Archive of Our Own ^beta

He stares at Han Joowon’s retreating back as responsibility calls the man away and wonders, briefly, if he’ll ever see him again and on whose invitation it’ll be.

Eight hours later, when everyone’s sharing stories and getting drunk on combined soju and makgeolli at the porch of Dongsik’s lake house, a familiar SUV pulls up and Dongsik blinks in case he’s seeing things.

In the subsequent seconds, Han Joowon steps out of the vehicle and Dongsik turns to Jihwa for an explanation.

“It’s still Chief Nam’s death anniversary,” she says, cheeks tinged with pink because of the alcohol. “Wasn’t me who texted him this time, Dongsik-ah, but isn’t he welcome to return anyway?”

Dongsik doesn’t respond, instead heads down the steps to meet Han Joowon halfway, whose dark eyes immediately seek his. Dongsik gives him a once-over, a smile already on his face. He can’t deny being happy to see him again, and so soon.

“Did you find whoever went missing?” he asks, because it’s quite late and Dongsik has drunk enough that the pleasantries leave him.

Han Joowon averts his gaze to give a perfunctory nod of acknowledgment to the direction of Dongsik’s porch. Kang Dosoo is already waving him over, rambling about the Avengers of Munju being finally complete, and Dongsik laughs.

Joowon turns to him. “Yes,” he says finally. “The ahjumma was fine. As soon as I dropped her off at their house, I drove back.”

Dongsik is not that drunk to not notice something odd. Han Joowon being in a hurry to return here feels out of place; this is Han Joowon, after all. In Busan, he was adamant that he disdained social gatherings and relationships, but perhaps the year of absence didn’t only change his once-severe features and turned them softer. Something inside him must’ve thawed as well, seeking warmth and company as soon as he forgave himself.

Dongsik finds that he prefers this. It’s a good look on Joowon—cheeks less gaunt and the bags under his eyes less obvious. Still, he can’t help himself.

“Why the hurry?” he asks, out of genuine curiosity. “It’s not like everyone would’ve gone home; they all imposed themselves on me.” He shrugs. “I think Jaeyi’s the only one heading back; it’s why she’s not drinking anything. The rest are off-duty tomorrow so it’s all good.”

He’s rambling, something he realizes belatedly. The alcohol is partially to blame; he talked so much to fill the silence because all Joowon’s been doing so far is simply looking at him and his gut is starting to feel funny.

He’s too old for this.

“I forgot to do something,” Joowon says decisively, and something in his tone makes Dongsik face him once more.

“Must be important, then,” he says in a lower timbre that the ruckus from his porch drowns out the words. But it compels Joowon to move closer so that whatever space there was between them is now greatly lessened.

“Very,” Joowon says, stepping to his left. This way, his back is all the view everyone who might be watching them can see. “I forgot to do this.”

He’s in Dongsik’s space in the next moment, one hand finding his nape and the other curling around his waist, tugging him closer. It’s all Dongsik registers before instinct kicks in.

“I taste like budae jjigae,” he manages in the incremental space between their mouths. It’s what they had even for dinner in memory of the late Chief. He’s glad Joowon’s holding him; he feels like floating. He can’t hear anything else—everyone’s voices have been tuned out, even the night winds quelled and the lake is still.

There’s a small smile playing on Joowon’s lips, and Dongsik somehow knows what he’s about to say.

“I like it,” he whispers, and Dongsik takes his next breath against a hot, enticing mouth.

Dongsik has kissed a lot of people in the past—some on a dare when he was younger and more drunk than he is now—but this is probably the softest kiss he’s ever received in his life. It’s tender and sweet, hesitant but undeniably fitting for someone like Han Joowon; he likely never kissed anyone before this.

Which makes Dongsik somehow feel bad, because he does taste a little like soju and makgeolli as well, and someone as fancy as Han Joowon doesn’t seem fond of sampling those off someone’s mouth. But he’s the one pulling Dongsik closer, sighing against his lips, and it’s all Dongsik can take.

His fingers find the lapels of Joowon’s coat, craning his neck to feel more, shivering at the pleased noise he elicits from Joowon.

Someone whistles—Jihoon, probably, and Dongsik’s already plotting to throttle him once he gets back—and it’s what sends Joowon withdrawing, waiting for him with a dazed stare once Dongsik opens his eyes.

He has to swallow past whatever lodged itself in his throat before he can speak. “You forgot to do that?” comes out breathless.

“Among many other things,” is Joowon’s reply, voice deeper and rougher than usual that it takes all of Dongsik’s self-control not to yank him back.

“Do you want to stay, Inspector Han?” he asks, licking his lips to feign indifference at the answer. A kiss like that after a year of absence—he’s not equipped for this. Since when did the cheeky prince become so bold?

Since always, his mind supplies as it feeds him memories upon memories of Han Joowon breaking and entering in his house, even pointing a gun at him on one occasion. Presumptuous, pretty flower.

“We can dunk Jihoon in the lake together when everyone’s asleep,” he offers, and the uptick of the corner of Joowon’s mouth is so inviting that he leans in to whisper his next words against it. “I think it was him who whistled.”

“I think it was Senior Inspector Hwang,” Joowon says. Then: “Do you want me to stay?”

The hesitation is palpable, the fear of rejection somewhat evident in his eyes before he blinks it away, replacing it with masked nonchalance. Dongsik staggers at the sight of it; his former partner once hated being as obvious as this. Now, he shows it so openly.

“You can’t kiss me like that and not stay,” he tells Joowon, enjoying the sight of him flushing. “Unless it doesn’t mean anything?”

Joowon is yet to let him go, thumb stroking the angle of his jaw. He seems contemplative only for a moment.

“I want it to mean something,” Joowon says in the end, with undeniable determination that has Dongsik smiling. “But only if you do, too, of course.”

Dongsik inclines his head, studying his handsome face. He knows this Joowon: impulsive but resolute. He’s always been the type who acted first and minded the consequences later. But he faced whatever the consequence was head-on. Of the two of them, Dongsik thinks it makes Joowon the crazier one, but Dongsik likes pretending he’s still the bigger nutcase.

“It’ll mean something if you stay,” Dongsik tells him, letting his hands drop to their sides, and Joowon takes a second before following. But he doesn’t stray far, still standing in Dongsik’s space and occupying most of it.

“I’ll stay,” he affirms eventually, and Dongsik’s response is taking his hand and leading him to where the others have been waiting for too long, towards found family and fond memories.

There’s a beat of collective silence once they reach the others, something Jihwa breaks by lifting her shot glass wordlessly, her meaningful smile directed at him. It causes the others to follow suit—an impromptu toast in their honor, and amidst the claps to their backs, the word Dongsik hears the most is finally.

He catches Joowon’s gaze beside him and squeezes their joined hands once, in reassurance and question, and Joowon gives him a small, pleased smile and nods.

For now, it suffices.

——

Sometime in the middle of the night, when everyone’s asleep and Han Joowon is a curled pile of blankets in his room, he finds Jihwa in the kitchen, taking a generous sip of water from the tap.

When their eyes meet, she waves a finger at him. “All that talk of him not being your type; look at you now.”

“You’re still drunk,” Dongsik says, grabbing a glass of water for himself. “In my defense, I’m mostly full of shit. I don’t know why you took me seriously at that time.”

“I never did,” Jihwa declares proudly. “The first time I met him, I thought he was a stuck-up, well-connected rich brat who was unfortunately paired with someone like you.”

Dongsik weighs those words and finds that they’re not baseless accusations. “And now? What do you think of him?”

“Less stuck-up, less well-connected,” Jihwa says. The consensus goes unsaid: good riddance. “And absolutely your type, you liar.”

Dongsik laughs, keeping it hushed to avoid waking those who are sleeping on the couch and in the adjacent living room. “I don’t even know what my type is,” he says, just to be annoying.

“I’ll tell you then,” Jihwa whispers, fingers beckoning him to move closer, like this is some secret they’ll share. Dongsik does, playing along, and she says, “You like those who look like they need somebody to take care of them.”

Dongsik balks, but Jihwa continues, “You’ve been like this since we were kids. You always gravitate to those who look like they need you to look after them; thank the heavens you don’t have the same criteria for friends or I won’t be here.”

The retort dies in his mouth when he backtracks and realizes that Jihwa has made multiple points. Park Jeongje, though it pains Dongsik to remember him now, falls under the same type. And Dongsik may have loved him then, when they were younger and spent their days idling in their hideout and learning how to play numerous rock songs on the guitar.

He wasn’t as subtle as he thought if Jihwa noticed. It was Sangyeob after Jeongje, and Dongsik may have realized that one too late—he was blinded by vengeance and rage to even see it for what it really was.

And now, Han Joowon. Unraveling a twenty-year old mystery and bringing criminals to justice took priority, but with all of that behind them, all they needed was a year apart to realize that there’s no other way for them but to move forward together.

Dongsik shuts his eyes, tilting his head to concede. “For the record, I never liked Jihoon that way.”

“I would’ve killed you if you did,” Jihwa says sweetly. “But that’s how you like them, really. And there’s something about these people that they go starry-eyed at you the moment you start looking after them.” Jihwa gives him a stern look. “Even Jihoon does this sometimes. I wonder what they see.”

“We can ask Han Joowon in the other room,” Dongsik offers.

Jihwa blinks, as if remembering something. Then she elbows him hard on the ribs. “Get back in there, Dongsik, before he starts thinking that you left him to sleep on a bed alone.”

“I feel like we’re rushing this,” Dongsik confesses as he sets the glass on the sink. “It’s not even twenty-four hours and we’re already sleeping on the same bed.”

“This is going too fast for you? After everything you two went through, I’m surprised it took this long,” Jihwa tells him. “Leave the glasses; I’ll wash them. Go get some sleep.”

“Am I the only one who’s still a little shocked?” he asks as he heads back towards his room, where Joowon, hopefully, remains asleep and unaware.

“Yes,” Jihwa says with a smirk. “I watched you two dance around each other for months when he still worked here. Imagine what Jihoon has told me since he directly worked with the both of you.”

“If you lose a brother sometime in the night, let me get a lawyer first,” Dongsik warns, and it earns Jihwa’s laugh.

Then she turns serious, directing a knowing smile at him. “Seriously, Dongsik. Don’t overthink this. It does feel right, doesn’t it?”

Dongsik’s hand is on the doorknob and he twists it to reveal Han Joowon’s slumbering form on his bed: peaceful, warm, and inviting.

“Yes,” he admits, catching Jihwa’s gaze. “It does.”

At dawn, Dongsik wakes next to a Han Joowon whose hair is mussed from sleep, an oversized nest that makes him look gentler as sunlight seeps past the curtains, bathing half of his face in an orange, ethereal glow.

Dongsik takes it all in, mesmerized and hopelessly charmed, and kisses him a good morning.

——

They talk about it when they’re on the road back to Manyang, with Joowon driving and Dongsik sitting in the passenger’s side.

“Usually,” Dongsik begins, choosing his next words with care, “people send texts and go out on dates before the first kiss.”

Joowon’s grip tightening fractionally on the steering wheel doesn’t escape his notice. “Usually?”

Dongsik looks at him knowingly. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“Will that be an issue?” Joowon asks back, and Dongsik sees him sitting a little straighter, as if he’s guarding himself against the answer.

“I didn’t say it’ll be,” Dongsik tells him. “We may have gotten the order wrong, but it’s fine, we can catch up on anything we missed.”

“How many?” Joowon asks this time.

Dongsik frowns, a little confused. “How many what?”

“You said people usually go out on dates before the first kiss,” Joowon says, eyes still on the road. “How many dates does it usually take?”

Dongsik thinks he’s the wrong person to ask. He’s never dated anyone before. Never had the time to, and whatever kisses he may have shared with a few people were mostly drunken ones done to momentarily alleviate whatever burdens he carried by himself back then. Flings that he never called back and saw again, faces he has long forgotten.

“You know what, it depends,” Dongsik says after a moment of consideration. “Sometimes it takes just one, or three.” He gestures between them. “Or none at all, it seems.”

“We had three,” Joowon says, and Dongsik’s glad he’s not the one driving, because he would’ve stepped on the brakes. “We even had one in my apartment.”

Dongsik can’t help chuckling at that; the memory feels so long ago. “One in Busan, one at your place, and one where we finally ate together.” His eyes narrow. “How long did it take for you to realize that those qualified as dates?”

“This long,” Joowon says, and it’s so honest that Dongsik pauses. “I’ve stayed away for too long. I’m sorry.”

Dongsik has had enough of apologies, of misplaced atonement that Han Joowon, of all people, shouldn’t have done. He tells him as much. “Stop apologizing for taking the time you needed.”

“I’m apologizing for the time I wasted,” Joowon clarifies, ever stubborn and surprising. He throws Dongsik one sidelong glance. “I should’ve returned sooner.”

He didn’t say, I should’ve kissed you sooner.

But that’s what Dongsik hears anyway.

Dongsik waits until they make it back to Manyang, when the reed fields are on either side of the car before he lets his self-control reach its limit. He thinks he’s allowed; this all falls under their honeymoon phase.

“Park here,” he says. No CCTVs, no witnesses. He found Joowon somewhere in those fields, twice.

Joowon does, and Dongsik watches him lick his lips in anticipation. But before he can utter a snarky, self-absorbed comment, Dongsik speaks first.

“How long have you been waiting to do what you did last night?” he asks, because he needs to know. In the past year, he may have missed seeing Joowon’s face, often wondering what he was up to in Gangwon. Then he returned and moved too fast, and Dongsik thinks he’s lagging behind and he needs to keep up.

“Too long,” Joowon says, brazen and undeterred. “I’m aware that’s not how things are done, so I’ll ask this time.”

Dongsik is not too affected to not muster an arched eyebrow in challenge. He arms himself with a clever comeback as he prepares for how Joowon will phrase it, overdue it may be.

If Han Joowon asks for permission, he’ll say it’s a little late but he appreciates the politeness. It’s about time he gets some respect here, from this man who seems to have the habit of barging in unannounced.

So naturally, it doesn’t go like that.

“Lee Dongsik-ssi,” Joowon says, each syllable laced with meaning as his features soften, “have you ever thought about kissing me?”

“Impertinent,” Dongsik tells him, fond and defenseless as he grabs a fistful of Joowon’s coat as leverage, mouth sealing over his in an attempt to shut him up.

Joowon unbuckles his seatbelt and responds accordingly, hands finding the sides of Dongsik’s neck and anchoring him. He’s a quick study, adapting easily and following Dongsik’s lead, and even though he’s not the best kiss Dongsik’s ever had, he’s certainly the only person Dongsik wants to kiss the most.

They make out there, in the privacy of a deserted, dirt road, just as the sky begins to turn purple, dusk littering it with stars.

——

Han Joowon becomes a permanent addition to the dinners at the butcher shop, a fact that no one seems startled by. Soon, Jaeyi’s got herself an additional help whenever she has to restock the shop.

Sometimes, when Dongsik arrives earlier than the rest and catches glimpses of Joowon dutifully carrying boxes to the storage room of the shop, he thinks it wouldn’t have seemed so impossible to believe if it were Jaeyi that Joowon was dating instead.

It’s a festering afterthought, because if life taught Lee Dongsik anything, it’s that anything worth having is also incurring the risk of being abruptly taken away. It’s a dismal, recurrent demon that he fights against because he isn’t used to being this happy, something that Joowon, inevitably, notices.

It starts with a simple touch to the small of his back, when the chatter around treasured company loses meaning and his thoughts swim—a reminder that he’s here and he’s a part of all this. It’s strange that it’s him who needs the reminder; Dongsik, after all, was the one born and raised in Manyang. But he’s also the one plagued by shadows of people long gone, of ghosts bearing familiar and sorely missed faces.

Most of the time, he needs the reminder. And one touch is all it takes, innocuous and light, done by the only person who has always disregarded his personal space.

Han Joowon never asks. Like he’s exhausted all the questions he has for Dongsik and refuses to interrogate him even further. But even when he speaks, he’s not particularly affectionate with his words either; he can be callous and blunt, often inadvertently revealing truths that he’ll be embarrassed about after.

But what he lacks in words, he makes up for with his touch. As honest as him, always reaching for Dongsik when Dongsik feels adrift, when the bad days overwhelm the good and he’s close to spiraling further.

Joowon holds him during such times—a cocoon of warmth and protection that keeps all the persistent, pervasive thoughts at bay. An act of selfish and selfless love at the same time, because his grip tightens around Dongsik whenever Dongsik tries to move away.

Han Joowon never asks, so one night, Dongsik tells him instead.

He tells him about the numbers. The things he’s counted all his life to stay sane.

Ten for the tips of the fingers Yuyeon left behind, decorated with balsam flowers. Twenty for the years without her. One for the ring that he gave her and she took to her grave, to that hollowed wall behind the boiler. Seven for the times that he hit that wall with a sledgehammer until it caved.

Three for the bullets fired that night when Sangyeob died. Eight for the weeks he spent in recovery, broken and rehabilitating only to break again and again. Five for the pills he often took to numb the pain but did very little. Eleven for the days he was all alone until Nam Sangbae found him and hauled him back, coaxed him to continue living as a form of penance.

Four for the clubs he’d hit before he found Minjeong. Ten—another gruesome, horrifying ten—for the tips of the fingers left behind, this time adorned by glittering rhinestones. Thirty for the minutes he spent searching and hatching a plan, Sangyeob’s words ringing in his mind.

When Dongsik’s done, he doesn’t ask Joowon if this—they—will simply become a number that he has to remember someday. But it’s there between them, unaddressed and imposing, and Dongsik hates that he’s the one that put it there but he needs to know.

He’s lived most of his life not knowing how long something good usually lasts. It doesn’t. Not for him.

Joowon doesn’t utter a word as he fits himself behind Dongsik, chin anchoring to the curve of a shoulder as his arms wind around Dongsik’s waist. He holds him like that in the middle of the kitchen, and when Dongsik’s body relaxes, there’s a huff of breath against his nape.

“Count,” Joowon says, low and quiet, lips resting on the first knob of his spine.

It takes a moment for the word to register.

“One,” Dongsik whispers shakily, and he feels it: the rise and fall of their chests together, the cycle of air that they share.

“Two,” he says and they take another, in unison and even, resonating in the silence. He continues counting until the numbers mean nothing, until his fingers seek Joowon’s own and entwine together over his middle.

“You said it means something if I stay,” Joowon tells him after a while, when whatever demon Dongsik has lost to tonight has been driven away and his walls are back in place. “I’m staying. I won’t be happier elsewhere.”

Dongsik didn’t foresee this, that he’d be the one saddled with doubt. He thought he’d be the one doing the hand-holding, navigating life with a younger partner that needs guidance.

Joowon’s exhale tickles his jaw when he says, a little too openly, “So don't put an end to us.”

The words ruin Dongsik anew, and he apologizes in hushed tones, something only for Joowon to hear. He earns forgiveness when Joowon kisses his neck, and Dongsik vows not to give in so easily again.

“Count,” Joowon says again, this time punctuating it with a lingering kiss to his pulse.

Dongsik does, breath growing ragged with each number and each kiss that lands on sensitive skin. The sensations render him boneless, caged by the unyielding line of Joowon’s arms, and it’s the kind of surrender that he doesn’t mind.

That night, none of his ghosts finds him again.

——

Rainy days leave Joowon in a strange mood, one where he stares at the windows for too long and sticks to silence more than usual. For someone who doesn’t speak as much as Dongsik does, it means that Joowon gives nods as a yes and shakes his head when he means no.

They’re at Joowon’s apartment where everything is colder when it rains; fogging glass nearly compelling Dongsik to write a silly little message using his fingertip because Yuyeon used to love doing those, except he knows Joowon will abhor it and tell him off.

So he does something else instead, something to coax Joowon out of his shell because he’s done it before and he’s not modest when it comes to this: he knows his effect on Han Joowon, how a smirk alone can undo a cool exterior and crack a finely crafted façade.

“My first love was a girl who lost her front tooth when we were eight because Jihwa-ya roundhouse kicked her in the face during a taekwondo match,” he says unprompted.

A blink, then all of Joowon’s attention is on him, and Dongsik hands him a mug of steaming, freshly made coffee. Joowon’s got this fancy coffee maker and the fancy beans that go perfectly with it—imported from Jamaica that smells exactly like petrichor.

Perfect for today’s weather.

“Funny thing is,” Dongsik continues as he takes a seat on the couch, the constant patter of rain serving as background noise with the rest of Seoul, “I didn’t like her when her teeth were intact. It was only after Jihwa knocked that tooth off that she started smiling really big, and I liked it so much because she wasn’t embarrassed about it.”

Joowon is warming his hands using the mug when he asks, “Did you ever tell her?”

“At eight?” Dongsik laughs. “Who confesses at eight? Gosh, that reminds me, you weren’t even born then.” He cackles now, head thrown back as mirth rocks his entire body. “I didn’t confess, no. At eight, you either get over it or just hold their hand and hope for the best.”

“Which one did you do?” Joowon asks, and Dongsik hears the curiosity there, hidden under a conversational tone.

“I got over it,” he says with a grin that he immediately loses because he remembers whom he fell in love with next. “But I always think of that girl when it rains; the first time I saw her big smile without the front tooth was after she slipped on the ground on a rainy day, after all.”

Dongsik and his tumble of curls offering a hand to a girl whose footing slipped and resulted in an abraded knee. Instead of crying, she laughed at her clumsiness and accepted his help in getting up.

“What happened to her?” is the next question, and Dongsik likes that Joowon knows this side of him too: the one that keeps tabs on multiple people regardless of the size of the dent they left in his life.

“Last I heard, she’s living in Jeju with a kid or two,” he says. “I don’t think she remembers me; I certainly don’t remember her exact name anymore—could be Eunsung or Eunjae.”

The silence that follows after that is not as stilted as the one earlier. It’s more comfortable now that they’ve exchanged a few words, sipping expensively flavorful coffee in between sentences.

Then, because he’s Han Joowon and everything seems like a competition to him: “You’re not the only one who remembers his first love on a rainy day.”

Gears in his head turning, Dongsik leans closer towards Joowon’s direction, eyes narrowing at him. “Wait, don’t tell me yet.” He taps his forefinger against his chin in mock thought. “I’ll guess: some rich kid in England with blond hair and freckles who offered to share an umbrella with you when you forgot yours.”

The unamused glare he receives from Joowon sends him chuckling. “Or—hear me out first, I might be right—your primary school teacher who fixed your raincoat when it was askew. Or the babysitter who tucked you in bed when there were thunderstorms.”

“Are you done?” Joowon asks, and he looks so vexed that Dongsik wants to poke his cheek. But he resists.

He raises both hands in a ceasefire. “Guess not. Will you tell me, then?”

“He wore no shoes on a rainy day,” Joowon says calmly.

Dongsik does a slow nod of consideration. If this was a case he was cracking all by himself, then Han Joowon is simultaneously giving him much and nothing at all. “Forgot them?”

“Gave them away,” Joowon clarifies.

When it hits, Dongsik thinks the wind’s been knocked out of his lungs. There’s only one person in this room who’s insane enough to risk hypothermia for a stranger, and it’s not Han Joowon.

He sets down his mug, lest he sends pieces of it to the floor and Joowon permanently bans him from entering his apartment.

“You know,” he tries, and he hates how affected he sounds and how Joowon hides a smile because of it, “if you keep saying things like that, I’ll go over there and you won’t get any work done on your day off.”

“Come here,” Joowon says, and it sounds like a dare that he has no intention of conceding.

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” Dongsik asks despite knowing that Joowon is a terrible liar. “You’re not saying that it’s me just to get me into your bed, right?”

Joowon sets his mug aside, glances towards the direction of his bed, and stands in one fluid motion. He wordlessly makes his way to it until he’s seated right on the edge.

Dongsik hates him.

“What a cheeky little prince,” he says, and it takes him back to that time where there was no rain and classical music was playing through the speakers while he rejected offers of food and wine.

There’s no music now, but the self-satisfied smile Joowon has for him is the same.

“Thank you,” Joowon says, and Dongsik gives up the fight.

Later, when the cold can’t reach them and perspiration is cooling off their heated bodies, Joowon tells him the truth, whispering in the space between his ribs, close to his xiphoid. The vibrations leave gooseflesh in their wake as his back arches against the sheets.

It’s you.

——

Thirteen.

It’s another number Dongsik remembers, especially when he and Joowon are in disagreement over something trivial. Thirteen for the years between them, as a reminder for Dongsik that there’s more than a decade of differences between their life experiences.

Dongsik is nearing half of his life while Joowon isn’t. Joowon who’s still on the cusp of his prime, while Dongsik is at the end of his.

Thirteen whole years and Joowon, he realizes, has never once addressed him in a manner that would’ve suggested their age gap. He’s called him many things, with crazy bastard being Dongsik’s personal favorite because it marked the first time he’d gotten under Han Joowon’s skin, seeing a fracture in that haughty indifference.

But that was it. The fact hits him even more when he realizes that Jaeyi is only a year older than Joowon, and to Jaeyi he’s ahjussi and never just Lee Dongsik. Jihoon, who’s a year younger than Joowon, calls him hyung, and never by his name alone.

Kang Dosoo—older than Joowon by a couple of years—calls him sunbae mostly and hyung sometimes. Lee Sangyeob was three years older than Joowon and he was Sangyeob’s hyung until the man’s untimely death.

So Dongsik addresses this the next time he remembers it, when they’re wrapping up another dinner at the Manyang butcher shop and Jaeyi is already waving them off as she yawns her way to bed.

On the walk back, he nudges Joowon with his elbow to get his attention.

“You’re younger than Jaeyi,” he starts, and Joowon’s reply is a noncommittal hum. “She calls me ahjussi.”

“Ahjussi,” Joowon repeats, in a pitch so deep that it leaves an unprecedented aftereffect on Dongsik.

He presses on. “Jihoon is younger than you and he calls me hyung. Which makes me wonder where you’ll fit because you’re right between them and you haven’t called me like they do.” He inclines his head. “Barring just now, of course, since you totally didn’t mean that.”

Joowon appears to contemplate, the fullness of his lips stretching to a thin line. Then, in clarification: “Are you asking me to choose?”

“I’m asking how come you’re so disrespectful towards me sometimes,” Dongsik says affectionately, plastering on a saccharine smile. “Have you made up your mind?”

Joowon doesn’t respond until the gates of his house are on sight, ten steps away from the closest, flickering lamppost. When he speaks, the breeze carries every lilt, wrapping around Dongsik’s heart.

“Jagiya,” he says, the light from overhead casting shadows on his face, highlighting the self-satisfied smirk he has when Dongsik fails to conceal his reaction.

When Dongsik gathers himself, he can’t decide if he wants to smack Joowon’s pretty face or kiss it. “Were you preparing to say that?”

“I’ve given it thought and made my choice,” Joowon says, like he didn’t just bestow a pet name to his partner. “I don’t want to call you in a manner that just about anyone in this town can say.”

“Unbelievable,” Dongsik mutters under his breath, because when Joowon’s possessiveness manifests it’s always like this: out in the open but only for him to bear witness to.

He thinks it’s justified that he plants his forearm against Joowon’s chest and shoves him backwards against the gatepost—a display of strength that he rarely uses. Joowon’s corresponding gasp of surprise is worth it when his back hits the bricks; in a split-second, Dongsik sees the sharp, biting change in his gaze before it becomes half-lidded.

“Oh,” Joowon says knowingly, infuriatingly because he can never resist dangling such things once he’s in possession of them, “you like it.”

Dongsik should’ve pressed him like this against the lockers in the backroom of the substation when they still worked together. Under all the muscle and bravado is a sight he could’ve seen earlier: the hints of submission obscured behind deliberate provocation.

The last time Dongsik did this, that man in the club Minjeong was at trembled and acquiesced to all of his requests with fear in his eyes. Han Joowon harbored no such fear—there’s insolence in that gaze, but within it is also a dash of a sweet promise.

Joowon’s fingers find the belt loops of his jeans, hooking there. “We should take this inside.”

“We should,” Dongsik agrees, just as Joowon’s nails begin to graze the skin over his navel.

“Let go,” Joowon says, eyes glinting with mischief. “Jagiya.”

Dongsik does, and he doesn’t hear the word even when he tries his best to coax it out of Joowon, who’s a pliant, beautiful, writhing mess under his hands when Dongsik has him right where he wants him. To someone like Han Joowon, impudence apparently correlates to his resilience, something he holds onto even in the heights of pleasure.

He hears it again much later, when he’s honestly forgotten about it and another dinner in the butcher shop runs late. Jaeyi has called him ahjussi after handing him the small basket of condiments, followed by Jihoon calling him hyung when he offers Dongsik a piece of newly grilled meat.

Joowon catches his eye and Dongsik knows what he’s about to say, and his breath hitches when casually, Joowon asks for a glass of water, and everyone’s response is a pregnant pause.

“Hyung, why are your ears red?” Jihoon asks suddenly, because Manyang has no shortage of shameless punks.

“Can I hit him?” he asks Jihwa. “I’ll avoid his face.”

“Inspector Han is waiting for his water,” Jihwa says unhelpfully, and Dongsik wonders when exactly did Han Joowon start to get everyone on his side.

Dongsik begrudgingly passes a glass of it to his left, and Joowon’s triumphant smirk imprints itself into his mind.

“Thank you,” Joowon drawls, “jagiya.”

“Anytime,” Dongsik says as evenly as he can, and Jihwa jostles him with her shoulder as their entire table erupts into utter chaos.

——

When Joowon turns twenty-nine, Dongsik’s first thought is that it’s a year he’s taken. Then he circles back, because if therapy taught him anything it was to work on being kinder to himself, and rectifies: it’s a year that Han Joowon chose to spend with him.

Half a year, to be exact, but Joowon looks like he has no plans to go anywhere, and Dongsik believes him.

It’s a process, he realizes. Healing. Putting whatever’s left back together, hoping that this time it sticks and he doesn’t nosedive into madness. He’s seen that road—forced into it, and whenever he catches himself slipping a little, he tries to recall the good things. It helps. Just a bit, but on some days, all Dongsik needs is a bit for the world to seem like it isn’t entirely against him and that he’s allowed, for once, to be happy.

Joowon’s birthdays, apparently, weren’t celebrated at all before this. Dongsik finds out when they’re at the butcher shop and there’s cake and booze, even champagne because Hwang Gwangyoung insisted that someone like Han Joowon must be accustomed to having champagne on his birthday, something Joowon answers with a simple, “I wouldn’t know; I never celebrated this before.”

It makes everyone stop in their tracks, but Dongsik is the first one to recover. He plucks a strawberry from the cake and presses it to Joowon’s mouth in an attempt to lighten the mood and cover up the fact that something in his chest is aching.

Dongsik has no shortage of empathy. He’s so abundant in it that he’s the type that’s easily convinced by the ahjummas in a thrift shop, the favorite customer who pays the price listed and doesn’t haggle. He’s the only one who cried with Minjeong when her favorite actor had to enlist for military service and had to be pulled from the drama she was looking forward to.

So hearing those words from Joowon guts him in ways he can’t describe. It reignites his loathing for Han Kihwan, because everything that Joowon's been deprived of was all because of him. The bastard is probably the one who keeps calling Joowon too; Dongsik has caught him rejecting calls earlier, when they had breakfast together and Dongsik watched Joowon finish all of the seaweed soup he’d made for him.

Joowon has likely never had company on this day for the past twenty-eight years. If he had, it was all for the sake of maintaining an appearance: that Han Kihwan was a devoted father to his only son.

Dongsik tramples down the hideous feeling inside him and focuses on the present: Joowon is here, with them, and tonight, there’s no need to pretend. Dongsik will show him.

Joowon stares at the strawberry. Then, like he seems to take Dongsik’s meaning, he bites onto the fruit, juice trickling down his lip. He chews unhurriedly, like he’s savoring it.

“It’s sour,” he comments, eyebrow twitching.

Dongsik is a little offended; he’s the one who selected this cake with Jaeyi earlier when they went downtown. “You lie.” He consumes the rest of the fruit and frowns: it is indeed a little sour.

“That’s because you’re supposed to eat it with the cake,” Jaeyi says, swatting Joowon’s arm with the back of her hand. “The sourness is supposed to complement the cake’s sweetness.”

Six months ago, such physical contact would’ve made Joowon jolt. Or take a cautionary step back; he always seems to watch himself when Jaeyi is around. But now, he weathers it like it’s nothing, directing an accusatory glare at Dongsik instead.

“I’m the one who offered it to him; take it out on me,” Dongsik says. He settles next to Joowon, their thighs touching. “We should’ve gotten the one with sugar flowers.”

“This is all right,” Joowon says, and whatever uncomfortable silence they had earlier dissipates into nothingness when Jaeyi signals for everyone to take a seat.

It’s Jihoon who leads everyone to a birthday song, and Joowon’s eyes widen when Jihwa approaches him with a birthday sash. He looks at Dongsik, and Dongsik encourages him and mouths, “Bear with it for a while.”

Joowon does, and when they reach the middle of the song, Dongsik pulls out an obnoxious party hat and which he puts on Joowon, whose displeasure comes in the form of side-eyeing him that he can’t resist leaning close to Joowon’s ear.

“I’ll make it all up to you later,” he says.

They take lots of commemorative photos and discover that champagne and makgeolli do not go well together, and that perhaps Hwang Gwangyoung is the one who inherited the late Chief Nam’s habit of combining things that simply don’t match.

And despite Dongsik’s worries about Joowon’s possible discomfort, Joowon surprises him when he thanks everyone with a small smile that’s more than enough. Joowon proceeds to go the extra mile and even lets Jihwa take solo pictures of him wearing the sash and the party hat, and when that’s all done and they’re cleaning up, it’s him who finds Dongsik in the storage room and squeezes his hand.

“Thank you,” Joowon says, not quite looking at him, and Dongsik understands.

Still, he can’t help asking, “Was it too much for you? So that I’ll know.” Next time, he doesn’t say. It sounds too hopeful.

But Joowon beats him to it, stating the unspoken; he must be sincerely touched that he can’t hide his emotions very well. “We can have wine next year.”

“Classy,” Dongsik says. He nods, knowing that wine is Joowon’s preference. He only drinks whiskey when he’s stressed. “All right. I’ll even let you choose.”

Joowon’s gaze on him considerably softens and he takes a tentative step forward.

“If you’re done making out in my backroom,” Jaeyi drawls from behind the door, “please help out. I need to put away some of the chairs.”

It’s Joowon who opens the door, a crease between his eyebrows. “We weren’t—” he tries indignantly, but Jaeyi shoves a stool in his hands to cut him off.

“Just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean I’ll let you celebrate in there,” she says, which, Dongsik has to admit, is hilarious, so he laughs behind Joowon as Jaeyi meets his eyes. “Ahjussi, you all right?”

“My dignity’s intact,” Dongsik assures her with a wink, slipping past Joowon to help with the rest.

Dongsik knows he’ll pay for the teasing dearly once they get back, but for now, he contents himself with the fact that Joowon doesn’t hate the company that he has at present and didn’t mind celebrating his birthday for the first time with all of them.

And later, when birthday sash doesn’t come off while Joowon fucks him, Dongsik considers it a nice bonus.

——

The physical aspect of their relationship has always been a little rushed. It’s the consequence of their history together; all the pent-up frustration and the undeniable attraction that they had no time for because they always seemed to run out of it. Now that there are no more decaying skeletons to unearth, it’s as if they’re finally free to act on it, and Han Joowon doesn’t like wasting time.

Dongsik has no preferences when it comes to sex. It’s what made him an agreeable partner to the majority of his flings; he sets no rules for himself except for getting off before heading home.

Nowadays, he’s no longer as spontaneous. At his age, frightening it is to admit, it all depends on his back. Years and years of accumulating microinjuries due to his constant lack of vigilance regarding his own health, only for the repercussions to resurface like this. He has regrets, and one of those is his penchant for sleeping on the threadbare couch of his childhood home.

Sometimes, he envies Joowon’s youth, because Joowon never complains about his back or his neck killing him. It’s always Dongsik who does, and there’s that embarrassing time that they had to stop in the middle of fucking because of his bad leg cramping.

Joowon never held that against him; all the cruelty he exhibited back when they were at odds with one another never reared its ugly head again. He can be impatient, but he’s always willing, and while that’s partially due to his inexperience, most of it is just because he really, really likes having sex with Dongsik.

Not that Joowon has ever admitted this—he’s too prideful. But it’s in the way he keens when there are no unfortunate muscle spasms, when the baritone transitions to a reedy, broken whine. It’s in the way his eyes glisten when Dongsik’s limbs bracket his hips, how he shudders full-bodied when the heat sears and blinds him.

Dongsik thinks he’s a decent lay, but Joowon makes him feel like he might be the most impressive one out there. He attributes Joowon’s enthusiasm to him being a virgin before all of this; a fact that Joowon confessed that time he got drunk and Dongsik had to take him home. That knowledge alone fanned his ego to new heights and made him decide that if there’s one thing he’ll do his best at, it’s this.

So he seeks, as subtle as possible, for ways to make Joowon’s voice crack. It’s the most reliable indicator Dongsik has since his partner is often reserved and collected, even in private.

Joowon has always been attractive—he’s the type that causes people to do a double take wherever he walks. But he’s more alluring when he’s uninhibited, when he’s got his bottom lip trapped under his teeth as he staves off his orgasm between Dongsik’s splayed legs.

Dongsik has one hand flat on Joowon’s chest, the other curled around his cock as he rocks against Joowon, until his lower back starts to feel the pressure that he winces the next time their hips collide.

The way Joowon’s attention snaps to his discomfort never fails to delight him; he’s so attuned to Dongsik that he immediately ceases all movement, brows knitted in concern as their eyes meet.

“Does it hurt?” Joowon asks, like he’s not fully sheathed in Dongsik and trying to wreck him for the past few minutes. He just might be the thickest cock Dongsik has ever taken in his life, and Dongsik thinks it suits him perfectly considering his demeanor in the past.

“My back does,” Dongsik admits, and shifting his legs makes the ache around his hips intensify. “Just…give me a moment.”

Joowon’s palms frame his waist as he slowly pulls out, the loss making Dongsik groan. Joowon strips off the condom, grip moving to the back of Dongsik’s thighs until he’s got one anchored over a broad shoulder, breath ghosting Dongsik’s cock.

Dongsik won’t deny preferring this. It strains his back still, but not as much when Joowon is buried in him, and while Joowon is sloppy and lacks technique, he does possess lips perfect for cocksucking.

It’s a view Dongsik greatly enjoys.

It doesn’t take long to wring out his orgasm—the high from earlier didn’t entirely recede—his toes curling that he barely notices Joowon rearranging the pillow under his hips. When the world slots itself back into place, Dongsik entangles his fingers through the matted strands of Joowon’s hair, pleased.

“Good boy,” he husks, meaning it.

Joowon’s breath catches, and Dongsik marvels at how the entire bulk of his body seizes as he doubles over, warmth suddenly streaking the insides of Dongsik’s thighs. He’s a panting, shivering mess half on top of Dongsik, muffling his cries against Dongsik’s pulse.

Dongsik reels at the new discovery; he’s incredibly thrilled.

He files it away for future use and consoles a tremendously ashamed Joowon, rubbing his back and kissing his temple, telling him that no, he doesn’t mind, and yes, he liked it very much still.

“It’s not a turn-off,” Dongsik assures him when they’ve cleaned up and Joowon has been actively avoiding his gaze. “I think it’s really cute.”

Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, because Han Joowon doesn’t show up to two subsequent Manyang dinners and everyone rounds up against Dongsik, asking him if something happened.

Even Jaeyi is concerned.

Should he and Joowon break up, Dongsik thinks the entire town will believe that he’s the bad guy. Not that that’s a novel idea.

Lest Dongsik tells their friends about his younger partner’s ability to come untouched, he makes up a work-related excuse peppered in with the right amount of bullshit before he makes the drive to Seoul.

From there, Dongsik wings it. He’s less impulsive than Joowon, but when hit by determination and inspiration, he has the tendency to be flaky with a complete absence of self-preservation.

Lee Changjin’s thugs and his baseball bat can attest to this.

Dongsik knows when a clusterfuck can potentially occur because he’s the type to bulldoze straight into it. While the current situation is not that grave, it can be since it stars his missing boyfriend who’s hiding in his apartment and pretending that he isn’t there.

It’s cute, but Dongsik thinks he can be cuter, so he purposely keys in a series of wrong passcodes until Joowon buzzes him in and gives him a reproachful look once he’s inside.

“Are you trying to get arrested for breaking in?” Joowon demands. “You know that if you commit a crime while on probation—”

“I’ll go straight to jail and you’ll be lonely because you can’t fuck me while I’m in jail,” Dongsik finishes for him, grin broadening when Joowon sputters in front of him. “For what it’s worth, everyone’s worried about you and they all think I did something to send you away. If we divorce, I think I’m bound to lose.”

Joowon colors then, an attractive shade of red that Dongsik aims to replicate sometime tonight. “Sorry. I—needed time.”

Dongsik is ninety percent certain that “time” also meant sulking, and that if he pulls up Han Joowon’s recent internet search history, premature ejaculation is on top of the list.

“I thought I said it wasn’t a turn-off?” he asks instead. “I like it.”

“You said it was cute,” Joowon says, frowning as his bottom lip juts out in a pout.

“Because it is,” Dongsik tells him. He makes his way inside the apartment and begins stripping as he heads for the shower, heedless of Joowon’s flustered exclamations behind him. “Give me ten minutes.”

Ten minutes later, he’s got Joowon rolling onto his stomach as he works a finger in him, slick and slow, his other palm cupping a perky asscheek. Joowon has his arms folded beneath the pillows as Dongsik loosens him up for two more fingers, for his cock.

Joowon is eventually relaxed and aroused enough that he’s rutting against the sheets, desperate for friction that he starts begging. It gets Dongsik moving, swiping a condom from the nightstand before sliding deliciously home and true, and Joowon’s moaning so sinfully that Dongsik prays for his back to cooperate.

After a few tries to have Joowon lift his hips, Dongsik finally manages to tuck a pillow under there and starts moving.

It’s good, made even better by Joowon writhing against him, groans half-spilling into the pillows as he keeps his face mashed against them. Dongsik shifts a bit and Joowon keens, choking into it as he tries to keep it down.

Dongsik has worked up a steady rhythm when there’s a sudden buzz from the intercom.

Joowon freezes under him, and Dongsik stretches over him, chest to his back, lips hovering on the shell of his ear. “Were you expecting someone else, Joowon-ah?”

This close, he can see Joowon’s bottom lip tremble. “It’s gotta be hyung.”

“Hyung,” Dongsik repeats, and the flare of jealousy that courses through him prompts him to make a measured, angled thrust. Joowon whimpers. “You call someone that?”

“He’s my former tutor,” Joowon grits, and Dongsik straightens back up, clutching Joowon’s hips.

The intercom buzzes once more.

Dongsik waits for any indications that Joowon wants to stop but sees none. Instead, Joowon grinds down in a futile attempt to hump the sheets.

All of this excites him, Dongsik realizes. The thought of someone at the door, the possibility of getting caught—they’re all suggestive of a childhood spent wishing he was braver to sneak around and rebel.

“Does he know your passcode?” Dongsik asks, and Joowon clenches around him in response, the momentary heat almost making him lose it. But years of waiting gave him a near-iron will, and Dongsik puts his weight on his knees to keep himself still.

Joowon’s mortified gasp is all he needs.

“Pray he doesn’t use it,” he says, pressing a hand on the small of Joowon’s back as he picks up the pace again.

The moan that he tears from Joowon this time hits a higher pitch compared to its predecessors, and Dongsik has to reach up to clamp a hand over his mouth lest whoever’s at the door hears them. He doesn’t let up and keeps going, fucking into Joowon slowly but sliding deeper each time, and the muffled sobs he elicits from Joowon goes straight to his cock.

The intercom buzzes again, right as Dongsik starts hitting something that causes Joowon to shudder. It’s followed by three insistent knocks, and pleasure coalesces in Dongsik’s gut as Joowon’s response is a guttural cry that he attempts to swallow back a little too late.

Joowon’s phone vibrates on the nightstand, and a brief glance at it shows an unfamiliar name. Dongsik doesn’t know any Kwon Hyuk, but he can easily deduce who it is based on the panicked hitch of Joowon’s breath.

Taking pity on him, Dongsik ceases movement for a few seconds, listening. The intercom quietens and whoever was at the door seems to have left.

Under him, Joowon is tossing his phone to the side, having already read the message. “He’s gone,” he tells Dongsik, raising his hips just enough to make a point, and Dongsik grins.

“Good to know,” he says as he drags Joowon’s hips with him, speeding up. All filthy, depraved noises escape Joowon now, who’s pushing back thrust for thrust, and amidst his pleas for more, Dongsik finally hears his name.

He reaches around Joowon’s hips, jerking him fast, and he’s got his teeth embedded on the hard line of a shoulder when he grunts, “Good boy. Come for me.”

Joowon clutches at the pillow as he shudders, rendered boneless as pleasure overrides his senses, slumping against the mattress in a scream. Dongsik finishes in the span of the succeeding seconds, and he waits for his breathing to regulate itself before he withdraws and ties off the condom, discarding it to the nearest wastebasket.

When he collapses next to Joowon, he steals a moment to appreciate Joowon’s beauty as they bask in the afterglow—Joowon’s cheeks in a healthy, rosy flush, eyes glistening, and mouth so swollen and red that it’s tempting Dongsik for a kiss.

Drenched in sweat and surrounded by sheets that smell like sex, he looks so blissfully content in debauchery.

Dongsik doesn’t need to ask to know that even Joowon isn’t aware that he had this kink. He looks just as surprised about it as Dongsik does.

He searches for Joowon’s eyes. “I forgot to ask earlier, but have you had dinner?”

The exasperation that flits across Joowon’s features has him laughing.

The following weekend, Dongsik gets the honor of being introduced to Prosecutor Kwon Hyuk, and the man is so doe-eyed and innocent that Dongsik somehow understands why Joowon reacted in such a manner.

Hyuk is the kind of man whose feathers you want to ruffle every now and then. He’s got such an expressive face that it must be entertaining to see him a little scandalized. Dongsik wonders if he ever caught Joowon watching porn when they lived together and decides to ask Joowon about it later.

Dongsik buys the second round for them, something that baffles Hyuk. “I have to thank you,” he explains, and the way Joowon goes rigid in his seat tells Dongsik that he knows what’s coming.

“What for?” Hyuk asks, oblivious.

Dongsik savors the way Joowon reddens when he says, “For not opening the door,” and clinks his glass against Hyuk’s before downing it all in one go.

That same night, Han Joowon changes the passcode to his apartment.

——

When Yuyeon disappeared, it was as if she took the warmth and the sounds of their house in Manyang with her.

It was a striking observation that Dongsik didn’t make. His mother did, when she had him back in her arms and was dabbing antiseptic on his wounds, still fresh after the then-officers of Munju attempted to force a confession out of him.

“Do you know, Dongsik-ah,” she said then, in tears and her lithe hands trembling, “that for the first time since you and Yuyeon were born, our house grew quiet for days? I always scolded you for the noise when you were kids. Now that it’s so quiet, I can’t take it.”

Dongsik didn’t speak then. Couldn’t. The experience harrowed him, tore him apart and never stitched him back together, and everyone in town saw him as a murderer when they all knew how much he loved his sister.

It was natural—were the whispers made between patrons and hairdressers in salons, between parishioners—that he’d grown envious and resentful. Yuyeon was kind, lovely, and smarter. The townsfolk adored her: their talented pianist with a radiant grin.

Dongsik was just a local troublemaker, known for starting fights and never backing down from any even if his eyesight dimmed and his face turned bloody. Of course he’d done it, they said.

His first act of retaliation didn’t come in the form of leaving Manyang and signing up for the military.

It was destroying his guitar.

He did it in the basement, when the higher-ups closed Yuyeon’s case and Dongsik’s mother lost consciousness upon hearing the news. He did it after his father had come to stay vigil by his mother’s side in the hospital, telling him to return home and get some sleep.

The shattering was satisfying to hear, and the feeling of something solid and pre-loved splintering into fragments served as the outlet. Dongsik repeatedly smashed his guitar against the pavement until all he had was the fingerboard, and he broke that to several jagged pieces too when he flung it against the brick wall.

The resulting silence made him snap, and he curled down there, hugging his knees to his chest as he cried. He cried for Yuyeon, for his poor mother, and his troubled father. Sobs wracked his body, bits of polished wood surrounding him, and he prayed to whoever was listening that Yuyeon would come home and they’d all be together again.

That same night, Dongsik stopped believing in a higher power.

When he found her behind the boiler, he let his fingers bleed as atonement and dug her out with his hands. One cut for each year that he failed. After, the wounds stung whenever he washed his hands, and his mother was no longer around to treat them for him so he left them bare, skin torn anew each time he exerted himself.

Like this, he thought, his hands were now ill-suited to play the guitar.

Months later, the only reminder he has that he already found Yuyeon is a tiny, almost imperceptible scar on the knuckle of his right thumb. It was the only one that didn’t heal quite right, leaving him with a silver line of hypertrophied, uneven skin that’s somewhat rough to the touch.

It’s what he looks at when everyone has gathered in a local karaoke place, taking turns in butchering recent pop songs, including Jihoon’s former idol group’s single. The scar lingers at the back of his mind when Jihoon says, “Hyung, you should’ve taught me to play the guitar; maybe our group wouldn’t have been disbanded so soon.”

I can’t, he wants to say. His fingers are bleeding with cuts made by chips of salt finish.

Except they aren’t. They’ve healed, but Dongsik thinks, not yet.

He’s spared from replying when Jaeyi cajoles Jihoon into singing a rap duet with her, and in the booming bass, Dongsik imagines Yuyeon with them. She’d sing if she was here. She had a charming voice. It was Dongsik who was off-key and frequently out of tune, but possessed the confidence like he was born to become a musician.

The microphone is passed around, with Dosoo doing a rather original rendition of his and his wife’s wedding song when it reaches him, until it finally lands on Joowon’s lap.

The next song on the roster is a popular love theme from a hit drama, and Dongsik’s jaw drops when Joowon, without preamble, starts singing.

Cheers erupt around them, with Hwang Gwangyoung wailing about something like “Is there anything he can’t do?” as Joowon hits note after note with precision, the rich baritone of his fitting accordingly with the melody.

Dongsik can’t look elsewhere for the duration of the song.

Once it’s over, Joowon nonchalantly passes the microphone to Jihwa before facing him, a crease between his eyebrows. A wordless question.

“You never told me you can sing,” Dongsik says. Jihwa’s moved on to Western music now, ABBA blasting on the speakers and giving the illusion of privacy.

“We never went to karaoke before,” Joowon points out.

“You sang wonderfully,” Dongsik tells him.

He earns a dismissive huff, the tips of Joowon’s ears blooming pink. “Don’t ask me to rap.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Dongsik says honestly, but now that his imagination kicks in, he finds himself thoroughly amused. When he’s done laughing, he catches a glimpse of his faded thumb scar, painless and hardly noticeable under the dim lights.

“Let’s go to a music store next time,” he says without much thought. “I think I want to pick up an old hobby again.”

“Is this about Officer Oh’s comment about being taught to play the guitar?” Joowon asks, astute as ever.

Dongsik detects jealousy when he listens for it. He clicks his tongue. “You know I’m not teaching that guy anything. Maybe I can play something you can sing along to if I practice again.”

A nod and a week after, Dongsik has a rosewood guitar and develops new calluses. He’s snapped at least three strings and already misplaced the recently bought guitar pick that earns Joowon’s stern disapproval when he finds out.

“I don’t think anyone will put it beside a corpse this time,” Dongsik says to placate him, which, of course, achieves the opposite effect.

Joowon’s glare is a little intimidating. “Stop joking about such things,” he chides, then he forks the money to get Dongsik another guitar pick, this time monogrammed with his initials like his collection of handkerchiefs.

“If I lose this and it turns up in a crime scene, you’ll be implicated,” Dongsik warns him, forefinger stroking the engraving.

“Then I’ll be dismissed and retire early with you,” Joowon says smoothly, sending a plunge to Dongsik’s gut that he conceals by positioning the guitar on his lap. “Play.”

“I still play awfully,” Dongsik says. “Lower your expectations.”

“Play awfully, then,” Joowon amends, and when the first couple of chords echo between them, he starts humming, simply nodding at Dongsik’s mistakes and not stopping.

In the living room of his house in Manyang, Dongsik suddenly imagines his family complete: his father and his tambourine jingling as Dongsik strums away, Yuyeon on the piano while their mother sings. For the first time in decades, he sees his ghosts in ways that aren’t hurtful to him, smiling at him in approval and love.

Joowon makes no comment if he cries in the middle of the song and he struggles to finish it as a result. He waits for Dongsik and picks up where he left off without complaint when Dongsik resumes playing. When the song concludes and the guitar is untouched on his lap, Joowon fetches ice from the fridge and presses the bag against his sore fingertips.

He’s so incredibly tender about it that it reminds Dongsik of his mother taking care of him. He misses her still, but he doesn’t mind the present company.

“I need more practice,” Dongsik says after a moment, when the pain has subsided and the ice has melted.

Joowon agrees with a nod, thumb flicking over the corner of Dongsik’s eye to wipe away a stray tear that caught there. “You do. But enough for today.”

He removes the guitar from Dongsik’s lap and sets it inside its case before settling next to him: a comforting, sturdy presence on the couch that Dongsik inevitably curls against.

“You don’t have to play to hear me sing,” Joowon’s voice pierces through the quiet, when he’s got his head resting against Dongsik’s own.

“I like playing while you sing,” Dongsik admits. He never thought he’d pick up the guitar again, having such haunting memories with it. But he wants to make music with Joowon; it’s that desire that makes him feel more alive than ever. “I’ll learn more songs.”

“Don’t force yourself,” Joowon reminds him.

“I’ll take it easy,” Dongsik promises, perhaps for the first time in his life. He’s never had the luxury nor the choice to do so before.

Joowon’s acknowledging hum is a rumble when they’re this close. Soon, there are fingers in his hair, stroking his scalp in soothing circles.

And in the homely stillness that follows, Joowon’s voice lulls him to sleep with an English song that Dongsik doesn’t understand but likes the tune of.

He makes a mental note of asking Joowon the title later as he drifts, and if a kiss lands on his hair after, he’s too drowsy to be able to tell.

——

When Dongsik isn’t chased by nightmares and wakes slowly, sometimes it’s still too early that he seizes the opportunity to watch Joowon sleep.

Sleep-addled with his cognitive function a little hazy, he often reaches out to touch—featherlight, fleeting, and hardly perceptible. It’s like this now: Dongsik flicking away some of Joowon’s bangs, lying next to him as the airconditioning hums. His thoughts muddled and drifting, their bedroom seeming like a world of its own, separating them from the rest.

Before he can reel it in, his lips move and he starts murmuring nonsensical things that he'll barely remember once the sun is up.

Dongsik’s first love, Baek Eunsung—or was it Eunjae? Fondly remembered for her missing front tooth and bright smile on a bleak day.

Dongsik’s eternal love, Kang Minjeong. His daughter in another life, brought home for the final time only to be lost to him forever. There isn’t a day that Dongsik doesn’t miss her.

Joowon’s exhales tickle his knuckles.

His murmuring ceases, fingers pausing in their casual exploration of Joowon’s hair. Even in the dark, Joowon’s bone structure is unmistakable.

What will you be? Dongsik finds himself thinking as his eyes fully adjust to the lack of illumination and he can make out Joowon’s peaceful expression.

Dongsik’s current love, is the answering thought, and it pulls a smile from him.

“Last,” comes a voice, hoarse from disuse. Dongsik stills and a hand wraps around his own—larger, warmer.

His murmurings must’ve woken Joowon up, who cracks an eye open before he brings Dongsik’s knuckles to his lips, brushing against them in a manner so tender that Dongsik wonders if this is all a figment of an overactive imagination.

“Dongsik’s last love,” Joowon whispers with certainty, like he’s claiming it, even though he hasn’t fully awoken yet. “Han Joowon.”

The words tug at Dongsik’s heart, an unspoken wish made real not by his own volition. It takes him back to the reed fields, to wind against his hair as he tugged Joowon away from meeting the brunt of it. He couldn’t have known then. Neither of them did.

Last.

Dongsik doesn’t know if they’ll make it that far. But Joowon seems convinced, and sometimes, he does simple things that make Dongsik believe it. He’s half-asleep and likely dreaming, and here he is, tearing down Dongsik’s disbelief with a declaration as audacious as that moment when he returned to the lake house to make up for lost time.

Unrepentant, defiant. Dongsik searches for Joowon’s eyes in the dark and finds them on him. It tears him apart and pieces him back together, tethering him to this moment and all that comes after.

Last.

Dongsik murmurs this against Joowon’s mouth, when Joowon rolls on top of him and sleep is set aside for a later time.

Dawn eventually breaks.

Sunlight kisses their skin and Dongsik knows none of it was a dream.