on his hips.

“When you made me – have you always known how my real flesh would feel like under your fingertips?” Kyungsoo asks. “Or did you just conjure that out of your own imagination?”

Chanyeol’s breath visibly becomes more erratic, as Kyungsoo pulls Chanyeol closer, guiding Chanyeol’s hand underneath his shirt –skin against skin, to cover the span of his back, his narrow hips, his belly. All the while Chanyeol never looks away from Kyungsoo, gazing deeply into his eyes. “You have life roaring inside of you – it’s something that I could never emulate in my miniature pieces.”

“Do you think of me often?”

“I think about you always,” Chanyeol confesses gutturally. “You’ve always been a part of me – in my heart, my mind – my soul.”

“Then why are you so keen to get rid of me?” Kyungsoo asks, as he begins to slowly grind his hips against Chanyeol’s. The flush on Chanyeol’s cheeks is unmistakable.

“I want you to be able to make a choice,” Chanyeol replies breathlessly, his voice husky with need.

Kyungsoo runs his fingers in Chanyeol’s hair as he places their foreheads together. “Have you ever thought that I would choose you anyway?” he whispers, nuzzling his nose against Chanyeol’s.

“I’ve never dared to think that highly of myself,” Chanyeol says, his gaze downturned – but Kyungsoo lifts his chin up with two fingers, holding his head still – forcing him to gaze into Kyungsoo’s eyes.

“You’re way too humble than what your doll made you out to be,” Kyungsoo says.

“It’s just a persona. This—,” Chanyeol pauses, “—this is me.”

Kyungsoo pulls Chanyeol’s head down for a kiss, tentatively at first – but Chanyeol deepens the kiss, coaxing Kyungsoo’s lips open as their movements become more frantic; less graceful, less perfect. There is only I want and I need in Kyungsoo’s vernacular, spoken in Chanyeol’s voice, as if Chanyeol is crying out to him through this kiss, as if their minds are melding into one.

Kyungsoo sees himself—

and he sees Chanyeol in his younger years, carving his first doll, transforming the elm pieces into a miniature version of a younger Kyungsoo. He sees Chanyeol working at the Seonju-gil, carving the miniature pieces that Kyungsoo has requested for his dollhouse. Chanyeol reading his letters, chuckling softly at them, before his expression fades into worry. Chanyeol furiously scribbling annotations onto Kyungsoo’s letters.

He sees Chanyeol’s visions of him, when he was a child, carving his initials onto the table at his grandmother’s home. He sees himself, in Chanyeol’s eyes – when he receives the dollhouse as a birthday present. He sees himself being held intimately by a strong, firm arm – by someone who is taller. He sees himself being filled, over and over with absolute joy and ecstasy, his blood brimming with delicious heat, soaring with delight. He sees Chanyeol, with a blissful smile on his face, and he couldn’t tell where Kyungsoo ends and Chanyeol begins. He hears his name being called.

Kyungsoo—

It is Chanyeol’s voice, bringing him back to reality.

“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol whispers, as he breaks the kiss. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“I want everything,” Kyungsoo gasps. “I want you. Now,” he says.

They undress each other frantically – before Kyungsoo’s hand eventually steadies on Chanyeol’s hip. His other hand takes Chanyeol’s hardening cock— causing Chanyeol to bite a moan, throwing back his head as Kyungsoo begins to thumb at his slit, smearing precum over the head. With his long, pale column of throat laid bare, Kyungsoo leans forward and mouths at Chanyeol’s neck, nipping at his collarbone.

Chanyeol captures Kyungsoo’s lips again, for another long, desperate kiss, as he bucks in Kyungsoo’s hand, with each delicious stroke. Kyungsoo’s own erection is hot and heavy against Chanyeol’s thigh. Chanyeol reaches down to reciprocate Kyungsoo’s actions, but he slaps Chanyeol’s hand away.

“No,” he says. “You’ve had your chance. It’s my turn,” Kyungsoo rasps throatily.

With one swift motion, Kyungsoo pushes Chanyeol onto his bed, straddling his hips, pinning him down with his weight. He settles between Chanyeol’s thighs, before mapping Chanyeol’s lithe body with his tongue, with his fingers. This feels different than just playing with Chanyeol’s doll, he thinks. This is real.

Chanyeol is real.

Chanyeol grapples at the bedsheets for purchase, as Kyungsoo dips his tongue into Chanyeol’s navel, before travelling lower, lower down to the base of his cock.

Chanyeol writhes in pleasure, curling his toes as his brain begins short-circuiting, his breaths coming out shallow and fast. His whole body is flushed, tremors quaking down his limbs as Kyungsoo pushes up slightly, distancing himself from Chanyeol to look at his handiwork.

Kyungsoo asks Chanyeol to turn over, and he does. “Keep your legs tight,” he says. Chanyeol does. He trusts Kyungsoo – he wants this as much as Kyungsoo does.

From the corner of Chanyeol’s eyes, he sees Kyungsoo scramble up to reach for a bottle of Vaseline from the dresser next to the bed.

Kyungsoo slicks his cock thoroughly, before parting Chanyeol’s legs by a fraction of an inch. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises, before guiding himself between the tiny space between Chanyeol’s thighs. He drapes himself over Chanyeol, thrusting his cock steadily between Chanyeol’s thighs, as Chanyeol rocks forward with each movement. Kyungsoo’s hand moves forward, reaching around Chanyeol’s hip to stroke him with each thrust.

Chanyeol thinks his limbs are turning into jelly— his knees shaking as he tries to balance himself on all fours, with Kyungsoo’s warmth against his back, with every skilful stroke of Kyungsoo’s hand.

Kyungsoo brands Chanyeol possessively with every imprint of teeth and tongue down his spine, punishing him with every searing kiss, on every freckle on Chanyeol’s back.

His breaths become more haggard, pounding ruthlessly as his pace quickens, rhythm haphazard. Chanyeol comes first, hot and wet on his hands – as he cries out Kyungsoo’s name repeatedly, like a litany. Kyungsoo forces his eyes shut as he chases his own release, driving himself against Chanyeol, the musky scent of sweat and come and Vaseline against their skin.

He sinks his teeth into the meat of Chanyeol’s shoulder, his muscles quavering as the familiar warmth rushes down his thighs, splattering onto the back of Chanyeol’s knees. He nearly collapses atop Chanyeol, before the taller man turns over and cradles Kyungsoo in the safety of his arms.

The sturdy cabinet stands still, as if silently watching Kyungsoo and Chanyeol, as if it has always been there from the beginning.

There is a genuine, earnest grin painted on the lips of Chanyeol’s doll, now. Gone is the fearful visage, the excruciating grief depicted on his aspect.

Similarly, the stolid expression of Kyungsoo’s doll has been replaced by a dazzling smile, as if he has always appeared joyful—

As if it has always been there from the beginning.

Chanyeol peers inside Kyungsoo’s dollhouse cabinet, watching its contents attentively.

Nine dolls for nine rooms, and yet he could foretell the futures of all but two.

He hears footsteps to his left – and he turns his head just in time to see Kyungsoo beside him, pressing a surprising kiss to his lips. There was a time when Chanyeol could foresee that happening. Not anymore.

Chanyeol smiles into the kiss, serene in his uncertainty.

We are the architects of our own fortunes, he thinks.

Kyungsoo is Chanyeol’s beginning.

Kyungsoo is Chanyeol’s end—

And yet, the story still has not fully begun.

notes:
1. In the beginning, we are led to believe that the miniaturist is the one who holds power over Kyungsoo. Time and time again, we are meant to believe that the miniaturist knows everything, and Kyungsoo is just a helpless lost lamb. I attempted to subvert this at the end, when we find out that the confidence of doll!Chanyeol is merely a guise of Chanyeol’s true self; that he does the things he did because he’s afraid of Kyungsoo and the power that Kyungsoo has over him. Because Chanyeol has always known that Kyungsoo is his beginning and his end. He is afraid of not knowing the rest of their future together, should he accept the fact that Kyungsoo is his soulmate.
2. In the end, it is Kyungsoo who exerts this power over Chanyeol, which I tried to flesh out in their sex scene. It doesn’t mean that Kyungsoo will always top – because it is my firm belief that they are equals, and who tops/who bottoms is always interchangeable for this pairing, in my opinion. At least for now, Kyungsoo has the upper hand.
3. This story is so obviously based on Jessie Burton’s The Miniaturist – which is a delectable book from start to finish. ‘You are the architect of your own fortune’, ‘Things can change’ and ‘All, and yet nothing’ are lifted directly from the book, but I spun a different tale around them. The dollhouse cabinet is partially based on Petronella Brandt’s dollhouse.
4. ‘Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips’ is taken from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound.

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