Deer Luhan, With Love

2

Chapter 2 – In Which Sehun Discovers that his Favourite Hyung is a Female Dongsaeng

Deer Luhan,

Sehun has just told me that part of your name means “deer”, which I find amusingly appropriate, all things considered.  I wasn’t far wrong in labelling you “Deer Guy” before I learnt your name.  It also opens the door to an atrocious pun on the word “dear” in English whenever I write you one of these notes, so look forward to it.

Leigh

I’m still not totally sure how I ended up at the airport.  I vaguely remember waking up in a room that I didn’t recognise because somebody was pounding on the door, and when I went to open it – still dressed in the baggy hoodie and sweatpants I’d been wearing the day before and the Deer Guy’s coat – I was almost bowled over by a thin-faced, blond-haired Korean about my own age who appeared agitated about something.

“God, you’re not even dressed for the airport,” he groaned in Korean as he pushed past me and grabbed a suitcase that I hadn’t noticed before.  “Never mind.  Here’s your passport.”

He shoved something at me as I blinked owlishly, still trying to process what he’d said.  My brain never worked without at least two cups of coffee in the morning, and even then, it was usually midday before I was coherent.  Let’s just say I was adapting to university life well.

The rest is kind of hazy, perhaps courtesy of a brewing headache that didn’t just stem from a lack of caffeine, but I just about remember being pushed out of the door into a passageway that looked like decorating it had cost more than the money I could have got from selling Deer Guy’s phone and demanding (in slightly muddled Korean) where we were going.

“Home,” said the blond-haired guy.  “Come on.  We’ll be late.”

The sensible part of my brain wondered how he knew my mum was going to freak out if I got back home quite this late, and the stupid part of it, which, as we all know, is pervasive, latched onto the word “home” and I trailed meekly after him.  There were other people with suitcases and a mini-bus and traffic and what have you, and the next thing I remember with any degree of clarity (read: virtually none) is finding myself being dragged through Heathrow Airport by my new friend as he hurried to keep up with the rest of the group.

“W-w-wait,” I said, trying to tug on his arm, but he didn’t respond.  Then it finally twigged that everything he’d said to me had been in Korean rather than English, so I filled my lungs and bellowed, “yah!”

He spun around, but continued to drag me along.  “What?” he demanded, surly.

“This isn’t home.  What are we doing at the airport?”

He gaped at me, but still managed to keep us both moving.  “Hyung, exactly how hard did you hit your head last night?”

I frowned, confused.  Had he just called me hyung?

“But I’m not—”

“Our manager said you might be concussed, but boy—”  He glanced ahead, suddenly spotting how far behind the others we were, and broke into a run, dragging me along with him.  I attempted to dig my heels in.

“What are you doing?  Where are we going?  This is child trafficking—”

He cast a disturbed look over his shoulder at me.

“Let go of me!” I demanded immediately.

“Hyung, please!”  He sounded pissed.  “Don’t make a scene!”