Archive of Our Own ^beta

There is no one left in the whole place.

Na Baekjin is still lying on the ground.

The rain has started pouring again.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop.

The rain won’t wash away his sins, nor his regrets. Yet it still holds a power of purification; perhaps because it’s the only thing that still dares to touch him. He lets it pierce his body, crumpling his clothes. It seeps into his boots, freezing feet that won’t walk anymore. It mixes with his tears, blurring the view of eyes that won’t shed any more sadness. It clots on his limbs, soothing the soreness of broken bones.

This whole body is doomed to cease soon.

It was written with gentle, bastard pats on his cheek by the rightful hand of Mr. Choi.

No use in denying it.

And even if Mr. Choi won’t do it, he himself will.

He thinks about it clearly.

To kill himself. If only he had enough strength, he would do it right now.

He was baptized at birth, screams smashed in waves of holiness.

Now that death is so near, the godless sky dips him in water again.

That’s fair.

At least, at the end of everything, life is fair to him.

He swallows, almost choking on his own throat.

His eyelids ebb closed, and the world fades away.

Phosphenes flare across his vision—spots and stains, a kaleidoscope of useless lights.

They flash, forming shadowy shapes.

Then, one by one, they disappear.

Blackness overtakes everything.

Not even his thoughts try to whisper back.

Everything is quiet, when the buildings begin to move.

They lean over him like living creatures.

At first, it is imperceptible.

But the ribs of the buildings bend, curving forward.

Then, everything creaks.

Windows have no eyes, yet they watch him. Elevators halt mid-journey, their doors sliding shut. Bricks and tiles form a never-ending ladder that climbs nowhere.

Finally, all at once, every house in Seoul collapses onto him.

He is lying on the ground, and they fold over him one atop another, one atop another, forming an endless urban pile under which he suffocates. The catastrophe has the sound of scraping metal, making him grind his teeth in reflex. His lungs empty; there is no air left to breathe. He gasps against nothing, packed in beyond all reason, every movement useless and impossible.

He is buried.

Buried beneath all the homes he never got to live in.

All the normal homes—refrigerators with shopping lists stuck to them, walls scribbled on by kids, or marked with the tallies parents use to track their children’s height year after year. Oranges left split open on sinks, ready for squeezing. Towels scattered in washing machines. Sheets worn and settled on beds he will never lie in. Closets full of clothes he will never wear. Chimneys, floors, rugs, bathrooms.

He has always wondered what it feels like to live inside a house. A real house, without dormitories and refectories and curfews.

But he will never know.

Not only the houses, but the offices too—those endless offices in which he will never work; where he will never complain about making photocopies for the boss; where he will never stand at vending machines, sharing a coffee with the most bearable coworker among many; from which he will never receive an honest paycheck.

The traffic lights he will never wait at to cross the street. The parks where he will never climb onto the swings. The cars he will never drive, because he will never get a license. The sidewalks he will never walk, for there is no longer any road to follow. The trees that will never again cast their shade on him. The windows he will never open—and he never opened when he had the chance. The ones he found closed, that no one unlocked to let the air in, and perhaps it’s his fault for never trying to force them.

The squares where he could have thrown himself down and screamed, Help, please, someone help me. He will never see those squares again.

Even the landfills, where his last few possessions will be thrown away.

The trains, the trams, the subways. He will never rush through their doors at the last second to avoid waiting for the next one.

The airplanes he will never board. The whole world out there—he has no idea what it looks like, and he never will. He should have been more curious when he had the time.

And the billions of people he doesn’t know, who don’t know him. Their faces, their names, their thoughts. What they could have given him.

No one who will ever know that he lived, or that he died. His name will be remembered in a cemetery for a few years by some poor soul who will pity him.

Then, one day, he will slip away even from that cemetery. It will be the day the last person thinks the last thought about him. The final one, and then no more. Nobody will notice. It will be a trivial thought, one that will free him forever.

His name will not be passed down to anyone. No anecdote will be told to grandchildren. No box of memories will be found in a dusty attic.

And then, finally, he will not only be dead.

It will be as if he had never existed.

The buildings swallow him.

The whole world swallows him.

Houses, offices, churches, temples, shops, crosswalks, all the places where normality exists. Even if he doesn’t know what normality is, he knows it exists. Everything pours over him; a child who never really walked out there, a child who never really had the chance to. They crush his ribs. They are so heavy that his heart shatters. And among its shards, suffocating becomes even easier.

Every breath now is stolen from fate, hoarse and labored. Fast breaths of panic and madness. He knows this is a goodbye. The world is burying him alive, and he can’t see the end of this piling, and he has no strength left to do anything. Not anymore. He remains helpless on the ground.

His hope is that death will be quick. He only wants to leave. He doesn’t want to know anything about what he leaves behind. And what he leaves behind doesn’t care about him at all.

His whole body hurts in an indescribable way.

He will die here. At least he knows there is a basketball hoop a little way back. There are the games he will never play again. But at least he will die in a place Park Humin would have liked, if only they hadn’t used it to destroy each other. A place where they could have had fun instead of blood. Not that it matters now.

It’s only a small consolation, perhaps a meaningless one.

Of course his last thought would be for him.

But then he thinks: tomorrow, or in a hundred years, two other children—not them, but somehow them—will meet here to dribble a ball, and they will not know that at their feet someone had died: someone who wasn’t them, but was somehow them; someone who died crushed by all the wrong things he did, and by all the right things he didn’t.

And they will play. And they will laugh. And maybe they will live a better life than his—because in some way they are like him, but are not him.

That is his real last thought.

His last hope.

Perhaps, his last prayer.

That those two children he does not know and will never know, yet who are bound to exist somehow, will live better than he did. That they will rise from the mud. That they won’t let the rain erase them. That they will ask for a hug. That they will dare say, I love you. That they will finish school. That they will choose a boring job, but a normal one. That it will be enough. That they will allow themselves to trust. That they will live long enough to be lined with wrinkles. And that, as long as they live, they will know that each new day they can start again—as many times as they want. Always. That it’s never too late. That they will not part ways. That they will hold hands. That they will never have to learn about violence, or debts, or power. That they will learn to say, I’m sorry.

Now every breath is a crash against his sternum. His head spins beyond sense.

Finally, unconsciousness approaches him.

I’m dying, he thinks. It’s over.

At least he doesn’t have to decide how to kill himself.

But right at the very end, when he takes the final step toward the abyss, two strong arms grab him and lift him off the ground.

He manages to open his eyes for just a second. He can’t focus on anything, nor anyone. He only sees a slice of sky, slowly losing its grey.

Then, everything becomes nothing.

What wakes him is a terrible thirst.

It feels as if the inside of his throat is being scratched by sandpaper.

He coughs, then opens his eyes.

At first, his vision is blurry, almost as if he were underwater. He lifts a hand to rub over his eyelids, and in doing so realizes even the smallest movement brings him sharp pain.

Another cough forces him upright, sitting on the mattress in a sudden spasm.

It’s a mattress, he registers the information.

His vision stabilizes. Then, his last conscious memory reaches him. It’s a memory of rain and desperation. Of death, even.

So, his first instinct is fear.

Because he shouldn’t be alive. And if he is alive, then it means he won’t be for long.

A cold wave of dread seizes his entire body.

His hands clutch the blanket—so there is a blanket, too.

A warm one.

Why?

When he bats his eyelids a couple of times, his gaze skimming the room, his chest untightens from that paralyzing terror; a physical response that comes even before he consciously processes the reason.

It’s a small room. Pluvioscopes fly through the dim light coming from the window. A narrow bookshelf, a globe on top of it, notes taped to the wall, clothes scattered over a chair.

He’s been here before.

This is Baku’s bedroom.

Baekjin starts breathing again—only now realizing he had been holding his breath.

He can bask in relief for a single moment, before another coughing fit rattles his ribcage.

That’s when the door is flung open.

“Baekjin.”

He hears his name, sees a silhouette rushing toward him, and then his cheeks are cupped in a pair of strong hands. It’s sudden, and it shakes the last traces of blankness from him.

“Baekjin, you’re awake,” the voice says again, worry and solace wrestling.

It takes a moment before he can focus on the face hovering over him.

It’s Baku himself.

Why is it Baku?

Why are Baku’s hands on Baekjin’s cheeks, why are his thumbs stroking him so gently?

“How do you feel?”

And why is he asking that?

Baekjin feels shocked, and comforted, and he wants to cry.

But when he opens his mouth to say something, only a raucous sound comes out.

“Wait,” Baku cuts in. “I’ll get you some water.”

He rushes out of the room.

Baekjin’s cheeks suddenly feel cold—only for a second, though, before heat floods them again; but this time from within, and because of scorching embarrassment.

He hears clattering from outside the room. He tries to get up, or at least to move closer to the edge of the bed, but his legs fail him, harpooning him in place. When he tries again, it’s his arms that give out.

And then, Baku is back in the blink of an eye. He closes the door and hurries to Baekjin, setting a bottle of water on the desk.

“Easy there,” he murmurs, hands bracketing Baekjin’s shoulders as he carefully guides his body back against the headboard—making sure to slip a pillow behind him. “Don’t make any sudden moves.”

Baekjin feels his flesh burn again, right where Baku touched him. He misses a few heartbeats along the way. He looks down, as to check his chest, and instead realizes he isn’t wearing his usual turtleneck, but an unfamiliar hoodie.

Baku hands the bottle to him—but Baekjin’s fingers tremble too much to hold it. Without hesitation, Baku steadies it himself by pressing it gently to Baekjin’s lower lip, in order for him to drink. His other hand is placed on the back of Baekjin’s neck, tilting his head slightly backwards to make it all easier.

Baku stares at him with absolute focus as Baekjin sips, unable to resist being fed.

“All right,” Baku says once he’s done, putting the bottle aside. “Can you talk now?”

Baekjin clears his throat, and provides a tentative, “Yes.”

That single word, that tiny word so hoarse and stupid, makes Baku brighten up in the widest smile.

“So, how do you feel? Where does it hurt? Tell me.”

Baekjin stares at him.

At his smile.

At his eyes.

And decides he should run miles away from here, as far as possible.

“What am I doing here? Humin, I’m not supposed to be here.”

He tries to get off the bed, unsuccessfully. Baku resets his efforts by gently settling him back down.

“Can’t you just answer?” Baku says, impatience poking holes in his voice, even if he’s trying so hard to be nothing but yielding.

Baekjin resists weakly as Baku adjusts the blanket, pulling it up to his neck and tucking it around him.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, placing his palm on Baekjin’s forehead, the way one might tame a frightened animal. “It’s okay. You are safe here.”

In some ways, it works.

Baekjin’s interior uproar, very much alive even if dulled by exhaustion, quietens. Just from that, from the soothing and intimate sound of Baku’s voice. So close, so soft, so patient. He sure has dreamed of hearing this kind of voice from him again, and now it’s kind of impossible for him to not soften under it.

As if that voice were a command his body cannot disobey; as if Baekjin’s very nature cannot respond in any other way.

So, his muscles loosen.

His thoughts, however, remain piercing.

“But you are not,” he manages to say, even if the care he’s being given feels like a lullaby his body is begging to surrender to.

Baku looks confused for a moment, then remembers his own words.

You’re safe here.

But you are not.

He smiles again, more condescending this time. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. He doesn’t know you’re here.”

He—Mr. Choi? How does Baku know him? Have they met? What is going on? How long has it been since he was last awake?

Baekjin desperately wants to ask, to speak, to understand—but the slow movement of Baku’s hand across his forehead makes it impossible. It feels as if his thoughts are being combed, the same way wind combs grass, untangles it, smooths it down. The touch alone eases the ache in his head, the pain in his limbs. Almost the ache and pain of his whole life.

“I put some medicine in the water you drank,” Baku’s voice drifts to him, like a distant echo now. “You should be able to rest a little longer. I’m here with you. If you need anything, just let me know.”

And then, it’s dark again.

A gentler shade of dark.

This time, he dreams of cities no more.

He dreams of nature, of clouded sunsets beyond seas.

He sees them from above, as if he were flying. There are not many colors: everything is red and orange. And it is late summer, and people swim, and others run laughing along the shore. Crabs crawl beneath rocks, fishermen walk away with their buckets full.

He hears no sound, except the calming rhythm of waves feebly lapping at the sand.

The water glimmers, touched by the sun’s last rays.

When he wakes again, Baku is calling him.

“Baekjin-ah,” he whispers. “You should eat something.”

Reopening his eyes, it surprises Baekjin to see he is nowhere near the sea. It doesn’t feel like he slept at all—the dream was so vivid. Even so, his body feels much relaxed than before, his muscles less burdened.

“I’m not hungry,” he replies. He doesn’t even know whether that’s true. Doesn’t even know why he answered that way.

“You must be,” Baku continues in that soothing tone, so low and endearing. Never too high, never sharp. Always even, as if he doesn’t want to trigger anything or crack something fragile. “You’ve been sleeping a lot. Lots of sleep and no eating.”

Baekjin focuses on him only now. Baku’s face has always been soft, even in hate, even when he’s angry. But now there is no trace of anger at all, and Baekjin can see the softness finally unguarded, like a long time ago. No annoyance, no constraint. He’s like the orange sun Baekjin dreamed about.

Before he can think about it, as if under a spell, Baekjin finds himself sitting up, adjusting his back against the headboard. He rests his hands in his lap, over the blanket. He looks at them. They are scraped and mottled, but there are bandages covering his knuckles.

“Yes, very good,” Baku hums approvingly, turning to retrieve a tray that Baekjin hadn’t even noticed on the desk. He places it carefully on Baekjin’s thighs. “Rice porridge and chicken soup,” he points to the bowls. “It’ll help you feel better.”

He takes Baekjin’s hand and guides the chopsticks between his fingers. Baekjin feels like a child. It’s not like he can’t do it himself. Or at least, that’s what he thinks. In truth, he doesn’t know. This body he’s in feels a bit foreign to its owner. It wears clothes he didn’t choose; it’s wrapped in bandages he didn’t apply. A body like this, so cared for, is something he has never really experienced before.

Holding the chopsticks proves harder than expected; almost like he hadn’t used his hands for a long time. And now that he glances at the food, he realizes he is very hungry after all. His stomach growls.

Baku scoffs. He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, still smiling, still looking at Baekjin. Lovingly, or something like that.

It feels surreal. Baekjin wants to think something.

Maybe something bad.

That’s what he usually does.

But he can’t. His mind is barren. Not even a sentence occurs to him.

So, no matter how surreal it feels, he starts eating. What else could he do?

He empties both bowls very quickly. The food tastes good. Only one last bite of chicken remains on the side, as he finally slows the frantic chewing.

“You haven’t changed at all, hm?” Baku chuckles. “Still saving your favorite bite for last.”

“You eat it,” Baekjin replies flatly.

“But it’s the best part, and very nutritious! Besides, I’ve already eaten. Be good and finish the plate,” Baku protests, though calmly. He thinks Baekjin’s throwing a tantrum.

“You eat it,” Baekjin insists, nudging the tray toward him with that little strength he has left.

Oh. He’s leaving it on purpose, isn’t he? Not because he ran out of hunger. It’s symbolic. It really is the best bite, and he’s giving it to Baku. Baekjin can be this stubborn and considerate even in his current conditions.

“Let’s split it,” Baku says condescending. He takes the chopsticks from Baekjin’s fingers; he doesn’t divide the piece of chicken evenly—not at all. But perhaps Baekjin won’t notice and will fall for the trick.

It works.

Baku eats his own half piece of chicken while watching Baekjin finish. Then turns to take something else from the desk.

“Here, drink this.” He hands him a tall, misted glass, very warm to the touch. “Honey water. It’ll help with your sore throat, but careful not to burn your tongue, hm? It should’ve cooled a bit by now, though.”

Baekjin looks at him, then at the glass. He raises it to his lips, takes a tentative sip. Then, he drinks it in long pulls. The honey water is so warm and mollifying on his throat that he closes his eyes to fully revel in it. It’s so warm that he can vividly sense it traveling from his palate to his stomach, and there it pleasantly heats him from the inside. It’s blissful.

Lukewarm honey water, made just for him. It means water has been boiled, honey has been scooped.

Lukewarm honey water on a full stomach, fed by food he did not cook, did not ask for.

Lukewarm honey water against the freezing cold he’s been feeling for years.

Now the glass is finished, but the liquid was transplanted on him—like a vase in which was poured too much already, the last drops of honey water make it overflow.

His eyes fill with tears.

But he somehow swallows them inside, tilting his head in a discarding movement.

Baku sets the tray aside and sits back down. “Will you answer my question now?”

“What day is it?” Baekjin asks instead.

“Okay,” Baku sighs, and the sound of it crushes Baekjin’s heart a little. “What about one answer each? I answer, you answer. It’s the fourteenth. Three days after the fight.”

“Three—what?” Baekjin startles. His whole body reacts to that information, and he looks like he wants to get up. Baku is quick to push him back into place, like an anchor dropped to the seabed. Baekjin can do nothing against that pull.

“Hey, where you hopping, champ?” Baku says, his voice shifting—it’s the kind of voice he uses when he needs to tone things down. To alter the seriousness into something playful. Baekjin doesn’t like it, but it doesn’t matter. Not now. None of this matters. He has to go. He can’t stay here any longer. He actually shouldn’t have ever entered this room.

“I told you,” Baku continues, catching his anxious eyes, forcing them to stabilize on his own, “It’s alright. You have nothing to worry about.”

“You don’t understand,” Baekjin hisses, weakly fighting against Baku’s grip. “I have to go. I have things to do.”

“Stop.”

The word is a command.

Baekjin’s eyes become almost pleading. That’s why Baku repeats himself, gentler this time, rubbing his thumbs over Baekjin’s arms where he’s holding him down. “Stop.”

Baekjin swallows.

“I have to go, Humin,” he says once again. He sounds so distressed, like a kid who needs to get to the other side of the street as quickly as possible, but the cars don’t stop coming and won’t slow down and there is no break in the traffic to let him cross, no matter how much he tries to step forward. Like every second is crucial, like someone’s life is at stake. It doesn’t occur to him that Baku is only trying to keep him from ending up beneath a car’s wheels.

“Baekjin-ah, you may be stubborn as hell,” Baku says. “But don’t you know that I am too? So drop it already. I win this one.”

“Humin,” it escapes Baekjin as a tortured whine, as he still struggles against him.

“What’s with that? If you’re so sure, then tell me. What is it that I don’t understand?”

“I have to go. Three days is too much. Please, let me go.”

“Oh, now you know some manners.” Baku lifts his eyebrows, gaze hovering over Baekjin, now tinted with slight worry. He raises a hand to Baekjin’s head and delicately pats its crown. “Baekjin-ah, listen closely,” he murmurs, returning to that tone Baekjin likes so much, the one that soothes him so deeply, in a dangerous way; dangerous because he might fall for it. “You’re an idiot if you think I’ll let you go back there.”

“You know nothing,” Baekjin grips the blanket.

“I know something now,” Baku replies. “I do. I was told. And you—” A deep sigh inflates his chest, and Baekjin wonders which words he’s popping like balloons in there. “Don’t you trust me, Baekjin-ah?”

He didn’t expect that. He looks at Baku, a bit lost, a bit dizzy, and a lot of other things besides. Still, he feels that deep urgency that cripples his brain above all. The door looks so impossibly distant, even though the room is so small. If only he could stand up. If only Baku let him.

“How—” Some words form at the edge of his mind, but they’re too confused and clutched to mean anything at all. Baku looks at him like he’s waiting for a real answer, a proper one. Like the answer to this one question could change everything.

“What do you know?” Baekjin finally manages to ask. It’s something smaller, much more reasonable to work with. And most of all, it’s something he needs to know.

Baku’s expression shifts slightly. He recomposes his posture, as if stepping ontto a different ground. One laced with mines. “I know the Union isn’t isolated. That there’s Cheongang too. I know about Mr. Choi. That he gave you an ultimatum. That he’s…” A moment of hesitation. “…dangerous. Why wouldn’t you tell me, Baekjin-ah?” He runs his hands over his face, elbows on his knees, and in that gesture all his exhaustion becomes suddenly clear to Baekjin. Then he adds, under his breath, “You really do not trust me, after all.”

“Did you give me a reason to?” Baekjin hears himself say.

Baku lets his hands fall to his chin, then drops them completely, leaving them lifeless in his lap. He swallows. “I guess not,” he admits, with glum. “But, you know,” he avoids Baekjin’s eyes now, drifting his own to the wall, to the windowpane. “I thought we were different. I thought—I don’t know. That if something really bad happened… you’d come to me. You’d talk to me. You’d understand you could.”

Baku looks almost zoned out. His shoulders are tense, his gaze distant and unfocused.

“That no matter how much we said we hated each other, all of that would fall apart the moment you really needed me. Or I really needed you. I thought we were like that. I thought I was like that, for you. I had promised you.”

He takes a long breath, its end shaky.

“I thought we were… above all the bullshit. That you knew I would’ve run to you, if you’d just asked for help.”

Baekjin scoffs.

At the sound of that, Baku instantly looks at him again.

There is tiredness in Baekjin’s face as well—one that doesn’t come from just a beaten body. And then there is a pinch of irony, like he’s just heard a funny punchline.

“What?” Baku asks, defensiveness creeping into his tone.

“I never said I hated you,” Baekjin points out.

And Baku realizes that he’s right.

It was always him who used that word.

“And that’s not the promise you made me,” Baekjin adds. “You promised me you’d never leave me. That’s what you promised.”

He’s right again.

Baekjin omits the third correction, though, the one that made him scoff. And it’s that he did ask for help. In a fucked-up, counterproductive way? Maybe, yes. But he did. Everything he’d done had been a scream for help. However, he doesn’t say it, because he’s probably never admitted it even to himself.

“You’re right.” Baku says at last, heavily, after a long silence of pondering, and looks away. “I got it all wrong. But it’s not like you made it easy either. I left because you were becoming something—something—”

“What? Something monstrous? Something you couldn’t like?”

“Something I couldn’t recognize. In a way, you left me before I did.”

“Don’t ever say anything like that again.” Anger sparks in Baekjin’s voice, the first truly vital sign since he woke up. “I never left you, not even for a second. I was always with you. I may have changed, but how can you say you didn’t recognize me? You always knew who I was, deep down.”

“No. You’re not like this.”

“But I am. And I’m something you can’t even look in the eyes. Just admit it, and you’ll finally be free from me. What you’re holding onto is something that doesn’t exist, something you tell yourself so you can stay on the right side of the story. Because if you admitted that you simply hate the poor, bullied orphan boy, and that you never want him in your life again, you’d hate yourself as well.”

“I don’t look at you because if I did, I’d cry my eyes out!” Baku blurts out, his shoulders shaking.

His next breaths heave his chest up and down, frantic. Baekjin freezes.

“Please,” Baku says in a cracking whisper, “Don’t say things like that. Please, don’t think things like that. Please.” He sounds desperate now. He picks at the skin around his fingers. And then, a single tear falls from his eyes right into his hands. He wipes his face quickly, like a kid who’d get punished for crying.

And even though it seems to cost him the biggest effort, he parts his lips again to speak, still staring at his hands. “I don’t hate you. I can’t hate you. I’ve tried. I’ve thought about everything you did to me, and to my friends, and to my father, and to my schoolmates. And still, I can’t bring myself to hate you. I can’t bring myself to push away this thing I have for you inside my heart.” His breath stutters, and new tears threaten to fall from his overflowing eyes. “This love I have for you. I can’t get rid of it. I just can’t, Jin-ah. And it hurts like hell.” The words spill out like a sob. “Everything hurts like hell. I just… I just want it to stop. I want to stop feeling this way, because I’m afraid it’ll kill me otherwise.” His throat is chained, and he has to force himself not to gasp, resulting in little spasms twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Please. Please, just trust me. Just— …I don’t know what to do to make you trust me.”

No response comes from Baekjin, and Baku is now too much of a coward to look at him. A second tear slips down.

“The Na Baekjin I know,” he says after a long silence, “has such a good heart. He’s the Na Baekjin that wouldn’t pick flowers from the ground, because that would mean killing them. The one who used to lend me all his red pencils. The one who placed a spare bandaid on the seat of a boy he’d never even spoken to, just because he saw his scraped knee. You thought I didn’t see you doing it, but I did. That’s how we started talking, remember? They say I’m kind,” he sighs, “But most of my kindness, I learned from you. That’s who you are. You just need someone to remind you.”

In that description, Baekjin would like to see something good. But instead, he sees only a foolish, weak child. A child doomed to be crushed by the weight of the world. And yet, for some reason, his eyes burn. He locks the tears behind his eyelids, but they’re there.

“That child is long gone, Humin,” he finally says, sharp. “And that’s what you love. A memory. I’ve killed flowers since then, and far worse. You know it.”

“But why?” The question bursts out of Baku’s mouth abruptly—he’s been holding it inside for such a long time.

“Why? Because that’s how the world works.”

“That’s not an answer. Why did you do those things? Why did you start, to begin with? Why, Baekjin?”

“I guess I was just tired of everything.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me? We could’ve figured it out.”

“How? You would’ve just consoled me; that’s it. Does that fix anything?”

Baku finally looks up at him again. Baekjin doesn’t look too distraught, not on the surface. Baku, on the other hand, looks wrecked.

“What do you mean? You didn’t like it when I consoled you?”

“That’s not it,” Baekjin is now the one to avoid his gaze. “It’s just… It’s just not enough.”

Baku stares at him. As if he’s almost finished a puzzle, and only one final piece is missing—but the one he’s holding isn’t the right shape.

“So let me get this straight. You started beating up your bullies, you started building a fucking gang because…? Because what? Consolation wasn’t enough. What would’ve been enough?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.” Baku repeats it, hollow.

Baekjin stays silent.

“I won’t accept that, Baekjin. Nothing was enough, so you lost your mind and started hitting anyone. Using the techniques I taught you to protect yourself.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“You didn’t console me much.”

Baku freezes. “What?”

“Once I got stronger,” Baekjin says quietly, “you stopped worrying about me.”

Baku stares at him, stunned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s true. You started thinking I could handle it on my own. You stopped coming for me.”

“Baekjin, what the fuck are you talking about? Did something happen that I don’t know? Because I swear I don’t know.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Baekjin, please.” Baku’s voice cracks. “Is it my fault?”

Baekjin looks at him.

“I just wanted to be…”

Baku waits, barely breathing. Mostly because he feels like he could crumble at any given moment, from the slightest impact.

“I don’t know,” Baekjin whispers at last. “I just wanted to be someone you could be proud of.”

“But you were. God, you were.” He says in almost a sob, something unfiltered ripped from his bowels. “You were the only good thing in my life. Home was a mess, school was a mess. You know I didn’t have anyone besides you, not really. You were everything to me. You had to know that. You had to.”

“I wanted to be good.”

“Baekjin-ah.”

“I just wanted to be good.”

“Then why is that when everything went bad?”

“I don’t know.” And this time, Baekjin’s voice breaks too.

Maybe the problem is that they both see things as black or white, no grey in between. And maybe that’s because they grew up thinking they had to fit something narrow and rigid just to survive out there. To discard parts of their humanity, parts of what made them whole.

Maybe the problem is that Baku can only see things as bad or good, and feels shame when he falls into much more complicated feelings—as if they should be banished, as if he should be punished for them. And Baekjin can only see things as victory or defeat, and turns everything into a fight—just like street rats have to wrestle each other for the same crumb of moldy bread. Maybe the problem is that there is no middle ground. Or maybe there is. But when you’re in the trenches, it’s not easy to trust your enemy and meet them in no man’s land. Who can guarantee you’ll even make it there alive? Why risk everything without the assurance that your worth won’t be drilled through by bullets?

But Baku has already risked everything.

He has already risked Baekjin’s life.

What could he possibly lose that’s worse than that?

Maybe he can break down the walls that turned their relationship into a maze. Maybe he can look for him. Find him. Maybe they just need to strip down to the bone. Lay their souls bare.

Baku looks at him, really looks at him. And sees a boy, just a boy, confused by his own heart and mind. It hurts. Everything is so tangled, and Baku doesn’t know what to do, where to start. Where to put his hands to begin extricating it all.

He decides to place them on Baekjin’s.

At the touch, Baekjin’s hands jolt slightly. But they don’t retreat.

Baku bleary eyes unfocus, as he mindlessly rubs his thumbs over Baekjin’s skin. After a while, he says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about these things while you’re still recovering. We should concentrate on your well-being instead. I’m sorry. But—”

For some reason, Baekjin really hopes that Baku won’t let the conversation fall apart. He doesn’t know if they’ll ever get another chance to talk. Like, really talk. Even if they misunderstand each other, even if they don’t find the right words, even if they don’t even know what they’re feeling. Talk, at least.

“I want to try to understand,” Baku continues. “You—to understand you. And help you understand me. The first thing you should understand is—” he takes a deeper breath, “is that I love you, Baekjin. I always did. Come on, you must have known how much I loved you. I doted on you. And I think that’s how you felt about me too, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Baekjin answers, barely more than a whimper.

“I just want to know where it started hurting,” Baku adds softly.

A complicated math problem for the dyscalculic, a subjunctive clause for the amateur language student—it could be something like that. If only it wasn’t about his life. His entire life. Because this has become immense, a pitch-black hole in his existence. And therefore, in the universe.

Baku wishes Baekjin could detect the hurt not only in the timeline of their mess, but also like you pinpoint a dot on a map; wishes Baekjin could locate it like a wound on the body. Wishes he could cleanse it off like a stain on fabric. But it’s not like that.

And Baku has tried to run. He can run from the consequences, maybe. He can run from Baekjin. But he can’t run from that black hole at the center of the universe, that sucks in anything nearby, that pulls like a magnet and gets bigger by the day.

Baku feels like all he has is needle and thread.

But you can’t sew up a black hole with needles and thread.

Baekjin doesn’t know what to say. If he looks back at it, turns around to face his past, the lines blur, the words get confused, and everything he thinks makes sense and no sense at all. He wants to run away from it, too. It’s deeply uncomfortable. The answers he gives creep himself out, unspoken things resurfacing in sewage—but dead corpses should sink deeper and deeper instead.

Baku asks where it started hurting, when it started hurting; the truth is, it had always hurt. Anything, from anyone. It’s like Baekjin lacked the immune system against the world. And this, he despises. It makes him nauseous. Because he had never wanted to stick consequences that had nothing to do with Baku onto Baku himself. He wanted to keep Baku in another place of his life and soul, the place untouched; where pure things survive and face no contamination. Baku was something else entirely—but Baekjin couldn’t protect him from the lurking nightmares of his being. They would reach him even in that sheltered place within.

He wanted to be pure as well. He wanted to be pure, and he wanted to be repulsive. He wanted to be himself and someone else; he wanted to be good, bad, a monster, an angel, he wanted to see people bow and scrape in front of him, he wanted to just make friends. He wanted to be the epitome of fear—not the one he had felt himself, but the one he could generate in others. He wanted peace.

But he didn’t know how to live in it. He didn’t know what he could be if he had no spit to spit or blood to bleed. And the mere thought of being happy—it was terrifying. But why? He did want to be happy. He still does. Yet, when he thinks of happiness, he thinks of death. Happiness is a threat. Because once you feel it deeply, once it makes your heart so light, the aftermath is devastating.

“It disgusted me how weak I was,” Baekjin starts. “I had to become stronger. Not only for my own sake. You were my hero, you know. But if I kept it that way… We would never have been equal. I would have just been someone you had to protect. A burden. Something… something that would satisfy your desire to be useful. I didn’t want to be only that. I wanted to be bigger than that. And maybe—maybe I was scared that the only thing tying us together was violence. The violence I received. We became friends because of that violence, and I was sick enough to be happy to be beaten, because it meant you’d come for me. And when they stopped tormenting me, it felt like having no more ground under my feet. It doesn’t make sense. Violence… I don’t know. I can’t explain it. The first time I used it, it felt good. It felt like you had been hiding something good from me. That adrenaline. Like you didn’t want me to hold that power.”

Perhaps Baku should feel shocked, or something like that. Because it’s all fucked up. There is not a single objective truth in what Baekjin just said.

But he follows through, because he understands. He does. Violence did it for him too. He knows what kind of power Baekjin is talking about, and the thrill that comes from it. He knows it’s good to feel like a god when you’ve spent all your life being an ant.

If he became stronger, he deserved more space. If you are strong, you’re entitled to it. And more space means more love.

“It doesn’t scare me,” Baku says. Baekjin doesn’t know why, or which trail of thoughts got him there. But the sentence itself is comforting. “This part of you.” he rubs his thumb over Baekjin’s knuckles, almost nervous. “But you know what we have isn’t just that. I wasn’t your friend simply because I liked playing hero. You know. And I know you know.”

“I wish I didn’t think those things,” Baekjin replies with a quiet urgency. “It’s not like I think them; it’s something inside my thoughts that think them—I—I don’t know, I know it doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s okay,” Baku is gentle, brushing another caress across Baekjin’s hands. “We don’t have to make sense of it today. But just know that I never thought you were weak, not once. You’ve always been the strongest kid I knew. And most of all… It doesn’t matter. Because what I feel for you is above strength or weakness or—or whatever. What I feel for you I feel for your heart.”

Baekjin wants to cry. He pushes the tears back again and swallows hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I don’t know. I didn’t mean it. You never did anything wrong.”

“I did lots of wrong, Baekjin-ah. On Thursday I smashed your face, how is that right?”

“I deserved it.”

Baku pauses. “You didn’t,” he says in the tiniest voice. Then, with a sigh, he trails one hand along Baekjin’s collarbone. “I fucked up your shoulder, didn’t I? I got Sieun involved in the fight. That’s foul play, hm?” He lets out a small smile. “Maybe I should redo the bandages here,” and lightly traces the hem of the hoodie Baekjin’s wearing. Doesn’t think much about whether he’s allowed to touch him. The truth is, Baku has been caring for him while he was deeply asleep, smoothing out the furrows of his nightmares, bathing him with damp cloths, gently moving his limbs so they wouldn’t stiffen, even cleaning up his piss. So, he’s gotten used to it by now. That’s all it took to feel familiar with Baekjin’s physical presence again.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Baekjin whispers.

“It’s the painkillers.”

“Baku,” Baekjin says, almost painfully. “Do you understand that you did nothing wrong? When you consoled me, or protected me. It’s just… my mind is a bit clouded right now. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I’m sorry for what I’ve become. Okay?” He tells it almost as an order. Baku knows it’s the embarrassment that makes his voice curve.

To be fair, there is a lot that Baku doesn’t know. He doesn’t really know how the Union came to exist, how the first members joined. How Baekjin was scouted by Mr. Choi. How his deals run through the market. And he doesn’t know about his feelings—not to the very depth of them.

But it’s not like he can say it out loud. It was my hunger. My hunger for you. When everybody was giving him wastewater, Baku had spread rivers of spring water. In a world of greed, Baku showed him generosity. He gave him smiles where there had only been sadness. He pulled him out of anesthesia. And it was wonderful. Everything he had seen in movies or heard in songs, he could finally understand. Love. Joy. Sharing.

But there was a dark side to it, too.

He couldn’t control the hunger. Every time Baku did something graceful for his soul, Baekjin could feel the hunger grow. He didn’t understand why. Hunger should fade when it’s fed. With Baku, it was the opposite. He couldn’t stop it. Genuinely couldn’t. When he tried to take some steps back, it was like apnea, like being deprived of oxygen. He would return immediately, simply because he couldn’t breath otherwise. He felt like a parasite.

Baku enjoyed his time with him too, but it was only a question of time before he’d find out how rotten Baekjin was at the core. How hungry he was. And maybe, in some twisted way, Baekjin wanted him to see it. To hate it. To run away. Just as much as he wanted him to love it and stay by his side—forever.

That’s the problem with love. It’s indistinguishable from cruelty. You lose something when you love like that—and you lose something when you don’t.

A walking contradiction. You’d think someone like Baekjin, who was born with nothing, wouldn’t know how to want. Instead, he doesn’t know how to stop wanting. And it makes him ugly. It turns him into a monster.

Baku mindlessly reaches for Baekjin’s chin, fingers playing along his jaw and lower cheek. He had wanted to hear apologies—that’s true. He even asked for them at the end of the fight. Those had been Baku’s last words to him. They could have truly been the last. Forever. If Mr. Choi had found him before Baku and Seongje did.

The thought makes his heart shrink so tightly it feels like death itself. And maybe that’s why those apologies bring him no satisfaction now.

Caressing Baekjin’s skin feels almost like self-soothing. It reminds him that he’s still alive; that he’s not talking with a ghost. His emotions settle a little.

He thinks about everything. Their shared childhood. What they went through. The moment it all fell apart. The days that felt like hell. And everywhere he looks, he finds his own fault too. How could he not have seen Baekjin’s pain? Or worse, how could he have seen it and still looked away?

“The Na Baekjin that wouldn’t even pick up flowers,” Baku says. “Isn’t he the same Na Baekjin who donates all his money to the orphanage?”

Baekjin’s eyes widen. “How do you know?”

“Seongje told me.”

“He’s not supposed to know either.”

“From your phone.”

“That’s why you’re being so kind to me all of a sudden?”

The question holds no grudge.

Baku traces one last half-moon along Baekjin’s jaw, then pulls away.

“I’m being kind because you were almost dead.”

“How does that change anything?”

Baku scoffs.

“It changes that I’ve been sleeping next door for three days, crying at the thought of coming back here and finding you dead in my bed. Thinking that you could have died believing I hated you. Thinking you could have died from the wounds I gave you—or from a bullet put in your skull by that bastard. That’s what changed.”

Baekjin hums. “It would’ve been better for you if I had died.”

Baku trembles. A spasm runs through his arms, like he’s suppressing the urge to punch a wall.

“Who are you to say that?”

“It’s the truth. I did nothing but poison your life.”

“You don’t get to decide what the truth is.”

“I’m sorry.” Baekjin says, this time less fiercely. “I’m sorry I’m so messed up. I’m sorry you met me. If only you’d gone to another middle school. If only I was never born—”

In some ways, Baekjin thinks Baku is going to hug him. To comfort him. But Baku doesn’t do that.

“You are pissing me the fuck off now,” he hisses instead. “You better not talk like that.”

His voice is nothing like before, and it strikes Baekjin. Baku’s love has never been a quiet one. It’s always been loud, firm like stone, grounded, big enough to give the illusion of eternity. Baekjin remembers it now: Baku’s love is not comfort itself. It’s a kind of love that puts you back on your feet, instead of embracing you on the ground.

Maybe because he knows that the world is hard, and difficult, and definitely not pretty. That you have to fight. That the moment you sink into those thoughts, the one about despair, you never recover. Maybe that’s what he saw in his father’s life. Maybe that’s what he doesn’t want to replicate. There are pits Baku had to crawl out of, with teeth and nails—but looking at his smile, it’s easy to forget that.

Baku knows you can’t simply stop to cry and beat yourself up. You have to counterattack. You have to clench your fists and back up. Baku’s strength is the kind of resilience you’re forced to wear because anything else would kill you. It’s similar to Baekjin’s.

“So what, hm? Were you trying to get yourself fucking killed or something? That’s why you want to get out of here?” he snaps. “You’re still alive, Baekjin. And as you’re alive, you fight back. Do you hear me? You have to fucking fight it back.”

His eyes are locked onto Baekjin’s. Baekjin feels filled by something dense, almost trance-like. There’s a force in Baku’s soul that can pull relentlessly.

“Baekjin-ah. I taught you how to fight back once. I’ll teach you again. And you’ll win.”

Baekjin knows he’s not talking about fists this time. He’s talking about another kind of survival. And it almost scares him, because it’s been a long time since he last thought about life.

“You will. You will.” Baku repeats—and it turns desperate. His voice cracks, “You will.”

After all, not even his force can hold forever. And then, tears pool in his eyes. Baekjin holds his breath.

“You will, Baekjin,” he says it again. “Everything is going to be okay, Baekjin… I’m here with you. Okay? Hm?” He sniffs, looks up at the ceiling trying to chase his tears away—but it’s too late. “So, I never want to hear that again. That you should’ve have met me. That you should’ve died. That you should’ve…” This one seems to shake him the most. He cries openly now, tears streaming down his cheeks, and Baekjin thinks that he wants to cry as well. But for some reason, he feels like he can’t.

Baku buries his face in the crook of Baekjin’s neck, perhaps to remind himself the comfort of knowing that it’s not true: that Baekjin exists, that he’s alive, that he knows him. “That you should’ve not being born.” Baku finishes the sentence, along with a sigh. “I don’t want to live in a world like that. Don’t make me live in a world like that.”

Baekjin is overwhelmed. He looks down at the crown of Baku’s hair, at his head rising and falling in hitching breaths. He can feel them against his skin, seeping into his bones, irregular and hot.

“I’m tired, Humin-ah,” he hears himself say, “I’m so tired, and I don’t want to hurt anymore. I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t have anywhere else to go, Humin. I only have you. Always had only you. And staying with you, I ruin your life. I don’t know how to love you without ruining you. And I’m tired. Trust me, I am tired too. I can’t do this anymore”, he sighs. “It’s too late for me.”

The words spill out of him, and he feels a weight pounding deep in his chest.

He senses Baku twitch against his neck. A louder sob from him. Wet tears on his skin.

But then, an almost violent grip shakes Baekjin’s shoulders. Baku’s face lifts abruptly, looking at Baekjin with such fierceness that he almost recoils from the intensity in his pupils.

“Yah, Na Baekjin,” Baku snaps. “We’ve played by your fucking rules until now. It’s time to play by mine. Understood? Now get the fuck up.”

He moves first, ripping the blankets away from Baekjin’s body, forcing him onto his feet. Baekjin puts all his strength into holding back any sound of lament, but his body hammers in protest. Blood vessels scream beneath his skin, like he has to relearn how to walk all over again.

And for a moment, he asks himself why Baku would be so harsh to him.

But then Baku grabs his hand in a firm grip and pulls him out of the room, throwing the door open.

“You said I’m the only one who ever cared about you?” Baku says, his voice edged with animosity now.

“I’m not the only one.”

He stops in the living room.

And there—sitting around the table, worried faces—are Seongje, Seongmok, Dongha, Sieun, Gotak, Juntae.

Baekjin stares at them in disbelief.

His heart pounds violently in his chest.

Baku’s grip tightens around his hand.

“You’re up,” someone says.

“You fucking scared us, man,” another voice adds.

“Are you okay, Baekjin?”

“Do you feel alright?”

“Can you talk?”

Have they been here all this time? Worried about him?

His eyes widen.

His chin wobbles.

And then he breaks.

He finally burst into tears. Standing in the middle of the living room just like a little kid, arms hanging down his sides, unguarded and vulnerable.

The sound that comes out of him is raw, like a child crying at that age where restraint doesn’t exist yet—and you cry all you have inside, guttural and desperate. He pours everything out. All the years of neglect. All the years he believed he was alone in the world. That no one could ever care for him. That he was worth less than spit on the ground. That people would dance on his grave.

He cries so hard and so loudly that he has to crouch down, folding in on himself. It’s a cry that doesn’t ask what comes next. For the first time in a long, long while, Baekjin can feel his body shatter in the moment, without thinking about how he’ll gather the pieces of his soul later. He lets himself crumble. Feel it all. Himself. The hands on his back, patting and holding him. The shadows stretching across the floor, caught in the moments when he opens his eyes between sobs. He doesn’t think about how pathetic he might look, or how he’ll ever be able to look these people in the eyes again.

Baku’s fingers wipe his tears, only for them to come back again. And again. And again. Baekjin hears his whispered words—about everything being okay. And Baekjin lets himself believe him. He lets himself exist; exist with all his flaws, with his deep sadness, his feelings of guilt, without pushing them away. And then, he lets himself hope for something better.

He doesn’t realize how it happens; how he falls asleep. He must have been exhausted.

Later, when the sun has fully set and no light filters into the house anymore, he wakes up in bed again. He’s sweating; it’s too warm. He blinks, disoriented, and then realizes why.

Everyone is there: bodies resting against one another in awkward positions. Dongha and Seongmok sit on the floor beside the bed, like guard dogs. In the corner next to them, Seongje’s head droops forward and jerks back up every so often; he will have such a sore neck tomorrow. Not too far, Gotak lies sprawled, hands tucked in the pocket of his hoodie. Sieun and Juntae are impossibly cramped at the edge of the bed, all curled up, weighing down Baekjin’s legs.

And Baku—Baku is wrapped around him, one heavy arm draped over his torso. It looks like an uncomfortable position. Like he only meant to stay for a moment and then fell asleep like that. Yet his face is peaceful, emptied of worry. He looks like he did when he was a kid—smooth forehead, cheek pressed creating a small mound of softness, a faint snore escaping his nose. He’s uncovered. Noticing it, Baekjin gently pulls the blanket up to Baku’s chin; then, he settles back down.

As he does, something pokes him under the pillow. He reaches for it and finds his phone.

The sudden brightness of the screen makes him squint. There’s a message from Seongje.

He opens it.

‘hey

sorry for taking your phone. the other day choi was calling you so i had to turn off your gps. we’re dealing with all of it rn. sieuns got a plan and the police will be involved in ways the gang can’t cover up. the newbie’s smart.

don’t worry. we don’t have to do that shit anymore.

and you know i’m not good with words, but i do care about you or whatever. we all do.’

A thread of shame and embarrassment tightens in Baekjin’s chest, and he’s on the verge of feeling sick over the vulnerability he showed earlier.

But everyone in this room is vulnerable right now.

He looks around one last time, wanting to burn the scene into his memory.

He has never felt such a sense of community before.

Maybe he can be better after all. Maybe he can feel better.

Maybe he can live.

Next time he wakes up, Baekjin is alone.

The imprint of Baku’s body is still visible on the sheets. Baekjin reluctantly undoes it, getting out of bed and standing up.

For a moment it’s awkward—he feels like a fawn learning to walk, all lanky and stiff. Something is clearly wrong, especially with his left leg. He tries to step, but it’s impossible without accusing a shot of pain with each movement.

Walking properly is impossible He decides to drag himself out of the bedroom. The floor is cold under his socks, and he already misses the coziness of the bed. That thought scares him a bit; it’s not like he can allow himself to soften up.

But for now, the mission is just to get to the bathroom.

He can do that.

Baku’s house is small. Baekjin knows it by heart. Last time he visited, they were still in middle school, but over the years he replayed every detail he could remember, over and over, just to keep the memory from fading.

Not much has changed. The furniture is still the same. The empty bottles of soju, too. Even the flower-patterned curtains. Only some objects are new, or more worn, and the clothes on the hangers are much bigger now.

Baekjin aims for the bathroom—but it’s quite obvious he’s meant to run into Baku on the way.

There he is, hanging the laundry on the drying rack. He’s whistling some rhythm and jolts when he notices Baekjin beside him.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says with a smiles, “Scared me. How are we feeling, sleeping beauty?”

Baekjin looks at him for a few seconds—long enough for Baku to glance up again from the laundry.

“What? Are you about to tell me you’re plotting your escape?”

Baekjin shrugs. “Just going to the bathroom,” he says, and proceeds with his mission.

Now that Baku is watching him, he tries to walk more normally, pressing his lips together in the effort of forcing weight onto his left foot.

“Just taking a piss, right? Not jumping out the window,” Baku laughs. Baekjin thinks it’s not even funny. “Your towels are the black ones. Oh, toothbrush too.”

Baku really thought this through.

Baekjin closes the bathroom door behind him, leaning against it for a moment. Even the bathroom is exactly as he remembers it. He used to peek inside that cabinet, and back then it felt like it was the worst thing he could do, just to get another glimpse of his friend’s intimate life. The life that lies behind everyday objects; those are the things that maybe define you the most, and yet the ones the easiest to overlook.

He had memorized the brand names of Baku’s shower gel, hand soap, toothpaste. Even if it wasn’t that relevant, because—he came to realize—they used to change very often. Baku’s dad would simply buy what was on sale that week.

Baekjin had expected that detail to be upsetting; the lack of anything consistent. But it wasn’t. In a strange way, it worked in his favor. The different scents allowed him to separate what was artificial from what wasn’t. To understand what could change, and what never would, on his skin. To isolate Baku’s core scent.

He shakes the thought away.

And well, he does take the piss.

Then, he washes his hand, his face, the back of his neck, brushes his teeth. The water feels refreshing. He should take a shower, but he isn’t even sure he’d be able to scrub his back with that aching shoulder.

He looks at himself in the mirror.

He’s met with a pair of odd eyes—tired, but not exhausted. And his complexion is not that bad either, aside from a constellation of bruises. Maybe it’s because Baku took such good care of him, but he doesn’t look miserable at all.

That’s not the face of a boy who was contemplating death just a few days ago.

He notices the bandages on his hands have been replaced with new ones, too. He must have slept like a rock, because he never once felt Baku doing any of this.

He exhales, feeling a pang beneath his ribs. Not a physical one.

He looks around, searching for towels.

“Humin,” he calls, raising his voice, “Where did you say the towels are?”

No answer comes.

“Humin,” Baekjin repeats, taking a step towards the door—and that’s when it opens.

Baku bumps into him, clearly not expecting Baekjin to be standing so close to the door. Baekjin startles, flushing red for some reason.

“Here—behind you,” Baku says, making things worse by not only not stepping back, but instead leaning in to grab the towels from behind Baekjin.

Baekjin finds himself pressed against Baku’s chest, and his brain short-circuits for a second.

Then Baku steps back and hands him the towels.

They’re on a decent distance again.

Baekjin takes them, feeling like he should say something. Something that maybe shouldn’t be this babbled: “What about knocking? What if I was naked, hm?” …that’s the only thing that comes to mind, apparently.

Baku laughs. “Who do you think undressed you the other day? I even know what underwear you’re wearing.”

Fuck, Baekjin thinks.

“Well, I know because it’s mine,” Baku clarifies.

Fuck.

“And because I had to put it on you.”

Holy fuck.

How can each word make it worse?

The realization hits Baekjin all at once. Bright rex boxers. Definitely not his. Definitely not something he’d choose—especially not for a goddamn final calls to arms. He doesn’t remember what he wore the day of the fight, but it wasn’t this. Nor the sweatpants. Nor the hoodie. Those are so comfortable, the fabric so soft. He wonders if Baku picked the coziest ones on purpose. Likely thing for him to do.

“Besides, you’re fully dressed, aren’t you. You just want a reason to scold me,” Baku adds, and moves past Baekjin to grab something else. He doesn’t notice the mess of a blush he caused on Baekjin’s face, thank god.

Baekjin has no idea of what to do with himself. He just dries his hands on the towels; seems like the most logical thing to do, and somehow also the most stupid one.

“The others,” he says finally, “They’re all gone?”

“Mhm,” Baku confirms in a hum. “You slept a lot. They’ll be back later, though. Need anything? Seongje told me he’d stop at the grocery shop to buy chocolate for you. Cute, right?”

Baekjin just blinks.

“I guess,” he replies, even if the word cute has never come to mind in association with Seongje before.

“I made a fool of myself yesterday, didn’t I.” It doesn’t even sound like a question, as it escapes Baekjin before he can take it back.

“You didn’t,” Baku’s voice comes quickly, gentle but firm. “I was wondering when the fuck you’d finally cry. I’ve cried all my tears these days, and not even one from you? Doesn’t sit right with me.” He turns around to gently pinch Baekjin’s cheek. “Come here,” he says, “Let me put some ointment on your bruises.”

“I can do it myself,” Baekjin mutters—yet he steps closer anyway, as if pulled by an invisible string that just tugged claiming from the other side.

“Mhm, I’m aware,” Baku scoffs. “Here, sit.” He nods toward the washing machine.

Baekjin briefly wonders why they can’t do this somewhere normal, like maybe on a damn chair. But the inner protest has short life inside his synapses.

Baku clears some space on top of the washing machine, moving aside shaving foam and deodorant bottles. Baekjin obeys—he’s still dazed, after all, and following some orders can even feel good right now—propping himself up with his palms on the cool metal surface.

And he suddenly feels Baku’s hands on his waist, helping him up. It’s a touch so unprompted, and placed somewhere so delicate, somewhere no one else would ever lay a finger, that Baekjin emits a small peep. He doesn’t even have time to register the shape of those hands before he’s already longing for them again, because Baku pulls away as he steps between Baekjin’s legs to face him.

The whole room feels like it’s spinning; maybe because the closeness is too much all at once, or maybe because Baekjin’s body is starting to protest the movement.

“You should complement how strong I am,” Baku says lightly. “These are some fucking good punches right here.”

He’s referring to the violaceous bruises he’s about to tend to. Well—yes, almost all of them came from him. Some from Sieun. No one else got close enough during the fight.

Baekjin looks down, observing how Baku handles the ointment tin, dipping his pinky into the thick cream to collect a dot of it.

“So?” Baku insists.

“Well,” Baekjin replies, half in annoyance, half in tease. “Thank you for beating me up so good. I was not the one who got knocked out first, though.”

Baku lifts his pinky to Baekjin’s face. The cuts along his upper cheek have already begun to heal, and Baku made sure they wouldn’t get infected. He spreads the small amount of ointment, then dabs it with his thumb.

Baekjin’s eyelids fall halfway shut, indulging in the touch. He doesn’t move. He simply enjoys it.

Baku’s hand slides down to his chin, repeating the process, and then to his nose. He collects another bit of cream, before finally settling on Baekjin’s lower lip, where a wound the size of a pomegranate seed colors it reddish.

“Right,” Baku exhales with the sound of a smile.

Baekjin reopens his eyes, glares over Baku’s.

Baku’s gaze is fixed on Baekjin’s mouth, and even though it’s only to apply the ointment, Baekjin feels his heart do a somersault.

“I played dirty,” Baku admits.

Yes. Baku always plays dirty.

Baekjin wonders if he even knows. Because one shouldn’t be allowed to walk the earth like this; a big boy with wide shoulders you can lean on, a soul so pure it hurts to love, and that laugh of his, deep and golden just like honey. That’s playing dirty, too. Even his stupid bangs fall into the shape of a heart.

Dirty, dirty, dirty.

How was Baekjin supposed not to fall in love?

He sighs. “I don’t care now.”

Baku finishes his operation, closes the ointment tin, and meets his eyes. “All done,” he says.“Now let’s redo the bandages.”

The bandages that wrap his shoulder and knee?

Baekjin sighs again. “You’ve got bruises on your face too,” he points out.

Baku shrugs. “Don’t worry. I barely feel them.” Then he tugs gently at Baekjin’s hoodie. “Arms up.”

A third sigh escapes Baekjin, but he lifts his arms anyway. A sharp pain shoots through his shoulder as it rotates, and he hardly quells a sound.

Baku is quick to free him from the piece of clothing.

“You felt that, hm?” He says quietly. Guilt flashes through his eyes as he looks at the bandage, finding it darkened with dried blood. He unwraps it with practiced hands, exposing the skin beneath. Then he tosses the used bandage on the floor, and reaches for a new one.

Baekjin’s shoulder corrals purple and greenish edges. Tiny beads of blood exudes from the most abused areas; Baku presses gauze to them. And even if he’s gentle, Baekjin hisses in pain—impulsively clutching Baku’s shirt.

“It’s okay,” Baku murmurs calmly, despite his eyes telling a story of discomposure. “It will only take a moment.”

He pours disinfectant onto cotton pads and taps carefully on the injury. He notices goosebumps in Baekjin’s skin, the flesh tightening under his touch. One tap. Two. Three. Four…

By the tenth, something warm lands on Baku’s hand.

A tear.

He can’t hold them back. A silent cry slides down his cheeks.

Because he did this. He caused this pain. And he can’t even take Baekjin to the hospital or call a doctor. All he can do is hope—hope Baekjin’s body heals properly.

Still, it hurts unbearably.

Baekjin is so unguarded now. So vulnerable. He’s just like Baku’s childhood friend. Just like Baekjinnie. Just like him.

And Baku would never have hurt Baekjinnie like this.

But he did.

Then he feels a touch on his cheek.

It’s Baekjinnie, simply drying off the tears. Not saying a word.

Baku nods at nothing, sniffs, and finishes cleaning the wound. He wraps the new bandage around Baekjin’s torso in careful loops, tightening to secure it. More tears fall as he works.

When he’s done, he stays still, almost frozen, fingers still gripping the hem of the bandage.

Baekjin waits a moment. Then tries to catch Baku’s attention by brushing his leg lightly against Baku’s.

Baku seems to come back to himself. He looks up. His eyes are red and translucent.

“Hey,” it’s Baekjin’s turn to be gentle now. He cups Baku’s cheek.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Baku chokes out, lowering his head onto Baekjin’s shoulder in a mindless movement—still instinctively careful, to not hit any wound. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

Baekjin exhales a short breath. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “Humin, hey,” calls out for him, “Stop crying. You’ve cried enough already. Don’t make me just guilt in your life. Please. I don’t want to be that. Not anymore.” It’s a whisper, but it carries years of regret. He wraps his legs loosely around Baku, to pull him closer.

Feeling Baku’s shaky breath against his bare skin makes Baekjin tremble. A wave of fondness drowns him so hard he thinks he might die on the spot. He never let himself imagine this—being this close again—touching him, feeling him, threading his fingers through Baku’s hair as the sobs grow rougher.

He tries to lull him into calmness. Patiently, until minute by minute it works.

If anyone walked in now, they’d surely misunderstand.

But the truth is, Baekjin—the Baekjin who hates being touched, who keeps everyone at arm’s length—is in his natural habitat now. He’s always felt his hands belonged to Baku. His whole self did.

So caressing him, even wrapping legs around him, doesn’t feel like something Baekjin should second-guess. He doesn’t guess it not even a first time; it’s instinctive and unfeigned. It’s like his body moves on its own, following ancient rules.

Only when Baku pulls back does Baekjin realize how intimate it might look.

Baku’s eyes are still wet, his cheeks red, nose sniffing, lips trembling slightly.

And Baekjin thinks how easy it would be just to kiss him now.

And that, that’s a thought he shouldn’t be having.

He’s shoved similar desires before, hiding them inside a drawer and throwing away the key. But it’s a waste of his efforts, because those desires cannot be kept confined. They are made of weightless material; they can slither away from the drawer, slipping through cracks.

“You’re not just guilt,” Baku says suddenly, answering words spoken minutes ago. He must have been replaying them over and over. “You are everything.” His voice turns shy at the end as he dries his runny nose on the sleeve of his shirt.

 Everything, Baekjin echoes to himself.

What does it mean? The presence of guilt, the absence of guilt, and every other human emotion in between? He’s not sure, but it doesn’t sound bad. It sounds achingly similar to what he himself feels.

He loosens his legs, heels touching the washing machine again.

Baku steadies himself and checks the bandage one last time, then helps Baekjin back into the hoodie.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, a tint of embarrassment lingering in his voice; traces of tears of his tears still glistening in his cheeks despite now dry eyes.

Baekjin’s face retorts in a pinch of pain, but still he says, “No, don’t worry.”

Baku looks up, wearing an expression that feels familiar: it’s the one he has when he hears something stupid.

Baekjin stirs a little to readjust the hoodie, and then something unexpected happens—his vision darkens all of a sudden, and not because of dizziness, but because of… a towel. Thrown over his head. Baku just covered both their heads with it.

“What—” Baekjin begins to ask, but Baku talks over him.

“You know the rules,” he says with complete seriousness.

“The rules of what?”

“The rules of the blanket.”

Baekjin blinks.

The blanket game—it’s something they used to do when they were younger.

How come Baku is digging this up now?

“But this isn’t a blanket,” Baekjin objects. “You’re going against rule number one.”

Baku stares at him with intention and intensity—that one stare Baekjin has never seen anyone else capable of. It strips him of all his coldness.

“Doesn’t matter,” Baku cuts it short. “In case of emergency, anything can be a blanket. So, you know the rules. I’ll ask again: does it hurt?”

The disbelief in Baekjin’s face doesn’t fade away; on the contrary, it deepens.

But he feels warm inside. The blanket game—who could have ever imagined he’d live a day to play it again? It’s such a relief to know he’s not the only one to carry these memories within. His heart never truly surrendered to doubt, but his mind has been ceaselessly offering cruel scenarios, telling him he would be the one buried with their childhood, that Baku had let go of it a long time ago.

Instead, Baku just handed him proof that it isn’t true.

The blanket game was invented when they were eleven years old. It was on that occasion that Baku admitted for the first time that his father would beat him at home. The rules were simple: you cover both players under a blanket, and as long as you’re in that territory, you’re not allowed to tell any lies. You can only tell the truth. Over time, Baku and Baekjin used it as a device to say the most painful truths out loud. It was easier that way, like being under a spell that knew no shame.

Under the towel, Baku seems even closer. Baekjin looks at him from a couple of centimeters higher. His eyes grow accustomed to the dimmed light, and he realizes he really has to tell the truth this time around. If he doesn’t comply, he will forever ruin something that was built on the shells of their shared fragility.

He’s been ignoring the question since he woke up in Baku’s bedroom. But the answer is obvious, and it’s affirmative. He knuckles under the weight of it and quietly hums, “Yes.”

“A lot?”

“A lot.”

Baku stares at him for quite a while. “I’ll give you another medicine.”

“And you, are you hurting?”

“No, I swear.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

“And here…?” Baekjin asks in a brittle voice, opening his palm over Baku’s chest.

Baku lowers his gaze, as to check what’s happening beneath the spot Baekjin is touching. He swallows.

“There, yes.”

“A lot?”

“A lot.”

Baekjin swallows too. “What can I do to make it better?”

“Just stay here with me.”

“Okay.”

“Hm.”

Time passes, with neither of them moving or saying a word.

Then, Baku brings his hand to the boy’s. “Baekjin, you’ve grown so much over the years. You’re taller than me,” he says, taking his hand and studying it, then laying palm against palm. “Your hands are bigger than mine. And you’ve always been pretty, but now you’re even prettier.”

“Pretty?” Baekjin scoffs at the sound of that word.

“Yeah. Pretty.” Baku, instead, is dead serious.

Baekjin lets their hands slide slightly, filling the empty space between Baku’s finger with his own. Now they’re holding hands.

“I love you,” he says quietly. It amazes even him that he said it—and that he said it like this, like something so easy that holds no consequences. Like something that stands alone against the mechanisms of the world. Like a breath, like a heartbeat.

“I love you too,” Baku replies, and it sounds the same way. A truth you can beat, abuse, mishandle, even misread—but that still doesn’t falter. Precious and untouchable. Stripped bare of all their problems, of all the mistakes they still have to forgive. Things like this are rare in our world. They’re made of the same fabric as flowers, and stars, and lighthouses that guide you home.

I love you. I love you too.

As simple as that.

Baekjin trembles quietly, almost closing his eyes.

“Mud and waffles?” he asks tentatively. He feels like taking the final step toward the edge.

But when he falls down the precipice, Baku catches him; the answer comes so fast and unquestioning that it leaves Baekjin in marvel. “Mud and waffles.”

So Baku really remembers everything.

Even the mud and waffles part.

“When you say ‘I love you’, what do you mean?”

“That I love you. What else could it mean?”

“But… how?”

“I don’t know, with my heart.”

“You always do, or do you only when you say it?”

“I always do! I can’t say it all the time. If I had to say it each time I love you, I’d have to tell you every second... Now, and now, and now, and now…”

“But you were angry at me earlier.”

“Yeah, that was just a fight. I’ve already forgiven you.”

“And you loved me even when you were angry at me?”

“Yes, of course. It’s not like I can stop it.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t love me?”

“Yes, I do. Very much so.”

“Thanks!”

“That’s not something you say thanks for.”

“I guess.”

“So, since you love me even when you’re angry at me and vice versa, we should make that clear.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know… like, I love you when the weather is good, but also when it’s bad. So you shouldn’t forget that.”

“When the weather is bad.”

“Mhm.”

“When the weather is bad, we can still jump in puddles.”

“So, I love you even when we’re covered in mud.”

“Haha. Even in mud. I like that.”

“And then, I love you when everything’s fine as well.”

“Mud and waffles.”

“Waffles?”

“Yes! Something bad, and something sweet.”

“Alright then. Mud and waffles.”

The memory makes Baekjin tear up a bit. Baku is moved too, visibly so. He reaches for Baekjin, and kisses him on the temple. Because there’s been a lot of mud lately. And maybe he’s forgotten how to jump in puddles. But now they’re sitting on the sidewalk, the sun is coming back, and they can get themselves clean. They can even have some waffles. So he kisses his temple, and again, and again and again; kisses made humid by his tears, a bit fevered and overwrought. Baekjin lets Baku do as he pleases, closing his eyes, head slightly rocked by the pressure of the kisses, which somehow grow a little manic.

Baku traces his mouth from Baekjin’s temple to his forehead, kisses it as well. Then he does the other temple, the cheeks, one earlobe, even the hairline. He’s a bit possessed. As if he has opened the cage of something dangerous. He kisses, and kisses, and kisses.

He feels like he can’t contain all the love inside—all this love he has for Baekjin. It rattles against his ribs, and Baku doesn’t really know what to do. Has no idea. He’s short of breath, when he realigns himself with Baekjin’s face.

He rubs the tips of their noses together, in an Eskimo kiss.

Baekjin lets him do whatever he wants.

Jesus Christ, Baku loves him so much he feels crazy. What does he do? What can he do? He feels like he’s going to explode.

It’s his body that knows how to resolve the problem. It takes over.

It pushes him toward Baekjin’s lips. And there, Baku kisses them too.

It’s an unleashed kiss. A kiss that says: now or never, however it goes.

And then, when Baekjin doesn’t stop him, other kisses are released from Baku’s heart, along with sighs. Some are more pressing, some are so soft, flesh and nothing else, flesh pushed upward to rejoin their home. For a moment he tastes the bitter ointment on him, but soon rinses it away with his own drool.

And then—Baekjin returns the kisses, teeth grazing, a tremor running through his bones. Baku might as well be in heaven. Baku kisses, and kisses, and kisses. Baekjin kisses back, and kisses back, and rewrites the entire meaning of desire.

His lips become the keeper of all Baku’s delirium: the state of being so madly in love that you can’t escape it, a feeling that turns you a little violent because you don’t know how to express it in a way that satisfies you, in a way that can truly unravel the sensation of having your guts all screwed up.

He finally stops, letting out a throaty wail. “Fuck,” he grits through his teeth, under his breath, rubbing his forehead against Baekjin’s, unable to contain all the immensity he feels. Running miles and miles without ever stopping would make him less thirsty than he is now, no matter how much he drinks of Baekjin’s mouth.

They’re still so close, their breaths entangled, colliding from their parted lips. Baku is deeply drunk, and wild; but so is Baekjin. He throws his hands over Baku’s shoulder, pulls him impossibly closer, wandering over his back, his neck, his arms. “Ah—” he releases, feeling ravaged just from taking a few touches for himself, and then it’s his turn to capture Baku’s mouth in a clashing rapture, demanding it open, searching for his tongue, filling him with saliva, moaning between tilts of their heads. Sometimes they stop to give one kiss that’s pure alleviation, mouths agape and loosen, covering the entirety of the other’s lips; then they start over with nonsensical exchanges of spit and steam; then they calibrate into something more disciplined, not only pure senses and takeovers, but then again they drift into being dominate by the rawness of their desire, vinous seeds of everything feral.

It feels like the ending of something; it feels like the beginning of something.

It feels like something they should have done a long time ago, and is now exploding in irrepressible ways. Baku drowning in flows of licks, and leaks, and emotions, locking Baekjin inside the strength of his arms and his hugs; Baekjin rolling his hips, pouring himself onto Baku as if it’s a matter of life and death, and he’s choosing a lethal life, passion echoing in moans. It’s pure ecstasy, fueling each other, electrifying all their conscious edges until there is nothing left but taking, giving, giving, taking, and loving, loving so much.

They stop only when a shock comes from beneath. Baekjin gasps. It’s the washing machine. It got accidentally turned on by their frantic movements.

They laugh quietly, a mess of glistening drool. Baku turns the machine off. Then he looks at Baekjin, recognizing in his eyes the same craving that possesses him, signaling that they’re nowhere near done.

But he restrains that madness by laying his head on the crook of Baekjin’s neck, at least for a moment. The towel has long since fallen off.

He finds himself saying a crazy sentence, blurted out from the deepest jurisdiction of his beating heart: “Wanna be my boyfriend?”

Baekjin is petting Baku’s scalp, and tenses up in surprise. He then scoffs, and Baku thinks that hearing him smile out loud is the best thing ever. “I thought we just restarted to be friends,” Baekjin teases.

“I never stopped being your friend,” Baku simply says. “You’ve been my best friend all this time.”

Baekjin hums, as if reflecting on something. “That’s the same for me.”

“So you just want to be my best friend, nothing else?”

“No, I want to be your boyfriend as well.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Baku lifts his head up and looks at him.

“Okay. Then I have something to say to my best friend. You know, today I kissed the boy I like. And guess what? He kissed me back.”

Baekjin chuckles. “Did you like it?”

“Oh, yes. His lips were so soft, and he smelled so good that I thought I was going to faint, or maybe die, because of how much I liked it. I wanted the whole universe to smell like him because it’s just so good.”

“Ew,” Baekjin says, giggling and digging his fingers deeper into Baku’s nape. “You don’t say such gross things between friends.”

Baku joins in the laughter. “You’re right. Let’s say it was just okay, then.”

“Hm, that’s better. You think you’re going to do it again?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He closes off the distance to kiss him once more. “I did it again just now.” And one more. “And now.” And one more again. “And now, and now, and now.”

Later, the others are at home as well. They all have dinner together. Some of them are so damn loud that Baekjin doesn’t need to try to keep the conversation going, nor does he feel like he should say anything when he has nothing to say. He’s squeezed between Seongmok and Dongha because the table is small and they have to huddle together.

Seongje really did bring him chocolate. He eats it after having already brushed his teeth, so he has to go to the bathroom and brush them again. He looks at the washing machine and shivers.

After dinner, they play some stupid card game, and he loses on the second turn already. Sieun makes fun of him and his big brain in a teasing way, but gets eliminated from the game the very next turn and receives the laughter of everyone. When the two of them sit a little away from the table, Baekjin tells him that he’s glad his friend Ahn Suho is awake again. That he wouldn’t have actually hurt some kid in a coma—it was just a bluff. Sieun smiles with only a corner of his lips and says, “You should meet him sometime.”

It feels nice.

When Baekjin grows tired, Baku suggests he should go to sleep.

He lets Baku drive him to the bedroom and tuck him underneath the blankets.

It’s so comfortable and cozy.

Baku caresses his hair away from his forehead. “You’re very cute when you’re sleepy.”

Baekjin weakly smiles, already half-unconscious. The words don’t reach him; only the sensation does.

He feels like a doll being filled again with wool; like his limbs are being unstitched, wool being put inside, and then sewn back up. He feels like he’s regained his own soul, like Baku put it into him and made him whole again.

The sound of Baku voice drifts to him, like a distant memory.

“I taught you the wrong things,” Baku whispers. “I’m sorry. I’ll teach you the right ones now.”

‘Na Baekjin.’

“Baekjin-ah.”

‘Are you alright?’

“You’re alright.”

‘Hold your fists tight.’

“Relax your body.”

‘Don’t turn your eyes.’

“Close your eyes.”

A kiss on the cheek.

“Goodnight.”