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Chapter Text

Nina’s hall was wrapped in a suspended silence, the kind that precedes revelations, when even the collective breath seems to hold itself back so as not to shatter the moment. It was the silence that anticipates a confession, a blow of truth disguised as melody. The dim lights lowered, bathing the stage in a bluish half-light that seemed to veil everything in melancholy. Then, among the opening notes chasing one another like uncertain steps in the dark, Nina appeared.

She was stunning, as always: her slender figure exalted by the dark silk dress that barely caught the reflections of the lights, her blond, luminous hair styled with sculptural precision, her made-up, magnetic gaze capturing every single glance from the audience. She seemed untouchable, a creature from another world.

But for Baku, hidden in the last rows, sunk into the shadows he hoped would shield him, there was no longer any deception in that perfect image. He no longer saw Nina.
He saw Baek-Jin.

He recognized him in the small, imperceptible gestures, in the broken breaths between poses, in the way his hands trembled slightly when they strayed too far from the microphone. Every inflection of his voice, every gaze lost in the void, it was Baek-Jin. And that recognition struck his chest like a stab, tightening his heart in a vise.

Days had gone by in which he had told himself to move on, to leave him behind, confined to the past along with the lies, the betrayals, the chain of mistakes that had destroyed them. Days in which he had sworn to himself he would never look back again. And yet, every step he had taken, every breath he had forced himself to draw without him, had brought him back here. To this hall. Before him. As if part of him had never truly wanted to let him go.

A shiver ran through him. Was he ready to accept it? To acknowledge, without deception, everything he had felt and for years had denied, buried under anger and pride? The question echoed inside him like a sentence, but the answer was already there, in his eyes that could not tear themselves away from him.

And then the voice rose. Grieving, haunting, a muffled cry in melody. Baku closed his eyes, unable to endure that gaze, and let his soul be the one to welcome those words. He accepted them without resistance, as if he had always known they would come one day. As if, finally, he were ready to hear them.

“Where are you and I’m so sorry… I cannot sleep, I cannot dream tonight…”

He knew that song, of course, but that wasn’t the point. It was the way Baek-Jin was singing it, as if the words had been written for him, for the two of them. That pain slid into his voice like a slow poison, and Baku felt his chest gripped tight. His veins burned, and inside he fought against the urge to rush onto that stage and tear him away from everything, and the knowledge that it had been he himself who had declared war, promised hatred, slammed the door shut.

“I need somebody and always, this sick strange darkness comes creeping on so haunting every time…”

Each word seemed broken, as if it were not merely sung but torn out from a wound that had never healed. Baku’s chest tightened even more, a searing pain running up to his throat. He realized he was holding back tears. It wasn’t just the song: it was Baek-Jin singing it, it was him carrying it like a confession, a strangled cry that felt far too much like his own.

Baek-Jin’s eyes drifted into the void before him. He wasn’t seeking the audience, he wasn’t looking for applause: he was singing to someone who wasn’t there. Or perhaps someone hiding in the darkness, right at that very moment. He couldn’t know, and yet it was as if he felt it, as if every word were a rope cast into the sea, waiting for someone to grasp it.

“And as I stared I counted, webs from all the spiders catching things and eating their insides”

Baku gripped the armrests of his chair. His knuckles turned white. That voice was the same that had called to him for years, even in silence. The same voice that had haunted him through nights of rage, that he had searched for in vain among a thousand faces, a thousand memories. And now it was there, alive, throbbing, wounded, and singing for him without knowing he was there to listen, to take in his apologies and his torment.

“Like indecision to call you and hear your voice of treason…”

The words carved into him like blades. Hear your voice of treason. The voice of betrayal. That was exactly what Baek-Jin had been for him: a continuous betrayal, an abandonment he had never truly known how to forgive. And yet, here, now, that same voice was giving him back something he didn’t even know how to name.

“Will you come home and stop this pain tonight? Stop this pain tonight…”

Baek-Jin trembled imperceptibly. His voice came out fragile, broken, as if every note were ripped by force from an ancient pain. And yet, for those who knew how to look, this wasn’t the first time he had sung like that. It was the same tremor he had carried years before, when they were boys, when Nina’s armor didn’t exist yet and his voice was the only means left to say what he couldn’t confess in words.

Baku remembered it vividly, so much so that memory lit itself up on its own, overlapping with the scene on stage. His old room, basketball posters crookedly hung on the walls, schoolbooks scattered on the floor and a manga open in his hands.

It was evening, the lamp on the nightstand barely illuminating the edges of the room. Baek-Jin lay next to him, legs bent, gaze lost toward the ceiling. Suddenly he had begun to hum, softly, his voice almost shy, as if afraid of disturbing.

At first Baku had tried to focus on his reading, following the panels and dialogues, but soon he found himself no longer reading at all. His eyes ran across the pages without really seeing, because his attention had shifted, irreversibly, to that voice. It wasn’t powerful, not yet fully formed as it would be years later, but it was real. Sincere. Every syllable carried something that vibrated inside, striking deep.

Baku had closed the manga with a slow gesture and looked at him, letting the improvised music fill the room. He had smiled without realizing it, struck by the fact that it was Baek-Jin himself singing like that, unguarded.

“You know you’re not bad?” he had suddenly said, interrupting him.

Baek-Jin had turned sharply, surprised, his cheeks just a little flushed. “Are you kidding?” he had asked, almost embarrassed.

“No” Baku had insisted, placing the manga on the nightstand. “You have a beautiful voice. It makes… it makes you want to hear more of it.”

For a moment, Baek-Jin hadn’t known what to answer. He had lowered his gaze, a faint smile playing at his lips, but in his eyes something shone that he hadn’t had the courage to say aloud. He had gone on humming, more confident, while Baku lay there watching him, letting the music become a silent language between the two of them.

Now, years later, on that stage, it was the same voice. The same tremor. But the weight was different: it was no longer the singing of a boy trying to be heard, it was the desperate call of a man invoking a hero who never came, who had turned away.

“Don’t waste your time on me you’re already the voice inside my head…”

Baku felt chills run over his skin. That voice was a wave dragging him mercilessly. It felt as if he were bleeding out, as if all the love he had felt, corroded by pain, were pouring out of him.

“I miss you, miss you”

It was for him. It had always been all for him.

Baek-Jin’s voice was no longer mere song: it was a desperate summons, the song of a wounded siren who no longer sought to enchant, but to survive.

Every fiber of his body screamed at him to leave the shadows, to show himself, to shout all the anger, all the love, all the emptiness. But he stayed there, motionless. He knew that if he stepped out, he would be sucked forever into the tragedy that Baek-Jin had written for both of them.

Applause burst like a wave, full and warm, but almost immediately it melted into a reverent whisper that slipped along the edges of the hall. Nina lingered a moment in silence at the center of the stage, her chest still vibrating from the last notes; then she bent into a measured, elegant bow, as if every gesture were already choreographed to restore the perfect image of the diva. The spotlights caressed her profile, her blond hair caught flashes of gold, the dark dress swayed lightly.

She bent to pick up a flower thrown from the audience, a rose perhaps, or a carnation, lifted it to her nose and inhaled. The scent was subtle, fresh with petals and the damp air of the hall: for a second her features softened and a barely perceptible emotion took hold of her face, which the audience immediately interpreted as deep sincerity. Nina held back tears with a carefully timed blink, her long lashes closing like silk curtains; the audience sighed, some exchanged moved glances, convinced they had witnessed a genuine moment.

But Nina was practical too: with measured steps she moved aside, letting the final chords be received and dissolved by the crowd. Behind the curtain her pace remained composed, a natural choreography; the lights left her and for a few instants she was once again only a tired body and a voice that had given too much.

A few meters away, in the darkness of the last row, Baku remained still. Around him the hall was a flow of heads and raised hands, but his field of vision was centered entirely on that empty spot Nina left behind as she retreated. Number after number, moment after moment, a sharp anguish grew inside him: he had sought her, his heart had pounded in hope of meeting a gaze that had never come.

“Touching, isn’t it?” The voice slipped in behind him like a familiar blade. It was Seong-je, there, as always arriving without announcing himself. He had sat down without Baku noticing, with the composed demeanor of a host: flawless jacket, faint scent of tobacco and cologne, the smile of someone who always knew he was in control. “You can’t know this, but she’s been choosing increasingly desperate songs. I wouldn’t be surprised if next week we heard her sing ‘Can’t live if living is without you,’ or whatever the damn title is.”

Baku clenched his jaw. It was an automatic gesture, and his knuckles turned white. He wanted to stand, grab him, slam him against a wall and make him stop turning every wound into a joke. But there were too many people around: random faces that might interfere, amateur cameras, prying eyes. He held himself back and let Seong-je sit next to him with that amused glint in his eyes, as if he were sharing some private joke.

“You came back” Seong-je said in a honeyed voice. “What is it? Can’t you stay away from her either?” He used the feminine deliberately, slicing through every shred of Baku’s dignity. He brushed his arm lightly, a gesture of possession and mockery at once.

Baku glared at him. The use of that pronoun burned like salt against raw skin. He didn’t answer, but his gaze was a promise of reckoning. Seong-je caught it and, amused, doubled down. “Nina has that strange spell, I know. She’s my creation, you should thank me” he said, brimming with pride and malice.

Baku’s reaction was instinctive and feral: he slammed his fist onto the table with a thud that made a few heads turn nearby. The glass trembled, a drop of beer sliding down the wood. He leaned forward, his face inches from Seong-je’s, his voice low and fractured: “I don’t know how he ever let you get away with this. But say one more word like that and you’ll have no teeth left to speak with.”

Seong-je looked at him, his grin widening, lit by a near-ecstatic amusement. He wasn’t afraid. On the contrary, his arrogance swelled. “Really?” he murmured, then, with his usual air of a master presiding over his private theater, he chuckled softly. “But answer me this, Baku, if it hadn’t been for me, where would your tragic, romantic obsession have ended up?”

The room slowly began to spin again around them, the hum of voices smothering their tension like water over burning coals. Baku felt rage rise like heat, but he forced it down with the discipline of someone who knew that one wrong move in this setting would ignite scandalous consequences.

And yet, beneath the hard skin of his threat, there was a tremor: it wasn’t only Seong-je’s words that riled him, but the raw wound of that night, the wound Baek-Jin had reopened by singing for him. Every insult Seong-je hurled bounced off the deeper pain, the absence, the silence he had never answered, the echo of a voice calling him. That, more than any word, was what killed him.

Seong-je lit a cigarette, the gesture elegant, like a seasoned actor in an old film. He inhaled slowly, filling his lungs with smoke, and then released the gray cloud through half-parted lips. He seemed to savor the scene: the other man breaking down, crushed under the weight of his words.

Baku straightened, gritted his teeth, and set the glass down with controlled force. Around them, the hall kept breathing, oblivious. The background music barely covered the murmur of patrons, the clinking of glasses, the heels tapping against the worn parquet. But at that side table, in the dimness, a subtle battle raged, fought with knives of words and silences ready to explode.

“Why?” Baku asked suddenly, his voice hoarse. “Why did you stage his death? Why did you make him disappear?”

Seong-je raised his eyebrows, only feigning surprise. A half-smile spread across his lips. “Don’t you want to ask your friend?” he purred. “Don’t you want to hear, from his mouth, the heart-wrenching tale of the fallen king who dared to stand against the wrong people?”

“I’m asking you.” Baku’s voice was rigid, taut, laced with threat.

Seong-je drew another breath from the filter, held the smoke in his mouth as if savoring a fine wine, then exhaled slowly, tilting his head back. The pose was studied, like a 1920s dandy, as though the whole conversation were just another stage play. Then he laughed, a dry, amused sound. “Fair. Because the two of you can’t communicate. With Nina, though, there have been plenty of… encounters. So tell me, what did you like to do with her, back when you still thought she was a woman?”

Baku’s grip on the glass grew ferocious. His knuckles blanched, the glass groaned under the pressure of his fingers, and finally shattered with a sudden crack. Liquid slid across the table and dripped down to stain the floor.

Seong-je followed the trail with his eyes, entranced. To him it was a dance: another man’s rage morphing into action, into restrained violence. His favorite drug. To shape another’s fury, mold it, spark it like a fuse and let it burn to the breaking point.

“You’re a hypocrite, Baku” he hissed, locking eyes with him again. “You were fine with her being Nina, with her reminding you of Baek-Jin, because it made peace with the filth inside you. Because it gave you an excuse to love him without ever saying it. But now that you know your friend is alive, you almost look… unhappy.”

Baku leaned forward, muscles strung tight like cords ready to snap. “Because he lied to me!” he growled, low but seething.

“You lied to yourself.” Seong-je smiled, exhilarated by the hatred boiling before him. “Aren’t you furious at yourself, then?”

“What is this?” Baku shot back, his sarcasm dark. “Are you my therapist now?”

Seong-je laughed heartily, a sound that drew a couple of curious looks. Then he lowered his voice again, slipping back into the register of an enthralled confidant: “No. I’m just… endlessly fascinated by the human psyche. I enjoy finding where the lies you tell yourselves end, and where the truths you refuse to admit begin.”

Silence fell for a few seconds, heavy as a curtain. The smoke from the cigarette wrapped around them, forming a bubble over the table.

“In any case” Seong-je resumed, flicking away ash with a distracted gesture, “I’ve already answered you. There are people who want him dead. To them, Baek-Jin is already buried. Nina, on the other hand, is alive. And safe.”

“Sure” Baku shot back, his voice like a blade, “locked up here like a canary in a cage.”

Seong-je smiled, showing white teeth. “Yes. And that’s exactly how it will stay. Make no mistake, Baku: Nina isn’t going anywhere.”

Baku’s chair screeched against the floor as he rose abruptly. His shadow loomed over the table, over the broken glass, over Seong-je’s smug smile. For a moment it seemed he was about to lunge, but he said nothing. Not a word.

He stared at him one last time, a look loaded with all the threat his lips didn’t voice, then turned away. He strode through the hall, ignoring the faces turning toward him. He shoved open the side door and slipped backstage, down the narrow corridor that led to the dressing rooms.

Every step pounded like a drumbeat. He didn’t know what he would say to Baek-Jin, didn’t know whether rage or grief would take control. But he knew he couldn’t wait any longer.

Baku knocked softly at the dressing room door, three dull taps swallowed by the muffled noise of the corridor. From the other side came Baek-Jin’s voice at once, low, drained, full of exhaustion and irritation: “I don’t feel like talking, go away.”

It was a command meant for Seong-je. Baku closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, as if holding inside him a weight that threatened to break him, and instead of obeying he pressed the handle. The door creaked open like a warning, but he crossed the threshold anyway.

Baek-Jin was seated before the mirror lit by faint bulbs. The reflection, made-up and fragile, made him look like a ghost trapped between two worlds. The black dress fell flawlessly along his crossed legs. He turned sharply, ready to scold the intruder for ignoring his order to leave him in peace. But when his eyes landed on that figure, those broad shoulders, that burning gaze he knew better than his own reflection, the words died in his throat.

They both stood frozen, suspended in a silence heavy with memories and wounds.

“Hu-Min…” Baek-Jin finally breathed, and his name came out like a sigh, like a frayed thread at last tied back together. “You’re here…” His voice was a prayer finally answered.

Baku looked at him and still saw Nina. He saw the flawless blond hair, the dress draped over his shoulders, the long lashes still damp with emotion. Seong-je’s words “she’s my creation” echoed back, scratching inside him, but they weren’t enough to obscure what was truly in front of him: Baek-Jin, his Baek-Jin.

He closed his eyes again, as if to ward off that distorted image, and released a long, heavy breath.

He nodded faintly, a slow gesture, and took a few blind steps forward, guided only by instinct, by the sound of the other’s breathing. Each step was a confession, an admission that, despite everything, he had never stopped seeking him.

“We need to talk” he said at last, his voice rough, cracked by emotions left unspoken too long. “But first I need to do something…”

He opened his eyes. He couldn’t stay blind any longer, not if he truly wanted to face that truth.
The dressing room was small, cluttered with costumes, abandoned shoes, mirrors that reflected infinite versions of the two of them. He moved cautiously, avoiding locking eyes with him, as if that contact could wound more deeply than a knife.

He sat down across from him. Baek-Jin hadn’t moved, except to follow him with his gaze: two dark eyes, wide, brimming with disbelief and with something ancient still burning beneath the surface. Baku looked at him, this time unguarded. Every line of his face was a summons, every shadow under those sharp cheekbones told of sleepless nights, years of survival and silence.

Time seemed suspended. Baku let his eyes rest on him like hands, exploring slowly, caressing what had changed and what had remained the same. At last, the corners of his lips curved into a hesitant half-smile, fragile, as if it were the first time in years he remembered how to do it.

Baek-Jin, still overwhelmed by the shock of having him there, so close, so real, was at a loss for a moment. Then, slowly, his face softened and he answered with the same uncertain smile, a timid and moved mirror image, laden with the same pain and the same hope. In that silent exchange, in the narrow space between them, there was more truth than in all the unspoken words of the past years.

Baku raised a hand, slowly, hesitant, like one who touches a dream afraid it will vanish. His fingers brushed the blond hair, the wig still crowning Baek-Jin. With deliberate care, he slipped it off, as if holding a sacred object, and laid it beside the mirror, away from his friend’s face. Then he looked back at him, saying nothing, as if with his eyes he were asking Baek-Jin’s permission to continue, to strip away that mask until only he remained.

Baek-Jin stayed motionless, eyes wide, astonishment running across his face. No one had ever seen him like this, fragile and disarmed. Yet, in the intensity of Baku’s gaze he understood the truth: he wasn’t searching for Nina. He was searching for him. So he nodded softly, almost imperceptibly, letting his breath mingle with the quickening beat of his heart.

Baku drew closer again, and with the same caution with which one touches the skin of a wound, slid his fingers behind Baek-Jin’s nape, where the thin cap pressed down his real hair. He pulled it away gently, letting it slip off like a falling veil. Dark strands spilled free all at once, tumbling messily across his face, restoring an image Baku hadn’t seen in years. For a moment he simply stared, as if needing time to truly recognize him, as if the lingering makeup still veiling his features prevented him from fully embracing that revelation.

He reached out and tousled that hair lightly, letting it fall into soft locks that framed the other’s face.
“Your hair’s gotten long” he murmured, almost to himself, yet loud enough for Baek-Jin to hear.
Baku’s fingers lingered on a stray strand, sliding it between his index and middle finger before letting it go right at the line of Baek-Jin’s jaw. A slow, intimate gesture, not mere observation but recognition: the man before him was no longer a memory, no longer a ghost. He was real. He was here.

Then, slowly, he leaned closer, lifted two fingers, and with delicate precision removed the false lashes still marking the other’s gaze. He set them on the table.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked softly, as if fearing that his very presence might wound more than it should.

Baek-Jin shook his head, the gesture small and silent, and let him continue.

Baku picked up a bottle of makeup remover, poured some liquid onto a cotton pad, and returned to him. His hands, large and used to striking, trembled faintly as they brushed his skin. One, two, three circular motions, and the artificial color began to fade. Beneath it, slowly, Baek-Jin emerged, the real one, the one he had lost and was now finding again.

“Close your eyes, please” he murmured.

Baek-Jin obeyed wordlessly, entrusting himself to the gentle touch. In the silence, only their breaths mingled, creating a new rhythm, intimate, filling the room more than any words could. Each sweep of the cotton wiped away a piece of the mask and revealed the man who had hidden for years.

After what felt like an endless minute, perhaps to break the tension that threatened to shatter him, Baek-Jin spoke.

“When did you learn how to remove a woman’s makeup?” His voice held no venom, only curiosity, though a faint thread of irony quivered beneath, as if he were trying to lighten what weighed inside him.

Baku smiled. It was brief but warm, curling the corners of his mouth like a sweet memory.

“I spent many nights watching you do it, Jin-ah.”

The nickname, on his lips, carried a different weight. It wasn’t Seong-je’s voice saying it, usually to mock him for certain vulnerabilities. It was Baku’s, and in that moment it became again a mark of belonging, of old intimacy. Baek-Jin felt something loosen inside, like ice cracking under the sun. He tried not to show it, kept his features steady, but in his chest a knot unraveled, leaving behind a bittersweet warmth.

The situation was as fragile as thin glass: both of them knew it. One false step, one poorly placed word, and everything would collapse again into misunderstanding and silence.

Baku continued until he had erased the last trace of makeup. Then he stopped and looked at him. A wider smile lit his face, a real one, shining in his eyes and igniting a light he hadn’t shown in years. He was happy. Happy that Baek-Jin was alive, that he was here before him, with no masks left between them.

But it wasn’t over.
Baku bent down, his hands reaching Baek-Jin’s slender ankles, and gently slipped the high heels off his feet, then set them on his own knees. The shoes fell with a muffled thud on the carpet, the only true sound of that moment. His fingers then began to massage his tired feet, twisted by years of enduring pain and unnatural posture. His thumbs pressed firmly but not harshly, dissolving the tension that had built up.

Baek-Jin watched him, unable to believe the gesture. It wasn’t just care, not just comfort: it was a silent declaration, an act of devotion. No one had ever touched him like this. No one had ever tried to ease his burden without asking for anything in return.

And as Baku’s hands worked, Baek-Jin felt truly naked, more than without makeup, more than without the wig. He was only himself, before the only person he had ever wanted to see him that way.

“The song you chose tonight… it was for me, wasn’t it?” Baku asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet heavy with an urgency that resembled a plea. He wasn’t asking, he was begging for a truth, the only one that could keep him standing in that moment.

Baek-Jin barely held back a moan of sheer pleasure at the touch of his strong hands still massaging his feet. The warmth sliding from his sole up to his calf was a relief he hadn’t felt in years, and a brief sound slipped from his lips, betraying him. It wasn’t intentional, and that made him flush red to his ears.

Baku noticed, and his smile curved into something tender, indulgent. He didn’t stop massaging his sole; instead, he calmly moved to the other, as if unhurried, as if each gesture were a bridge stretched between the two of them.

“Yes” Baek-Jin finally replied, his voice hoarse, almost broken with emotion. “It was for you… they all were. Every word I sang, every note I chose… they were for you.”

Baku’s heart jolted, but he didn’t stop. He kept on with the slow, circular, almost ritual motion, as if pressing into Baek-Jin’s flesh the certainty of that confession. Then he asked, softer, more intimate, lowering his head as if fearing the answer: “Did you miss me… these days, or… for five fucking years?”

The words fell heavy between them, yet without venom. There was no rancor in Baku’s voice, not anymore. But Baek-Jin knew that beneath them lingered a trace, sedimented in the other’s heart: the cruel promise of that last time, I hate you and I’ll never forgive you, returning as a distant echo, ready to break his heart again if he let it win.

He lowered his gaze, unable to hold for a moment the eyes digging into him, and his voice came out broken, cracked with sincerity.

“I missed you every day… for far more than five years, Hu-Min.”

His name, spoken with such intensity, settled between them like a new vow, more fragile and truer than any oath.

Those words were a declaration stripped to the bone, left suspended in the air. Baku paused, his hands resting warm and heavy against the other’s skin, as if anchoring the weight of that confession. His eyes grew misty with an emotion he couldn’t name: pain, relief, perhaps both.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty but dense, laden with the breaths of two men who had spent years running from and yearning for each other. It was the silence of something finally resurfacing, alive, stubborn, unstoppable.

“It’s not a competition” Baku chided with a half-smile, voice low but carrying a tone that tried to lighten the charged air around them. “We’re not those kids anymore, racing to see who’d get there first.”

Baek-Jin lowered his gaze, but couldn’t help smiling too, remembering.

“I was always the one to lose… and you always had some brilliant punishment ready for me.”

Baku chuckled softly, a sound that broke the tension with unexpected sweetness.

“I was very creative, yes…” he admitted, half-closing his eyes like someone leafing through distant pages. Then he tilted his head, more serious, more intimate.

“But you… you always made me feel as if, for me, you’d do anything.”

Baek-Jin lifted his gaze, direct and unwavering.

«It was,» he replied. Then, holding Baku’s eyes, he added with a firmness softer than any shout: «It is. Even now.»

Those words struck Baku with a quiet force. He nodded slowly, letting the gesture speak more than his voice. He kept massaging Baek-Jin’s foot, his fingers moving gently, as if that touch were a language they had never forgotten. Then he sighed, looked into his eyes, and asked in a low voice: «Do they hurt a little less now?»

Baek-Jin gave himself a moment to truly feel, then nodded. «Yes… thank you. Hu-Min, I-»

«Wait,» Baku cut him off, lifting his feet with care and placing them back on the floor. He studied him closely, as if searching beyond Baek-Jin’s face, looking for the traces of the mask he had worn for years. «We’re not done yet.»

Baek-Jin swallowed, caught off guard. That tone made it clear Baku wasn’t talking about feet or makeup. He sensed it, confused, tilting his head slightly. There was still something of Nina in that mirror’s reflection, in the dressing room’s lights, in the fragments of makeup clinging to his face. Perhaps that was what Baku was trying to erase, step by step, until he found only him.

«Do you live in this dressing room?» Baku asked suddenly, the question blunt, but heavy with unspoken meaning.

Baek-Jin’s eyes widened, startled. For a moment he looked genuinely caught, but then, after a brief hesitation, he shook his head slowly. «No. I have an apartment… in this building.»

The silence that followed was brief but intense. Baku studied him, and his gaze wasn’t accusing but searching, as if trying to uncover cracks in a truth he didn’t yet know. He tilted his head slightly, his hair falling into his eyes. «Can we go there?»

Baek-Jin stared at him, unable to hide his puzzlement. He tried to read beyond the request, to grasp what drove Baku to pull him out of the shell where he had hidden for so long.

Baku ran a hand through his hair, as though freeing himself from a heavy thought, and looked around the dressing room, the mirror, the scattered makeup, the remnants of costume. All things that belonged to Nina, not to Baek-Jin. The room felt suffocating, the air too full of borrowed memories.

«I want to see where my childhood friend has been all this time,» he confessed, simple and direct. «And… whatever we say to each other, him and me… I don’t want there to be a single trace of who he had to become to hide.»

The words fell like stones, but not harshly: they were clear, precise, impossible to misinterpret.

They struck straight into Baek-Jin’s heart, leaving no defense. He drew a quiet breath, and the emotion rising within him, a mixture of relief, fear, and perhaps the longing to finally stop pretending, wrapped around him like an invisible embrace. He felt that Baku was truly speaking to him, only to him, not to a ghost he had built.

He stood slowly, his body still taut with the habit of staying on guard, but his gaze steady.

«Alright,» he said, in a voice barely above a whisper, but without trembling. «Let’s go.»

They didn’t run into anyone. Baek-Jin knew the way well and guided them through side corridors, back doors, and a service elevator that opened with an old, rusted button. They went up three floors in a silence that wasn’t mere quiet: it was the silence of those walking along the edge of a precipice, with the feeling that each step might shatter the fragile balance between them. It felt like a pilgrimage into hell, granted only temporary leave by the devil himself.

The hallway was long, dimly lit by flickering neon lights. At the end, Baek-Jin pulled out a ring of keys and opened an anonymous door, unmarked by anything. The apartment that received them inside was surprisingly ordinary, almost nondescript: a bare living room, a sofa with a blanket tossed carelessly over it, caught between refuge and routine, as though Baek-Jin fell asleep there more often than in his own bedroom. On the low table sat abandoned plates and cups, silent witnesses of meals taken without company.

Visibly embarrassed, Baek-Jin hurried to gather them. «I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to clean,» he murmured, carrying everything into the small kitchen sink where the water began to run noisily.

But Baku wasn’t really listening. He was observing. Every corner, every detail. There were piles of books, some worn manuals, others novels underlined, even manga scattered here and there, remnants of the teenager Baek-Jin once was and, in some way, still lived within these walls. On a shelf, a few CDs, a box of half-burnt candles. Small fragments of life silently shouting who Baek-Jin was when he wasn’t Nina.

Walking slowly, Baku stopped in front of a photo. A simple frame, nothing fancy, but inside was an image that stole his breath: the two of them as boys. Arms around each other, the bold and innocent smile of those who believe life can never touch them. They were happy. Without masks, without lies.

Baku picked up the frame with care, as if it might break. He brushed two fingers across their faces printed in the photograph, holding back the lump in his throat. His eyes grew damp, but he didn’t let the tears win. The anger, yes, it was there, a river pressing against the dams of his control. But it wasn’t anger at Baek-Jin, it was larger, more bitter: anger at life, at the injustice of what they had been forced to become, of what they had lost, of the years no one would ever give back.

It was then that Baek-Jin returned, drying his hands with a kitchen towel. He froze in the doorway of the living room and saw him there, holding their photo. An eternal instant. And then, with a hesitant gesture, he stepped closer and took the frame, setting it back in its place. «Hu-Min… I’m sorry…» he began, his voice breaking, guilt heavy in his eyes.

Baku closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled deeply as though to push back the words that threatened to burst out, and raised a hand in a gentle stop. «Not yet,» he said calmly, firm but kind. His gaze fell on Baek-Jin, still wearing the light robe, his hair loose on his shoulders. «You need to put on your own clothes. Will you?»

Baek-Jin lowered his eyes to himself, to the sleeves of crumpled silk. For a moment he smiled, almost ironic, running a hand through the black hair now falling free. «If you want, you can take a shower too,» Baku added, trying not to sound pushy. Then, softer, like a promise: «I’ll wait here. We have all night, Jin-ah.»

Those last words made Baek-Jin tremble. Not just his hands, his whole body. His voice came out fragile, as though afraid of the answer: «So you won’t leave?»

Baku looked at him, and in that gaze Baek-Jin caught his own fears reflected: the fear of abandonment, of waking up alone, of an illusion fading. But Baku smiled, and that smile was like balm, a comfort that cut away every fear.

«No,» he said simply. «I’m not leaving. Go on, take your time.»

Baek-Jin nodded slowly, with a trembling breath that seemed to free him and bind him at once. Then, step by step, he headed toward the bedroom, leaving behind an aura of expectation that filled the whole room. Baku remained alone in the living room, but he had never felt so close to him as in that moment.

Half an hour later, Baek-Jin came back into the living room, dressed in a simple gray tracksuit, a towel draped over his shoulders. His hair was still slightly damp, soft, falling naturally across his face, framing eyes that seemed to capture every light in the room. Baku was sitting on the couch, the television on but unwatched; the sound of footsteps made him turn. He switched off the TV, rose slowly, and for a moment the world seemed to shrink to that instant: finally, he could see him, right there in front of him, alive, real.

“Jin…”

His heart leapt furiously into his stomach, beating like war drums in the silence of the apartment. His ears rang, and his mind scrambled to take in every detail of Baek-Jin: the way the towel slid across his toned shoulders, the slow movement of his hand as he dried his damp hair, the calm yet intense smile he gave him. Baek-Jin’s eyes were long, sharp, and feline, like those of a cat observing a precious prey, but filled with a warmth Baku hadn’t felt in years, or perhaps had only glimpsed a few rare times when they were children.
Every gesture, every tiny nuance of his face, was a miracle that had survived time and distance.

Baku knew that words, in that moment, came after every fleeting instinct, and this convinced him that until now he had only been running away from the truth.

“There you are” Baku said in a low voice, barely audible but heavy with meaning. It wasn’t just a greeting: it was relief, joy, disbelief, and the unspoken affirmation that they were finally together again. A smile spread across his lips, genuine and luminous, while Baek-Jin felt a faint blush rise to his cheeks; the half-light of the apartment seemed to guard their intimacy.

“Now we’ll talk, right?” Baek-Jin asked, his voice trembling, a thread of hesitation and fear hidden beneath his usual instinct to keep control. Baku nodded slowly and stepped closer. Every movement was deliberate, as though time itself had stretched to make room for that moment.

“I want to ask you something” Baku said, his voice calm but intense. He came nearer still, until he was just a breath away, and added, almost whispering: “May I?”

Baek-Jin’s eyes locked on his, drawn like magnets; every resistance melted in that instant. With a barely perceptible nod, he allowed Baku to close the distance.

“When I kissed you…” Baku’s voice betrayed a tremor, an emotion that made every fiber of his body quiver, yet he stood firm, steady as a wall before the inner quake tearing through Baek-Jin. “You kissed me back, didn’t you?”

Baek-Jin stayed still, his body tense but silent. Baku felt the weight of all the years suspended between them, and so he made the final step, leaning closer. “Jin, I need to know.”

Then, in a somber tone, Baek-Jin answered, drawing more on logic than on feeling: “You thought I was Nina…”

“No” Baku cut in, firm. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? That I was searching for you. You know very well who I was kissing. What I want to know is… did you answer because you pitied me, or…”

“No” Baek-Jin interrupted, his gaze fixed on him. His eyes were enough to replace words. In them was everything: the fire of years spent longing for that contact, the awareness of his own fragility, and the truth that the kiss had been sincere, not a gesture of pity.

Baku answered in kind, his eyes softening with a faint smile, full of understanding and affection.

“I wanted it.”

The words fell into the room like a rediscovered promise, and Baek-Jin felt the weight of all their silences dissolve, a liberating breath that seemed to melt away every tension, every lie, every fear. Time stopped for a moment, suspended between two hearts that had endured absence and pain, and at last stood close again. No masks, no disguises, only the two of them.

Baku reached out and gently brushed Baek-Jin’s face, as if to confirm he was real, that he was truly there, that this wasn’t some dream designed to grant him the answer he wanted.

Baek-Jin closed his eyes and surrendered, at last, to that long-awaited nearness, to that moment that could either shatter or heal every wound he had ever carried.

When Baku kissed him, all distance vanished in an instant, as though the air between them had been torn away. It was sudden, inevitable, heavy with all the fragility Baku had held back until then. Baek-Jin had known it was coming, he had been waiting for it, and yet the contact still overwhelmed him: he held his breath, eyes wide, as if his heart had exploded in his chest.

It was like an alarm triggered when the fire has already consumed every corner: there was no way out. Not that he wanted one, he would have gladly burned alive. For that mouth, it would still be worth it.

Baku’s lips were warm, soft, sure. Baek-Jin trembled under the touch, bringing both hands to Baku’s face, holding him there, his thumbs stroking his cheeks in small, hungry circles. His mouth parted slowly, a silent invitation that Baku accepted without hesitation. When their tongues met, the world outside vanished completely: their flavors mingled, sweet and intense, a shiver ran down Baek-Jin’s spine as Baku, consumed by urgency, pressed him gently but firmly against the wall.

The light thud of his back hitting the surface made Baek-Jin jolt, but Baku’s powerful embrace held him fast. He was cornered, trapped between the solidity of the wall and Baku’s imposing presence. One of Baku’s legs slid between his, forcing them apart, leaving no room to retreat. His hands gripped Baek-Jin’s hips with controlled strength, fingers digging through the fabric of his tracksuit, sending vibrations across his skin, carrying a possession that admitted no doubt.

Baek-Jin’s breath turned ragged, broken between kisses he couldn’t stop and the shudders shaking his body. Each time Baku gripped him tighter, pressed him closer, it was as if his heart skipped a beat, only to resume even louder, more desperate. His hands climbed along Baku’s face, then slid to the back of his head, tangling in his hair to pull him even closer, to deny even a millimeter of distance.

“Oh, Jin-ah…” Baku groaned. His taste… his taste mingled with his own was paradise.

“Mhmh” Baek-Jin replied, unable to put into words the avalanche of emotions flooding through him. Instead, he bit his lip and invaded his mouth again, his tongue dancing wildly with Baku’s in a kiss devoid of delicacy, overflowing with passion.

The room seemed to expand and contract with the rhythm of their mingled breaths. Every external sound vanished, leaving only the dull roar of blood pounding in their veins, the tension vibrating in their bodies. Baku loosened his grip just enough to slide a hand down along Jin’s groin, and when it closed around Baek-Jin’s already hard length, he felt him tremble, and that spurred him to kiss him harder, as if to smother him, with a fervor born of years of deprivation and unspoken desire.

Baek-Jin let out a muffled moan against his lips, his ears burning, but holding back was impossible. He had longed for this kiss, and now it came with Baku’s fingers, with those strong hands clutching and caressing him, awakening every nerve, every piece of skin, even his once-numb soul. This would be his final surrender, the sign that there were no more barriers left. Baku smiled faintly into the kiss, imperceptible, yet Baek-Jin felt it as an added shiver, a silent promise that they could no longer pretend.

“I had wished for this all along, Hu-Min” he said, not knowing what those words would ignite in the other.

The wall was cold against Baek-Jin’s back, but Baku’s presence was living heat, searing, and the contrast made him quiver even more. Every gesture, every touch, every pressure said the same thing: there is no more distance, no more wasted time, only us.

After what felt like hours of devouring each other, of consuming one another’s mouths in kisses that refused to end, Baek-Jin finally found a fragment of clarity. His hands, still tangled in Baku’s hair, slid down to trace the outline of his face. He only wanted to touch him, to feel him, to imprint this presence as the only certainty after years of absence. But when his fingers reached his cheeks, Baek-Jin froze. They were wet.

Baek-Jin’s heart stopped for an instant. Amidst moans, ragged breaths, kisses given with the urgency of survivors, he hadn’t realized that Baku was crying. He had felt his desperation, yes, reflected in every touch, but those tears struck him like a blow to the stomach. He tried then to push him back, his trembling hands firm but gentle on Baku’s neck, pressing to create a space between their mouths.

“Hu-Min…” he murmured, his voice cracking, almost a whisper.

But Baku wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t separate himself, as if doing so would mean shattering completely, breaking into pieces too small to ever gather again. His breath was feverish, his body rigid, as though every fiber fought against surrender. Then, sudden, a crash.

As if the force of his own emotions had grown too violent to contain, Baku tore one hand from Baek-Jin’s hip and slammed it against the wall with all his strength. His fist struck the surface with a dull, thunderous crack, leaving a sharp fracture in the plaster. The sound echoed like a thunderclap through the room, ripping apart the silence that followed.

Baek-Jin flinched, his heart leaping to his throat. Not from fear of him, but from the anguish he saw poured into that single gesture.

Thus, the kiss broke. Their breaths remained tangled, labored, heavy with tension. Baku lowered his head, letting it slide onto Baek-Jin’s shoulder and stayed there, hidden, almost as if seeking refuge. His tears kept falling, hot and silent, and Baek-Jin could feel them, dampening his skin through the fabric of the suit.

He stayed still, his hands still tangled in Baku’s hair. He felt divided, torn between two opposite impulses: to hold him tight and tell him he was there, alive, that he would never leave him alone again; or to step back, afraid of the force of that emotion that threatened to overwhelm them both. He looked at the wall, at the crack that now seemed like a warning, a reminder of the restrained fury that Baku was barely containing.

“Hu-Min…” he repeated, but the words died in his throat. There were no right words for that moment. There were only the beats of their hearts, one’s tears and the other’s paralysis. Baek-Jin didn’t know whether to touch his face and wipe away his pain or let him sink into it, fearing that even a clumsy gesture might shatter the fragile balance still holding them together.

So he remained there, his hands buried in Baku’s dark hair, his chest trembling beneath his, prisoner of that intimacy woven from wounds neither of them had yet dared to confess aloud.

“I’m sorry, Jin… did I scare you? I don’t want to hurt you… I just have too much anger inside, I don’t know how to deal with it, how to dissolve it. I hate you so much…” Baku whispered shortly after, when their breaths had grown less frantic and their hearts began to return to a more human rhythm.

Baek-Jin lifted his chin slightly, his face marked by exhaustion but also by that sweetness that broke him. His eyes shone with a tear not yet fallen. With a voice broken yet steady, he invited him to raise his head and look at him: “Lift it. Look me in the eyes, Hu-Min.” In it was a surrender to the evidence of the facts, and at the same time a tenderness that seemed to say, “I accept even this.”

Baku obeyed, hesitant. When their gazes met, Baek-Jin was destroyed inside, as though he had dug the bottom of a grave for himself and now saw its abyss. On that face, Baek-Jin read responsibility, remorse, a guilt that could not be erased. Yet there was no hatred: there was a fragile exception, the acceptance of someone who knows the other is wounded and who, precisely because of that, deserves everything, even the worst, if that is what the other thinks he has to give.

“You can hit me” he said softly, his voice seeking not vengeance but atonement. “I know I deserve it.” In the end, the words came out simple, without rhetoric: an obsessive offer of penance, a way to turn his sense of unworthiness into something concrete. It was the only thing that seemed possible to give, there, now: sacrifice.

Baku stared at him, his brow furrowed. That invitation unsettled him. For a moment the memory of his fist against the wall, the violence of his gesture, the crack that now stood as a warning, replayed inside him in a reality he no longer wished to repeat. He felt the anger boiling, but also a real disgust at the thought of unleashing it on that man. He stepped back, abruptly, almost fleeing from himself. “I told you I don’t want to hurt you!” he shot back, his voice too loud against Baek-Jin’s quiet tone.

Now deprived of Baku’s physical warmth that had just held him up a moment before, Baek-Jin wavered slightly. He leaned an arm against the wall, trying to steady himself on his legs; his posture betrayed the habit of those long, slow minutes spent kissing and holding himself up through Baku’s presence. His eyes grew briefly lost, then resolute. “I think it’s the only way to make you stop being so angry with me” he said, his voice smaller than before but thickened with determination. “But hit me anyway… I can take it.”

There was in that request a bittersweet desperation: he asked to be punished not because he thought violence could rebuild the past, but because he longed for something tangible on which to pour his guilt; the chance to see, in the flesh, a consequence of his mistakes. It was a request born from a place where the word forgiveness was still too vast to pronounce.

Baku remained still, his back turned. For unbearably long moments, the room was only breath and distance. Inside him, conflicting visions battled: the impulsive act that would close everything, and the memory of when, years before, it had already happened and the relief had been nothing but a breath of wind. He felt everything: how he had asked Baek-Jin for forgiveness and how he had demanded it in return, seeing him on the ground, beaten, defeated, had ended months of war, but then Baek-Jin had feigned death and all the rage had returned with battalions more and had lived within him for five years. A rage that still shaped the hatred, the sleepless nights, the days spent searching for him and living with his ghost. All for nothing, because in truth Baek-Jin was alive.

I had wished for this all along… So why all that wasted time?

Baku had said he hated him and that he would never forgive him, but now he wanted only to kiss him, love him, make love to him; the thought of inflicting more pain on him nauseated him, and yet the anger gave him no rest.

Baku’s hands, the same that had thrown that punch, clenched and unclenched as if searching for a way not to betray himself. In the end, he didn’t move. Instead, the anger took a different course: it stiffened on his shoulders and became voice rather than action.

“I won’t hit you” he said, his voice low and heavy. “Because the point isn’t to make you feel what I felt. I don’t want you to think your atonement has to come through your flesh, not again. You don’t deserve that… not like this.”

Baek-Jin looked at him, surprised, and for a moment the mask of firmness he had worn seemed to crumble. His eyes filled with tears; not relief, or perhaps partly so, but also guilt, because he understood that this refusal was an act of love he would never feel worthy of.

“If you don’t want to…” he murmured, broken. “Then… talk to me. Tell me what you need so you won’t hate me so much.”

Baku shook his head, torn apart. It was an offer he neither wanted to refuse nor accept. He collapsed onto the couch, his hands trembling as he brought them to his face and pressed them there as if to contain the pain. For the first time, his voice truly cracked: “I hate you, Jin. I hate you because you left. I hate you because you left me with something I didn’t know how to come back from. But I love you, too. And it’s not black or white, I don’t stop hating you if I accept that I love you, that I’ve always loved you…” The words came out sincere, confessional; he wasn’t seeking excuses, only a truth that hurt to speak.

Baek-Jin approached slowly, as though walking on thin glass, and bent down: he placed his hands on Baku’s head, then let them fall softly onto his shoulders, without invading.

“I can accept even this, that you keep hating me…” he said, and his voice was neither a plea nor a command. “But I don’t want this to wound you. I waited for you through all these nights you didn’t come back even though I was convinced you never would. You never had, before… I don’t know what you’ve had to endure these five years, but I know it changed you, just as it changed me… but even so, I know I will never be enough of a man to deserve your forgiveness, so if you can’t… Hu-Min, I am willing to let you go…”

Those words, offered as both a painful and dignified possibility, fell into the room. For a moment, everything was only breath. Baku clutched Baek-Jin’s hands, as if to hold onto both that gift and that risk. His eyes shone with tears, not weakness, but pure, fierce love, and he answered, his voice trembling but not breaking: “I won’t leave. I won’t lose you again.”

The words cost him, they came out rough, burdened with sleepless nights and the weight that had crushed him for five years.

“Those five years without you were a nightmare” he continued, his voice cracking. “Every day I thought I was surviving, but it was just existing. I woke up screaming and wondered if I was still breathing. I don’t ever want to lose myself in a tunnel like that again.”

He stopped, closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them they seemed clearer, more resolute.

“These last days I thought that just knowing you were alive would be enough for me to go on. But then your words kept echoing in my head, that you were forced to stay here, imprisoned, never truly free…” His hand trembled, holding back, holding back; the anger had mingled with his blood, becoming one, and Baku had to manage it, unconsciously, irrationally, like the body manages its own functions.

“It pissed me off, you know? I got so angry I barely recognized myself because I was finally free to move on, but I still came back to you, kept torturing myself asking why you didn’t come to me for help, if this is such a fucking prison. Why you went to him… Why you left me to die inside for all these years?”

The tears rose again like a river that no longer wanted to be contained, in both their eyes. Baek-Jin trembled like an autumn leaf, afraid to move any part of himself lest he fall. Baku bit his lip to keep from screaming, let his voice crack: “And yet… and yet…” he paused, long, looking at him so directly that Baek-Jin felt all his truth, “here, beside you, is the only place I want to be. Even if I hate you for doing this to me, I can’t imagine not having the right to be near you.”

Baek-Jin nodded, slowly, as if freeing himself from a weight.

“But I need the truth, bare. I want to hear it from you, without flourishes, without Nina between the lines. Make me understand why you stayed away for so long. I don’t want your guilt to become my prison.”

They would not heal that night: no word could erase five years of emptiness. But something had shifted in the air, fragile and therefore precious: the possibility of talking, of staying, of trying to tie together those broken threads with nothing but their presence.

Baek-Jin remained silent, as though shaken by a wave that had suddenly overwhelmed him. Baku’s words had hit him with the same force as a river finally discharging its flood into the sea: not a light rain, but a tidal wave sweeping everything away. For all the days, months, years he had spent imagining what he would do if the chance to see him again came, and he had promised himself a thousand times that he would greet it with firmness or with pity, with dignity or with anger, in that moment he felt utterly unprepared. Proof that, deep down, they had never truly known how to communicate.

He restarted from a memory, as though searching for a point where he could begin to unravel everything.
“Do you remember that night…” he began, his voice straining with the weight of the recollection. “You called me when Seong-je was arrested. You had… surrendered. You told me you had lost. That I never cared about taking your school, that all I ever wanted was to try to submit you.”

Baku, who until then had been staring into the void, control as his only shield, turned toward him. His brow furrowed; he nodded, but the gesture was heavy. When Baek-Jin spoke those last words, Baku’s hand clenched into a fist with such violence that for an instant Baek-Jin feared his joints might shatter: he took him gently by the wrists and stroked them to calm him.

“What does that have to do with anything now?” Baku snapped harshly, as if to protect himself from a wound reopening. “That was a lifetime ago.”

Baek-Jin lowered his eyes to their hands, to the warmth of the fingers gripping his wrists. Then he spoke, softly, each word carving a furrow of truth into the room.
“It matters because back then I couldn’t tell you the simplest thing. You were wrong. I- wanted you.”

The phrase came out raw, from a throat that had held in too many years of salt. “Not to dominate you. I wanted you, like I want you now. Only I didn’t know how to say it. I was afraid that, if I did, you’d hate me even more. Even then, your gaze was a sentence I had to endure. You hated me, for what I had become. I couldn’t bear the thought that my existence disgusted you, for the way I desired you.”

Baku’s eyes widened, the instinctive reaction of someone struck in the very core.
“Aish, you idiot, how-” he began, but Baek-Jin stopped him with a tone more sincere than he had used in a long time. “Wait… I’m not finished.”

He surrendered to a breath that was both confession and apology. “Instead of finding the courage to talk to you, I truly did subjugate you. The frustration of not being able to communicate, of seeing you look at me as if I were a mistake on your path, ignited in me the same rage I see in you today. I hated you. I hated you when they called you by the name I gave you, or when I had to accept that we were no longer the boys who laughed together on the basketball court. I hated you for being happy somewhere else. I hated you for choosing me and then abandoning me.”

His voice choked. “And that hatred consumed me. I started destroying. Wanting you near and wanting to break you. Until I no longer recognized myself.”

Baku began to cry. It was no longer just anger: it was the surrender of years piled with pain. Baek-Jin looked at him, a knot in his throat he couldn’t loosen. “I know what you think. That this isn’t love. Maybe it wasn’t at the start. But in these five years, I swear to you, it became so. If I’m still alive, it’s because that feeling for you kept me alive. It stopped me from surrendering completely.”

Baku’s tears etched lines of pain across his face. “Then it’s fine if you hate me” he whispered, “fine if you want to take it out on me. I deserve it. It’s right that you have the right to make me pay.”

Baku searched for an answer that was honest, not vindictive: “The answer isn’t an eye for an eye, Jin. Are you saying, are you saying that going to Seong-je was an act of revenge? That you wanted to hurt me with that choice?”

Baek-Jin released Baku’s hands and took his face gently in his own. His voice came out ragged: “No. Absolutely not.” Then he kissed him, quick and tender, not seeking to mend anything in haste, but only to be true. “No” he repeated with more firmness, his eyes burning with truth. “I didn’t go to Seong-je to hurt you. I didn’t do it for revenge.”

A pause opened, full of breath and memory. Both knew words could never erase everything, just as they knew those same words were the beginning, painful, awkward but real, of something that needed to be rebuilt.

Baek-Jin leaned into his nearness, and in the silence that followed, more than forgiveness, he sought a promise: to keep speaking, to dig together without mercy until truth became a ground they could both walk upon.

“Then why? Why didn’t you come to me for help?” Baku asked, his voice breaking, the plea slipping between the words like a thin blade. With trembling hands he caressed his nape, fingers sinking slowly into damp hair. He stared ahead, into the void of the room, but his entire being was fixed on Baek-Jin, every thought pinned on that face finally close again. His eyes gleamed once more; holding the tears back would have been a miracle, and he reached for it as a last act of will.

Baek-Jin rested his head on his shoulder and spoke, his voice warm like a whisper drawn from a distant place. “Because I didn’t want to ruin your life again. On that battlefield we had sealed it: two paths forever apart. You had to move forward, you didn’t deserve to keep suffering my mistakes. I believed I deserved this end.”

The words fell heavy. Baku lifted his chin with both hands, staring at his lips as if they could straighten the truth. Baek-Jin’s face was bent with suffering, tears carving down his cheeks. “How could you do this to me…” Baku burst out, but the anger dissolved quickly into sobs: no longer violent fury, but a pain entirely folding, despairing.

Baek-Jin looked at him, wiped his tears with the tips of his thumb and forefinger, slow caresses meant to mend. “Do you remember the last thing you told me?” he asked, and Baku shivered at the memory. The image of the last punch, of Baek-Jin on his knees, of their farewell, and he cried again, sobbing: “That I was sorry…”

“And that I should have been sorry too” Baek-Jin went on, his voice breaking. “Not coming back was the only way to say it, to feel that I truly was sorry… and that I couldn’t ask for help from you.” The words weighed like stones. Only their uneven breathing could be heard, and the faint ticking of some car outside on the street.

“But now you’re in this damned situation! Seong-je… he’s insane, he won’t let you go…” Baku burst out, his voice low, furious. The thought of Seong-je clutching Baek-Jin’s life like a bellows made him both enraged and powerless.

Baek-Jin smiled, a bitter, weary smile. “Where would I go, Hu-Min?” he replied. It wasn’t rhetoric: the question held the darkness of his existence.

Baku pressed his forehead to his. “Away, with me.” The request came out like an echo, simple and absolute. No plan, no strategy. Only the visceral need not to lose him again.

Around them, the apartment seemed to close in, like a shell protecting them. The hum of the fridge fan, the rhythmic beep of a sleepless street, and the outside world refracted into another plane of reality. Baek-Jin drew in a deep breath, as if weighing a leap into the void.

Baek-Jin looked at him, his eyes glistening, and for the first time in years, they didn’t shy away from Baku’s gaze. He inhaled softly, his chest trembling under the weight of all the unsaid words, and smiled faintly. It wasn’t a serene smile: it was fragile, but true, like the first ray of sunlight filtering through after an endless storm. Then, without hesitating anymore, he closed the distance between them and kissed him.

It wasn’t a timid kiss or one broken by fear, not a fleeting contact given just to reassure that the other was still there. It was a long kiss, deliberate, steeped in desire held back for far too long. Baek-Jin’s lips moved against his with a sweet, almost desperate urgency, and Baku responded with the same intensity, clutching his face, holding him as if never to let him go again.

Time seemed to slow. The noise of the city, the breathing of the apartment walls, even the awareness of their fragility disappeared, leaving room only for that mutual surrender. Baek-Jin trembled, but he didn’t pull away: on the contrary, he clung to that contact as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored to the present. His heart pounded wildly, but in that confused rhythm he finally found peace.

They stayed like that for minutes, wrapped in a silence broken only by their mingled breaths. When Baku finally pulled back, he did it reluctantly, leaving his forehead resting against Baek-Jin’s, his breathing still uneven. He looked into his eyes, as if searching for proof that the moment wasn’t an illusion.

“You’ve changed” he whispered, his voice rough, cracked by held-back tears and the intensity of that kiss. He brushed his thumb across Baek-Jin’s lips, as if imprinting them into memory. “You’re different.”

Baek-Jin lowered his eyelids, a slow smile spreading across his face, more genuine this time, like a secret shared. No longer bitter, it carried within it a quiet gratitude. “It was Nina.”

The name slipped out like a confession. Baku furrowed his brow slightly, trying to understand, but didn’t interrupt. Baek-Jin took a few moments, leaning into him a little, as if speaking of her meant drawing on some distant strength.

“She… taught me how to breathe again. When everything inside me was nothing but darkness, Nina found a crack and let the light in. She just showed me I could still be human, that I could do what I love without having to excel, that not everything was lost. Without her, I wouldn’t be here, Hu-Min.”

A dense silence fell over the room, broken only by their warm, lingering breaths, suspended between anticipation and uncertainty. Baku gazed at him, eyes glassy but calm, lips pressed into a line that wanted to be a smile but trembled instead, sorrowful. He said nothing right away, letting Nina’s name settle between them like luminous dust he didn’t dare disturb.

Baek-Jin dropped his gaze for a moment, then lifted it again nervously. His pupils darted quickly, scanning Baku’s face, searching in that ocean of emotion for a clear answer, a certainty. His voice broke when he spoke, almost a whisper that struggled to be heard: “Don’t you like me?”

Baku’s eyes widened in surprise, then softened into a tender, incredulous smile. He shook his head slowly, as if the very thought was absurd.

“No, no-” he replied, in a tone that mingled irony and sweetness. His voice wavered slightly as he added, “I was just wondering… do you prefer I call you Nina? I don’t want you to think, not even for a second, that when I took away the makeup, the heels, your clothes… I was rejecting something about you. I don’t want you to believe I was erasing who you are.”

The words came out hesitant, weighted with fear and care, and it was precisely this sensitivity that pierced Baek-Jin’s heart. He wasn’t surprised, not truly: this was Hu-Min, his Hu-Min, the gentle, fragile boy he had known when no one else had been capable of loving him, the one life had placed by his side like a gift he had never felt worthy of.

Baek-Jin bit his lip, overwhelmed, a shiver running down his spine, making him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years. Inside him, Nina seemed to dance, wild, a jazz tune bursting with joy and freedom.

He leaned closer, his voice trembling with intensity as he answered, almost against Baku’s mouth: “I don’t know how I could live without hearing you call my name. Nina is part of me, she always will be… but I am Baek-Jin. Your Jin.” His hands rested lightly on Baku’s forearms, slow caresses seeking contact and roots.

Baku drew in a deep breath, as if summoning courage, then let out a sigh that seemed to drag along years of repressed desire. “Jin…” he murmured, his voice ragged and feverish, “I want… I want to make love with you, I want to feel you, I want to take you, here, now… Jin-ah.”

The words fell between them like a jolt. Baek-Jin froze for a heartbeat, stunned by the sudden bluntness, then his eyes lit up with a fire that had never stopped smoldering. He smiled with boldness, tilting his head slightly. “And what are you waiting for?” he teased, pupils gleaming.

Baku, nearly breathless, let the last barrier between them slip away: “For you to take me to the bedroom.” His voice was hoarse, almost a moan of desire and fear interwoven.

Jin held his gaze, Baku’s words burning inside him like gasoline poured onto an already blazing fire. But he didn’t stand, didn’t extend his hand to lead him elsewhere. He didn’t want a “later” didn’t want corridors, beds, or spaces that would place even a symbolic distance between them. He wanted him now. He wanted him there.

So, without warning, he moved decisively: sliding onto Baku’s lap, settling across him with the naturalness of someone finally taking what had always been his. Baku received him instinctively, hands finding his hips to steady him, eyes wide in an expression that blended surprise with an almost disbelieving happiness.

Baek-Jin laughed softly, a low chuckle that rose spontaneously from his throat, amused by that astonished face he loved so much. With an affectionate yet cheeky gesture, he ruffled his hair, then bent forward again to kiss him, harder this time, hungrier, holding him by the chin.

There, pressed tightly against each other, it felt as if nothing else in the world mattered anymore.

Every gesture was ravenous and uncertain at once, as if they feared a single wrong move could shatter the spell. Baek-Jin, still savoring the warm breath of Baku on his lips, lifted his arms and tugged his sweatshirt off slowly, almost like a ritual. His hands immediately settled on those broad shoulders, sliding down the curve of muscles he knew only from memory: solid, hot, pulsing beneath living skin. A shiver coursed through him, his fingers unwilling to let go.

Baku groaned, a low, ragged sound that made him tremble, and kissed him again with urgency, devouring his mouth as if he could erase all distance. There was no truce, no pause granted. Baek-Jin, dizzy from such hunger, pressed his hands to Baku’s sweatshirt, silently urging him to free him as well.

When his chest too was revealed, barely lit by the pale reflection of the moon filtering through the window, Baku froze, spellbound. Baek-Jin’s skin was fair, soft, vibrating with a fragile, sensual perfection that invited him without words. Baku’s eyes burned, greedy, unable to look away.

He abandoned those swollen, reddened lips, moving downward slow, methodical, as if tracing a map of his body with kisses and bites. The neck, the collarbone, the chest. Every inch was marked, sucked, branded by feverish attentions that echoed in the room, amplified by the silence. Baek-Jin laughed at times, nervous and ticklish, but his laughter broke almost instantly into short, trembling breaths that betrayed how aroused he was, how deeply he was giving in to pleasure.

When Baku reached his nipple and caught it between his lips, sucking greedily, licking it with almost painful hunger, Baek-Jin jolted. His back arched suddenly, elegant, like a dancer surrendering to music in a cambré. A moan broke in his throat, while his thighs tensed and his cock, already hard, pressed desperately against the fabric of his sweatpants, begging for the same attention the rest of his body was receiving.

And there, in the hot, uncontrolled friction between their bodies, Baek-Jin felt the same urgency in Baku: the hardness pressing into him, the vibrating tension that bound them in a tiny space thick with desperation and desire. Two worlds that, after years, finally touched without barriers, burning together.

Baek-Jin pushed him down onto the couch with a sudden, almost brutal gesture of urgency, yet his ragged breathing revealed that the distance burned inside him as much as the desire itself. He gave him no respite: he seized Baku’s hands firmly and guided them to his hips, to the waistband of his sweatpants, an explicit invitation that needed no words.

Baku followed without hesitation, with that meticulousness blending care and hunger: he slid the fabric down slowly, fingers unwilling to settle for a practical gesture, but claiming the curves, groping, squeezing, exploring Baek-Jin’s ass as if testing the flesh of a forbidden fruit to savor down to the last drop. “You’re perfect” he murmured, and his voice carried the gravity of a vow, not a compliment.

Baek-Jin bit his lower lip, his expression a mix of mischief and vulnerability, looking down at him, disheveled, dark hair falling over his face like a curtain drawn open. Hu-Min, his Hu-Min, watched him from below, beautiful, powerful as a Greek statue, a fallen god in his living room. “During the shower… I made sure I was clean” he whispered with a smirk.

Baku’s eyes widened in surprise, but immediately a sly smile curved his lips, turning the moment into pure arousal. “So you were thinking about this too” he said, his tone low, charged with intent.

Baek-Jin chuckled softly, a sound vibrating more from tension than mirth, and leaned down to kiss him, crouching onto him with a fluid, slow, deliberate movement. “What do you think?” he teased, while one hand, firm, guided Baku between his curves, opening himself to that touch, demanding it.

Baku invaded him with two fingers, and Baek-Jin’s body reacted at once: a tremor, half-lidded eyes, a broken breath caught between pleasure and surprise. Then came the words, striking deeper than penetration itself: “You’re so warm, so tight… just for me...”

The syllables crushed him. Baek-Jin’s hand clamped around Baku’s wrist, pushing his fingers deeper inside. The moan that spilled into Baku’s mouth wasn’t contained but ravenous, revealing how that contact was devouring him.

With his other hand, Baek-Jin pressed on Baku’s abdomen, lifting himself to intensify the movement, to feel him even deeper, and the shock that raced through his body made him vibrate entirely, libido coursing through his veins like fire. But he didn’t stop there: his hunger was greater.

With quick fingers, Baek-Jin slid down Baku’s pants, unbuttoning, yanking down the zipper with urgency, freeing him from the fabric’s prison. Almost in the same gesture, he tugged down his own sweatpants just enough. Now they were both exposed, bare where it mattered, hard, throbbing, their bodies brushing without barriers, arousal spreading like an uncontrollable blaze.

Baek-Jin seemed an artist immersed in his masterpiece, a demiurge leaving nothing to chance. Every gesture was precise, every caress crafted with the exactness born of years of repressed desire, of nights of unspoken dreams. Baku, beneath him, was living matter, clay yielding to those skillful, determined hands, astonished at how Baek-Jin knew exactly where to lead him without hesitation.

Then Baek-Jin seized his other hand, the one not buried inside him. With a slow but determined motion, he intertwined their fingers, gripping as if that bond were a vow never to let go again. Baku let him, disoriented at first, breath shortening, eyes searching his partner’s face for answers. And it took only two heartbeats, two quick sighs, for him to understand: Baek-Jin guided their entwined hand downward, until it gripped both their cocks, and began to move.

At first, precum seemed enough to ease the motion, but when Baek-Jin realized it wouldn’t suffice for both, he lifted their joined hands to his mouth and let a rivulet of saliva drip down. Seductive, sinful. All under Baku’s entranced gaze. When Baek-Jin, smiling, returned to stroke them, spreading the slick over both lengths, Baku thought his heart wouldn’t survive much longer.

The contact was devastating. The heat of skin sliding against skin, the perfectly balanced pressure, the rhythmic strokes wrapping them together… Baku lost control almost instantly. His body surged forward, back arching to close the space between them, as if pulled by a magnetic force. He sought Baek-Jin’s mouth with primal urgency and kissed him. It wasn’t measured, it wasn’t sweet: it was a theft, a silent scream, the gesture of a madman who had fallen into Wonderland and never wished to find his way back.

The closeness increased the friction, their trapped hands between their bellies sliding and grinding them both into unbearable pleasure. The heat of their bodies amplified every sensation, and sweat, mingling with ragged breaths, made them slippery and incandescent. Each stroke shook them like lightning, leaving them unable to stop.

And in that delirium, Hu-Min lost all restraint. With the hand still buried inside him, he plunged deeper, adding another finger in an instinctive, almost desperate gesture. Baek-Jin gasped into his mouth, a long, shameless moan dissolving into the kiss. Their lips parted, and Baku invited him with his tongue, play, battle, surrender all at once.

It was filthy. It was bold. It was disordered, chaotic, bodies asking no permission, giving no explanations. Every move was a risk, every gesture a sin. And yet, because of that, it was perfect.

Baku locked eyes with him, breath broken, fingers moving inside him slowly, while their hands pumped their erections, overturning everything that had ever made sense. He felt every tension, every fragment of resistance in Baek-Jin melt and at the same time tighten around his fingers.

“You’re like this only for me, right? Tell me you’re mine, ah…” he muttered, voice hoarse, trembling with intensity.

Baek-Jin felt the words vibrate through him, his heart pounding wildly, and he collapsed against Baku’s forehead, as if anchoring himself there forever. “Yours… always yours, even when I couldn’t tell you” he gasped, almost sobbing, while his hands traced impossible paths over their bodies, chasing every inch of contact. And Baku’s, inside him, were unraveling the order of things the way he had always craved.

For an instant, a suspended silence fell, broken only by panting breaths and moans spilling over lips and skin. Baku gazed at him, eyes wet, a trembling, weary smile, and whispered, his voice laced with promise: “I won’t lose you again, Jin-ah. Not even if the world collapses on us.”

Baek-Jin met his gaze, voice a fragile thread, weaker than he wished to show, while pleasure and vulnerability mixed inside him: “Then hold me. Hold me tight…”

Baku arched his chest, pressing it against Baek-Jin’s as if he could seal the world out of their embrace. His fingers kept moving, slow and precise, while his mouth invaded Jin’s, kissing and sucking, stealing every breath, every moan.

“I’ve got you… You won’t run from me again, I won’t ever let you go” he vowed, feeling Baek-Jin’s body tremble against him, skin hot and slick with sweat.

Baek-Jin nodded against Baku’s lips, unable to hold back a louder moan, his body arching and clinging tightly to the other’s.

“Don’t make me come like this” Baku begged, voice hoarse, almost a plea torn from deep within.

“I can’t bear it anymore, I need to be inside you, to erase this unbearable distance.”

Baek-Jin looked at him and, with a teasing smile, gave him a light kiss that mocked and melted him at once. “You’re a poet… you should be writing me songs.”

Baku laughed, frustrated and trembling, and when their entwined hands parted just enough, he caught Baek-Jin’s chin firmly and bit his lip, a rough gesture that made him moan, before diving back onto his mouth in a kiss that distracted him just enough. With his free hand, Baku pulled closer, sliding his arm around Baek-Jin’s waist and lifting him: Baek-Jin’s body slid, his stomach pressed against Baku’s navel, their cocks crushed together in a burning pull.

He felt the tip of his shaft nudge, searching for the tight, hot entrance, and for a second he hesitated, lost in the map of Baek-Jin’s body. Then he pushed, slowly, turning that first entry into an act with the rhythm and meter of a poem of rhymed couplets: every thrust a word, every breath a pause.
“You’re holding me so tightly, it feels… divine… Jin-ah” he murmured, voice trembling with the intensity of the contact, more awe than pain.

Baek-Jin answered with a sharp roll of his hips, as if inviting him deeper, taking him in to the last inch. The shudder that tore through Baku made him grit his teeth; he clutched Baek-Jin’s hips like anchors, while Baek-Jin grinned, ravenous, and began to move in small, rhythmic jolts that deepened their joining.
“Oh, God, it’s insane, Jin… yes, like that…” Baku stammered, eyes shut, his head reeling with pleasure.

Baek-Jin held his head high, focused, his body moving as though he were playing an instrument: precise, powerful, elegant.

“I feel you in my stomach already… it’s incredible, Hu-Min. You’re incredible… it feels so good… ah- I want you more-” his words tumbled with his breath, his hips quickening, faster and faster, like a gallop he never wanted to stop.

Baku realized at once he was losing control, because Jin had taken the lead, because his sensitivity had turned him into the master of a dance now sweeping them both away. In an impulsive move, he lifted himself slightly and buried his mouth in Jin’s chest; his lips bit, sucked, left bruises and marks, claims and prayers in one. Jin’s moan burst out, high, raw, strangled by pleasure.

But Baek-Jin was quick to seize back control: with boldness, he pushed him away just enough, slid two fingers into Baku’s mouth with shameless ease, let him wet them, then used them to touch himself, his eyes locked on Baku’s. It was a scene of mutual possession, of command and surrender that left them both dizzy. Baku stared, entranced, as Jin’s hand continued its game, and couldn’t resist biting those reddened nipples again; pain and pleasure fused, creating a tension that drove them higher, toward the edge.

Baek-Jin’s hips never slowed; the ride drew closer and closer to the peak, movements and jolts that seemed about to break reason itself. By then they were one body in many bodies, every sense sharpened: heat, the scent of skin, the taste of each other’s mouths, the pounding rhythm of their hearts, each surge rising like a wave.

And then it all erupted together, without warning or mercy: the wave rose and swallowed them whole. Sensations turned sharp, clear, like blades of light piercing skin; the world shrank to a single core of heat in the chest, to a dull roar that was only their blood hammering in their ears.

They froze in that perfect knot of contact, seized by a force neither foresaw nor controlled: eyes closing to savor, mouths seeking the other as if they could swallow the universe whole. When the climax took them, there was no scream, only a long tremor rolling through both from the inside out, a chain of shudders leaving them fragile and overflowing, like the air after a storm.

By natural reaction, by instinct to protect, to keep from scattering into the void that follows release, they clutched each other with a tender, grateful strength. Arms closed like anchors: Baku’s circled Baek-Jin’s waist, his face pressed against his belly damp with seed, but it didn’t matter; all that mattered was not losing him now that orgasm had marked the end. Jin held him around the neck, cradling his face, his own head resting atop Baku’s. It wasn’t shame or embarrassment guiding them, but the visceral need not to let slip what they had finally found.

They stayed like that, tight and panting, while breath slowly found a human rhythm again. Their bodies relaxed bit by bit, Baek-Jin sitting more comfortably on Baku’s knees, and holding each other became easier, for neither had any intention of parting. Tension melted with effort, and the sweat on their skin became a silent testament to the moment.

The room reclaimed its silence, broken only by the faint ticking of a distant clock and their heartbeats, gradually slowing. They exchanged lazy caresses, damp kisses, whispered words they would never have dared elsewhere.

“I’ve got you, Hu-Min.”

“I won’t let you go, Jin.”

The night drifted on, slow. At times they spoke softly, at times they fell quiet; sometimes the talk grew concrete, names, facts, apologies, other times it wandered into memories of reckless boys running under the rain. And every so often, when tension reignited, Baek-Jin would clutch Baku to him. And Baku let himself be held, soothed, his anger still smoldering but extinguished in turn, lulled by sex, by love, by caresses and kisses. There was no easy resolution, but there was a shared vow: neither would make the other pay the penalty each carried inside, not gratuitously. They would try to turn anger into words, guilt into stories, absence into presence. And if that wasn’t enough, then Baku would play the poet again, making their bodies rhyme as one.

***

During the week, Baku seemed to blossom again. It wasn’t just something on the surface: it was as if something inside him had finally found air to breathe after years of drowning. His training resumed with new force, his teammates noticed him sharper, faster, more magnetic than ever. At university, professors were surprised by his clarity, his quick responses, his almost contagious enthusiasm. His friends teased him warmly, blaming that unexpected energy on the girl he was “dating.”

No one suspected the truth: the day after he had made love to Baek-Jin for the first time, Baku had met that girl only to end things. He’d tried to be kind as always, using the excuse that soon he’d need to focus only on his professional career and didn’t want to trap her in a relationship that was going nowhere. A white lie, but with so much truth in it: Baku was thinking about the future, and in that future he saw only one person at his side, Baek-Jin. Wherever life would take them.

He didn’t tell his friends, though. He let them believe the simpler version, the one that made him look like a boy in love. He wasn’t ready to confess who he had really fallen for, nor to explain that this love wasn’t new at all, but ancient, risen from the ashes like he himself had.

Because of this inexplicable joy, one evening Baku asked him to come watch one of his championship games. Baek-Jin had hesitated, too anchored to the conviction that beyond the Nina’s and his apartment, he couldn’t allow himself to go further. He didn’t tell Baku, afraid of angering him, but the thought that Seong-je might find out and plan some twisted revenge for that excess of freedom unsettled him deeply.

Yet Baku had no intention of giving up on convincing him.

Lying on the bed in Baek-Jin’s apartment, with dim light brushing over their skin, Baku decided not to argue with words. He slipped slowly between Baek-Jin’s thighs, stealing his breath with the first hot touch of his mouth on his swelling length. His tongue moved in slow, seductive strokes, up and down, guided by a hand that squeezed and set the rhythm, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how to unravel him. Every now and then he looked up, lips wet and glistening with Baek-Jin’s release, smiling a dirty, hungry smile before rasping out: «Are you going to come?»

Baek-Jin laughed, a nervous, muffled laugh, and covered his face with his arm, unable to withstand those pleading eyes and that mouth devouring him at once. But Baku didn’t relent; he dove back in with even more hunger, lips sucking greedily, tongue caressing with precision, tracing the ridge of his glans and teasing the veins along his full length.

«So? Will you?» he insisted again, this time with a sharper edge of mischief.

Baek-Jin grabbed his hair, tugging him back just enough to force his gaze upward. Panting, his breath unsteady, he whispered in a broken voice:

«If you keep this up… I’ll come, but not the way you mean…»

Baku chuckled, low and brief, before devouring him again with ravenous want, moving faster, deeper, his mouth and hand working in a rhythm that climbed and climbed until it was irresistible. Baek-Jin moaned, his muscles tightening, his hands clamping around Baku’s head, helpless against the storm about to crash through him.

«I’m coming… Hu-Min… I’ll come! I’m coming- ahhh! I told you I’ll come, BAKU!! Ah, fuck!» he gasped, eyes shut tight, breath shaking his entire body. He didn’t know if he was crying out from the tidal wave of climax tearing him apart, or because Baku’s shameless “persuasion” had truly convinced him to step outside that apartment.

Either way, the orgasm broke him, made him tremble, stripped him bare. Baku rose slowly, satisfied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips slick and dirty, grinning like a boy who had just won a challenge.

«You can’t go back on your promise now, Jin…» he teased, leaning down to steal a deep, filthy kiss, mixing everything between them into an intimacy that left no room for doubt.

Baek-Jin, still gasping, his heart racing wildly, could only answer that kiss, already knowing, yes, he would go to that game. After all, Baku had been very convincing.

Baek-Jin arrived in the stands well ahead of time, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his face, a black bob wig framing the features the public knew all too well as Nina’s. A thin line of dark makeup around his eyes was enough to alter his gaze, making him less recognizable. He sat among strangers, blending into the crowd, and for the first time in a long while he felt almost invisible.

In the distance, he spotted Sieun, Su-Ho, and Juntae. They were laughing together, probably betting on the outcome of the game, but they sat closer to the section reserved for the bench players. Baek-Jin curled in on himself, his heart pounding, the risk of being discovered making him tremble.

But when the team stepped onto the court, every fear evaporated. Baku’s eyes immediately began searching, as though they already knew exactly where to find him. And when they did, among dozens of faces, Baek-Jin felt as if the whole arena had emptied in an instant, leaving just the two of them. Baku lit up, smiled at him, and raised his hand in a quick, almost boyish wave full of emotion.

Beside him, Gotak had followed his teammate’s gaze, then glanced absently toward the stands. Panic struck Baek-Jin; he ducked his head deeper under the hood. But when he dared to look up again, he saw Baku making one of his trademark exaggerated, theatrical gestures, the kind he used whenever he was inventing absurd stories to distract someone. He was clearly trying to mislead Gotak, and that little innocent lie, told only to protect him, melted Baek-Jin’s anxiety. He smiled, and the butterflies in his stomach fluttered so wildly he had to press a hand against his chest.

The game began, and from the first whistle Baek-Jin found himself holding his breath. He wasn’t just watching an athlete: Baku on the court was an artist. Every move was harmony, strength and grace fused together. When he dribbled, he seemed to dance; when he ran, he pushed beyond human limits; and when he scored, it was like witnessing a performance that touched the soul. Every time the ball slipped through the hoop, Baku turned toward him, searching his eyes, dedicating that proud smile to him. Baek-Jin couldn’t stop smiling back, a smile steady on his lips, without shadows. He even stood for him, conquering the fear of being recognized, cheering him, calling his name, celebrating him.
Happy. Truly happy. Perhaps more than Baek-Jin had ever been in his life.

Late that night, when the arena lights were off and the streets empty, they walked side by side toward Baek-Jin’s apartment. Baku rattled on about the game, miming plays, recounting details as if Baek-Jin hadn’t been right there to witness them. Baek-Jin let him talk, smiling in silence, entertained by his contagious enthusiasm.

Then, suddenly, Baku stopped gesturing and took his hand. He laced their fingers with ease, with pride, without hesitation. Bold, unashamed, as if there were nothing wrong in the world. Baek-Jin froze, startled, then looked around. No one. Only a deserted street and their shadows cast by lamplight. He squeezed back, wordless.

They walked like that all the way home, never letting go. And when the door closed behind them, the certainty that this love was real wrapped around them as the simplest, most natural thing in existence.

After that first outing together, every evening, once his commitments were over, Baku returned to the Nina’s. Not to drink, not to be seen: he slipped in almost unnoticed, dodging the noise of the bar, to shut himself away in Baek-Jin’s apartment. And he stayed there, every night. The desperate frenzy of their first time was gone: there was hunger, yes, the physical need that drove them to make love again with the same urgency, but there was also the stillness of daily gestures. They cooked together, ate together, feeding each other and laughing like kids, watched movies, brushed their teeth, showered. There wasn’t a moment when they truly separated. They fell asleep naked, tangled up, or half-dressed, with pants abandoned by the sofa and the television murmuring in the background.

Sleep, however, was an illusion. Baek-Jin rested, finally at peace, his face smoothed by a sleep that seemed to return stolen pieces of life. Baku, instead, stayed awake. Maybe it was insomnia, maybe euphoria, but he couldn’t bear to miss a single instant. He spent hours watching him: the slow rise of his chest, the heartbeat he could feel with his palm pressed lightly over it, the steady breath reminding him obsessively that his Jin was alive, that he loved him and was loved by him too…

Every hour spent away from him felt wrong, like a mirage about to vanish. University, training, even jokes with his friends: everything seemed unreal, secondary, as though belonging to another life. And each time he opened that door and crossed the tiny apartment, each time he bent to kiss him suddenly, to hold him and be welcomed in those arms, reality crashed back with the force of absolute certainty.

Baek-Jin always laughed at those sudden kisses, half amused, half embarrassed, hiding his smile against Baku’s neck. But in that laughter, Baku found proof that nothing was an illusion: Jin was there, with him, truly. Not a memory, not a ghost. Alive. His.

And when the nights stretched long and sleepless, Baku never complained. He lay still, keeping watch, his heart swelling with a feeling that sometimes seemed too big to contain. It was enough, having his hand resting over Baek-Jin’s chest, marking the rhythm of a heartbeat he never wanted to stop listening to.

***

The night Nina returned to the stage, the club was more crowded than it had been in a long time. Every table was taken, people pressed together even standing, waiters struggling to weave through with trays full of glasses.
The lights were dim, a veil of cigarette smoke hung suspended in the air, and the atmosphere was charged with a peculiar, feverish electricity. It wasn’t just the usual anticipation: there was something different tonight, a tension running through the room like an invisible wire. It was clear this wouldn’t be just another evening, but a performance to be remembered.

Baku was already there, seated at his usual table: the one near the stage, right by the exit that led backstage. The perfect spot to catch every detail and, more importantly, to slip straight to Baek-Jin as soon as the show ended. Usually, that seat gave him comfort, the sense of having everything under control. But that night, with every passing minute, his leg began to bounce nervously under the table, betraying the agitation he was failing to conceal.

The curtain had already seen a parade of acts: a couple of comedians with their over-the-top jokes, dancers moving with energy, cabaret numbers that made the crowd laugh and clap. Everything went smoothly, as scripted, yet the excitement in the room never waned, on the contrary, it grew, as if everyone knew the best was still to come.

When suddenly all the lights shifted to yellow and pink, warm and vibrant like an artificial dawn, Baku knew the moment had arrived. A rush of heat swept through him, instinctive, as if his heart had recognized before his mind that something extraordinary was about to happen.

Women appeared onstage, dressed in colorful feathers, tight corsets shaping their waists, their legs moving with grace and sensuality. The music changed tone, becoming sultrier, jazzier, laced with mischief. Baku didn’t think much of it at first: he’d seen burlesque numbers at Nina’s before, was used to the exaggerated atmospheres, the teasing glances, the veils slipping away. For a second, he thought it was just the prelude before Baek-Jin’s entrance, when, as always, he would conquer the crowd with nothing but the power of his voice.

But when he saw him step in, flanked by the dancers, not as a simple singer but as the centerpiece of the tableau, his breath caught in his throat.

Baek-Jin, or rather, Nina in that burlesque guise was mesmerizing. The corset hugged her slender frame, accentuating her lines; her skin, lit by the stage lights, gleamed like porcelain; her movements were fluid and assured, as though that stage had been built for her. The audience erupted: cheers, applause, whistles, voices calling her name, inviting her to dance closer. Everyone recognized Nina, the diva, and surrendered to the spell she cast.

Baku, instead, couldn’t move. His brain had short-circuited, rebooted into some sort of safe mode, incapable of processing the sight of Baek-Jin, so different, and yet so irrevocably his. Sitting at his table, he felt only the hammering in his chest, the sweat slicking his palms, the stiffness of legs that refused to obey.

Between verses, between steps and glances cast toward the audience, Nina sought his eyes. She wasn’t looking at anyone else, despite the roar around her. She found him there, frozen, and gave him a sharp, mischievous smile. Then she blinked slowly, deliberately, and began to advance.

Baku saw her descend from the stage, step by step, like a predator carefully choosing its prey. Every movement measured, every flutter of lashes calculated to entice, yet aimed solely at him. When the distance finally closed, Nina moved with lethal grace: her body brushed close without touching, an artful, cruel provocation that ignited every inch of air between them.

With a theatrical elegance, she caught one of the veils draped at her hips and let it slip away, revealing long, flawless legs. The pink and yellow lights caressed her skin with warm reflections, and Baku had the dizzying sensation the whole room had fallen silent to take in that vision. But he knew it wasn’t true: it was just that he couldn’t hear anything anymore, his brain reduced to a white hum as Baek-Jin approached with that wicked smile.

With the ease of someone fully aware of their absolute power, Nina placed one foot, encased in a glittering, vertiginous heel, right between his legs. A quick, precise move that jolted through him like an electric current up his spine. Then, with excruciating slowness, she took the veil she had just shed and dragged it along her leg, a languid stroke that made Baku imagine far more than was actually visible.

The crowd roared, cheered, but for Baku no one else existed anymore. Only him and Nina. Or rather: only him and Baek-Jin, hidden behind that mask of feathers and heels, yet more real than ever.

So, when Nina leaned down, closing the space between them to a mere breath, her blond hair brushed against his face. Just an instant, but enough to leave him dazed: a fleeting caress, a sudden tickle, and with it the invasion of her perfume, intense, sweet, intoxicating. Baku inhaled greedily, like an addict suddenly faced with the forbidden glass.

Then Nina pulled back, laughing softly, leaving only the trail of that scent and the cruel promise of a touch that had never come. And Baku remained there, unable to tell whether he was still alive or if his heart had truly decided to burst.

Right then and there, Baku understood two things with the certainty of an absolute truth: he could say goodbye to his brain, which had officially crashed, and all the blood he needed to think had already been rerouted in a very different direction.

The corridor still hummed with the murmur of the crowd spilling out, with laughter and applause filtering through the closed doors. Inside the dressing room, though, there was silence. The mirror, lit by dozens of glowing bulbs, reflected Baku’s body leaning against the wall, stiff with anticipation.

The handle turned. Baek-Jin entered laughing, still trapped in Nina’s mask: feathers brushing his neck, heels clicking on the floor, long gloves he was peeling off with a theatrical gesture. He waved absentmindedly to someone in the hallway, then shut the door behind him. His eyes landed on Baku, and the smile curling his lips was the mischievous, provocative one he wore only for him.

“I was wondering where you’d disappeared to” he said, tossing a glove onto the table. “I thought you were hiding in the bathroom, reflecting on all the choices that brought you to this night.” His tone was mocking, playful, as though he were still performing Nina even offstage.

But Baku had no intention of playing. He moved forward with sudden resolve, caught Baek-Jin by the nape, fingers threading through hair still stiff with hairspray, and with a sharp motion shoved him against the wall. An instinctive, fluid spin, worthy of applause even on stage. Then his lips crashed against Baek-Jin’s, thirsty, ravenous, devouring him as if he had waited centuries for that moment.

“You’re out of your fucking mind” he muttered against his skin, trailing kisses and bites down to his neck. Baku’s voice was hoarse, ragged with desire. “I could have lost it and devoured you in front of everyone.”

Baek-Jin tilted his head back, throat bared, an ecstatic smile lighting his eyes. “And yet you didn’t” he replied with a soft laugh, voice dripping with malice. “Maybe I wasn’t good enough. I should’ve chosen someone else.”

A low growl rumbled from Baku’s chest, more beast than man, and his teeth sank lightly into the skin, marking the spot. “Jin, don’t even joke about that-” he said with a gravity that left no room for levity.

Baek-Jin gently pushed him back, hands on his shoulders, his chest still rising under the tight corset.

“Don’t leave marks” he warned, amused. “I still have to go back on stage.”

Baku grinned, feral and hungry. “Oh, I don’t know… will you even be able to walk when I’m done with you?” And he kissed him again with a hunger that refused to be sated, clawing at veils, feathers, layers of fabric. But there was too much in the way, too many laces, too many barriers between him and the skin he craved. A frustrated growl tore from him.

Baek-Jin laughed, that clear sound that belonged only to him, and with a firm push sent Baku sprawling onto the dressing table. The bulbs glowing behind him created a warm halo around his figure, as if he were now the star of the stage.

“Maybe you’re the one who’ll have trouble standing” Baek-Jin whispered as he sank slowly before him, feathers brushing against Baku’s legs. His eyes, steady, magnetic, never left Baku’s, as if to say: this time, I’m in control.

With practiced fingers, he began unbuttoning Baku’s trousers, each button undone a promise. And as he slid gracefully to his knees, his lips curved into a sinful smile.

“Let’s see if I can give you a little relief, tiger” he murmured, and then his hot breath caressed Baku’s taut need.

With deliberate slowness, he freed him from the last constraints of fabric, letting the throbbing hardness spring into his slender hands. He stroked it lightly with his fingertips, tracing the length as though savoring anticipation more than the act itself.

Baku watched, unable even to blink. He had been right from the start: Baek-Jin was a siren, and he had never been tied tightly enough to the mast. But, God, he had made the right choice.

When his mouth closed around him, hot, wet, enveloping, Baek-Jin took him in with maddening slowness until Baku let out a deep moan, head thrown back, hands gripping the edge of the table in desperation.

Every flick of his tongue was a searing caress, every plunge a jolt that knocked the breath from his lungs. Baek-Jin moved with absolute mastery, just as he did on stage, alternating languid pace with sudden bursts, leaving Baku teetering between pleasure and torment.

Baku forced his gaze down: those perfect lips, which moments ago had curved into teasing smiles for a delirious audience, now wrapped around him in carnal devotion. The sight made him tremble to the bone. “Jin… ah-” he groaned, voice broken.

Baek-Jin lifted his gaze without breaking contact, and his eyes pierced Baku like a blade straight to the heart. A guttural sound ripped from Baku’s chest, his hands sliding into the blond hair, guiding him gently, powerless to hold back any longer.

Baku returned to his seat just in time, breath still uneven, body struggling to recover its calm. His skin burned, his heart pounded like a drum, and if it weren’t for the club’s dim lights, someone might have noticed the vivid flush on his cheeks and the feverish gleam in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to appear composed, though inside he was a sweet, devastating chaos.

Baek-Jin’s ministrations in the dressing room had tamed the storm, had given him a taste of carnal peace, but it was never enough. Each time he touched him, Baku felt hungrier, thirstier, as though no part of him could ever be satisfied. And yet, in that moment, he breathed easier: the fire still smoldered, but it had been tempered, reduced to an ember he could carry quietly.

When the lights dimmed again, an hour later, to welcome Nina’s final performance, the hall erupted: cheers, applause, whistles. She was stunning, wrapped in a black dress that revealed more than it concealed, hair styled high to frame her face, makeup sparkling beneath the spotlights. Baku watched intently, but not like the other men did. He was waiting for a signal, something imperceptible, and when Nina, or rather Baek-Jin, hidden beneath that flawless disguise, winked at him, quick and sure, just for him, Baku’s heart leapt to his throat.

Then she began to sing. A song Baku had never heard before, slow, melancholic, its tenderness at odds with the poise Nina showed as she caressed the microphone. The first words hit him like a punch to the gut:

“We had made love earlier, that day with no strings attached,
but I could tell that something had changed how you looked at me then.”

Baku held his breath. He didn’t need to ask who the song was for, or what it meant. It was their story, laid bare before an audience that could never truly understand. Yet, in that moment, it was as if only the two of them existed.

In Nina’s voice there was a faint crack, imperceptible but present, that made everything more real. That imperfection broke the sheen of stage perfection, revealing Baek-Jin’s beating heart. And Baku realized that if there had been a way to fall in love with him once, he didn’t remember it. Now, though, it happened every time, and it was happening again, right there, before everyone’s eyes.

“And on the Lower East Side, you’re dancing with me now
And I’m taking pictures of you with flowers on the wall
Think I like you best when you’re dressed in black from head to toe
Think I like you best when you’re just with me
And no one else.”

Baku’s throat tightened. It wasn’t just a song. It was a confession. It was Baek-Jin declaring, in his own way, before the whole world, that he loved him, that he wanted him by his side, that he was finally claiming a place for them both. Baku felt weightless, as if he had brushed the sky with his fingertips. If not for the dozens of eyes on them, he would have stood up right then, joined him on stage, and pulled him into a dance. He wanted to shout it to everyone: this song is us, this story is ours, this love belongs to us.

“Kristen, come right back
I’ve been waiting for you
To slip back in bed
When you light the candle.”

It was then that a chilling presence made itself felt at his side.

Seong-je sat at the table without asking for permission, moving with calm steps and wearing the smile that was always perfectly in place, as if nothing in the world could touch him. A cigarette hung from his lips, ash falling slowly, and as he adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, Nina’s eyes,  that had sparkled only a moment before, faltered.

When Baek-Jin’s smile, too, faded, betrayed by a body that couldn’t lie even on stage, Baku noticed immediately. He followed that invisible line that connected Nina’s gaze to its target, and when he turned, he met Seong-je’s smug smile. In an instant, his own smile shattered as well.

Nina, ever professional, kept singing, though her voice trembled just slightly.

“And I’m kissing you lying in my room
Holding you until you fall asleep
And it’s just as good as I knew it would be
Stay with me, I don’t want you to leave”

But Baku barely heard any of it. Everything else vanished when Seong-je leaned toward him, speaking low but with surgical cruelty:

«Fucks well, doesn’t he, Baky? Moves that ass divinely, if I remember correctly.»

Baku’s mind went blank. He never knew if that had always been the exact effect Seong-je intended to provoke, but he realized it too late.

“SON OF A BIT-” His body moved before his thoughts could catch up: he lunged, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him to the ground with a punch that echoed through the entire hall.

The screams of the audience came instantly. Panic, overturned chairs, glasses shattering. Nina tried to rush off the stage, but the club’s security held her back, dragging her behind the curtains to protect her. Meanwhile, two burly men pinned Baku down as he thrashed violently, still roaring, eyes bloodshot.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY!? BASTARD! SAY IT AGAIN!”

Seong-je, meanwhile, rose slowly. Blood streamed from his split lip, but his smile did not waver. He raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his voice calm, almost paternal, as he reassured the crowd:

«It’s all fine. Don’t worry. Enjoy the rest of your evening. Whatever you’re drinking, the next round’s on the house!»

The crowd quieted, caught by the charisma Seong-je could always summon in the worst moments. But Baku, dragged away with force toward the back as he shouted threats about cracking his skull open, knew this war was far from over.

As soon as Baek-Jin lifted his gaze and met Baku’s eyes, his expression instantly turned questioning, worried.

«What happened?» he asked in a low voice, but the question had no time to finish: Baku, like a taut rope snapping, yanked the two guards holding him aside and straightened in a flash, adjusting his clothes with brusque, nervous movements. His muscles trembled, his face was a mask of rage and pain.

He strode toward Baek-Jin with a threatening step, his breath still ragged from the sudden outburst.

«Did you fuck with him?» he shouted, his voice bouncing against the narrow corridor walls, turning them into a tunnel of ice. Baek-Jin’s eyes widened, caught off guard, while the two guards, the only witnesses, exchanged a hard but silent glance.

Seong-je, quick as always, revealed himself to them with the composure of a man who feared nothing.

«Come on, Jin-ah, tell him, he deserves to know the truth!» he goaded, his velvety voice dripping with cruel delight for the spectacle. «Tell him how much fun we had, you and I, over these five years!» His words were venom, perfectly measured, designed to wound.

Baku spun toward Seong-je. For a moment he seemed ready to lunge at his throat again, but the guards forced him back. He roared, his arms straining against the men holding him: «What’s wrong, Seong-je? Forgotten how to fight? COWARD! Don’t hide, COWARD! FACE ME!»

«Hu-Min, stop!» Baek-Jin pleaded, his voice breaking, as he tried to lay a hand on Baku’s shoulder to calm him. But Baek-Jin’s hand trembled, and when Baku turned sharply toward him, that trembling froze an inch from his shoulder. For a heartbeat they lost their measure: their eyes locked, and in that gaze Baku searched for confirmation, for a truth that could soothe him.

«Is it true? Is what he says true?» Baku asked, the question whirling in his throat like a knife.

Baek-Jin clenched his fists, as if gathering strength to answer. Then he turned his gaze on Seong-je, and for an instant his voice was as cold as ice: «What pleasure do you find in ruining my life? It’s already yours… isn’t that enough?» His words rang firm, carrying a dignity Baku found almost unbelievable. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his heels striking the floor like slow, measured chimes, his dress brushing lightly against his hips.

Seong-je, of course, did not waste the opportunity. He pushed past the guards with the arrogant calm of a man commanding the stage. Wiping the blood from his split lip with two fingers, he studied it as if it were something curious, then cast Baku a trivial, frigid glance.

«Aren’t we a little too old for brawls?» he said, his voice no longer asking for permission. «I thought you’d be mature enough to accept the truth: he didn’t keep his chastity for you, Baku. I took it, along with his entire life. What I leave you are the scraps, enjoy them while you can.»

The phrase fell like a stone. The world spun around Baku, a vertigo that made him want to scream again, to launch himself at that man, but the guards’ grip was iron. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, rage boiling inside him like fire. Instinctively, he tried to throw one last punch, but was blocked again, restrained with professional firmness.

Seong-je shrugged in a disdainful gesture. «Lay another finger on me and I’ll ban you from my club forever. Your choice» he hissed, and to seal the threat he lit a cigarette, adjusted his glasses, and walked away with calm steps. His figure vanished into the darkness of the corridor, leaving behind only the smoke and the fading echo of Baek-Jin’s heels.

Baku stood frozen, prisoner of both his emotions and the hands gripping him. Every fiber of him longed to explode, to chase Baek-Jin, to rip him away from that trail of heels. But he couldn’t, reality had intruded with brutal force: two strong men, control of the corridor, the risk of being thrown out forever. Seong-je’s phrase pounded in his skull like a boulder: “What I leave you are the scraps…”

Baek-Jin, meanwhile, kept walking, his back straight. When he reached the corner that led to his dressing room, he turned briefly and saw Baku still pinned down, his eyes blazing like two wells of fire. For a moment he seemed torn, as if the urge to go to him fought against the prison Seong-je had woven around him. But nothing changed: he disappeared around the corner, leaving Baku only the memory of his shadow.

The corridor fell silent again, broken only by Baku’s ragged breathing and the pressure of his knuckles digging into his closed palms.

Baku stepped into the apartment with a stride heavy with fury and pain, the door slamming shut behind him like a gunshot. The silence of the room wrapped around him, but it was no embrace: it was a suffocating void, screaming louder than any noise. He knew Baek-Jin was still in his dressing room, and that it would be some time before he came back. Yet that waiting was no comfort, it was torment.

The living room unfolded before him like a warped stage. Only a week earlier, within those walls, they had made love for the first time, and since then every night had been a ravenous ritual of bodies and intertwined breaths. Every corner bore their mark: the couch, the rug, even the kitchen counter. But now memory was poison. Every place that had sheltered their passion was tainted by Seong-je’s shadow.

Where once there had been their laughter, Baku heard an alien echo, a reverberation that did not belong to him: he pictured Baek-Jin and Seong-je chasing each other like children, laughing together, falling on the couch, kissing with the same hunger that had once been his. Even the walls seemed soiled by those images. The breaths of Baek-Jin, the ones he had cherished, now blurred in his mind with those of the other. Every caress, every embrace, in his head became a memory he had never lived, but one that devoured him from within.

Baek-Jin’s scent, which clung to every inch of that apartment, once sweet and comforting, now felt toxic. It intoxicated him until his head spun, as if it were pure venom. He staggered as he walked, touched the furniture, the chairs, the table, like a blind man seeking support, but each contact only dragged him deeper into the nightmare.

In blind anguish, he began searching. He opened drawers, moved books, lifted cushions, drew back curtains. He searched for signs, proof, any detail that could confirm what his mind was screaming: a hair that wasn’t his, a different perfume, a forgotten object. But he found nothing. Only Baek-Jin’s immaculate cleanliness and familiar order, which only sharpened the contrast with the filthy images dancing in his head.

The frenzy burned out suddenly. His strength deserted him, and he collapsed to the floor, first to his knees and then flat, like a man who had lost the battle with himself. His hands clutched at his hair, fingers digging so hard into his scalp they nearly drew blood, while a strangled moan stuck in his throat.

In front of him, fallen from who knows where, was a picture frame. He picked it up, trembling: it was the photo of him and Baek-Jin as children. Two smiling faces, two lives that once belonged to each other in innocence, before pain, secrets, and deceit had tainted them. He pressed it to his chest as if it could take him back, as if it could erase all that now burned inside him.

He wanted to scream, but his voice failed him. In the dark, bent over himself, unable to tell if what he saw in his mind was reality or only the lies Seong-je had planted. But he couldn’t escape them: the images played on relentlessly, blinding, destructive.

And so Baku remained still, the photo in his hands, wrapped in a darkness that felt bigger than him. Alone. And with his heart torn apart by the inability to know where truth ended and nightmare began.

Baek-Jin entered, knowing he would find him there in the apartment, but not like this. He was unprepared for what he saw. He closed the door slowly, as if fearing the sound might shatter the fragile silence, and turned on the light. What he saw took his breath away. His heart broke in his chest, literally: he felt the cracks spread, each fragment of trust, of hope, falling into a void that pulled him under, making it seem as if all the beauty they had built in that week had already vanished.

“Baku...” His voice was icy, a thread stretched taut between anger and despair.

He looked around: every corner of the small apartment had been ravaged. Cushions scattered, books fallen, a chair overturned. Objects that only hours earlier had held the memory of their intimacy now lay on the floor like the remains of a battlefield. Baek-Jin clenched his jaw, his voice sharp: “You didn’t find anything, did you?” It was a provocation, a blade flung with precision. He didn’t want to wound him, not truly, but to give back at least a sliver of the pain that Baku was inflicting with his doubt, with his lack of trust.

Baku, kneeling on the floor, turned to him. His face was an empty mask: no tears, no anger, nothing. Only a cold, dead void. Baek-Jin circled around him in silence, set an overturned chair back upright, and sat down with a sharp, distant gesture, as though to draw a boundary between them.

“You should go back to your place tonight. Talking won’t help.”

“Just tell me if it’s true.” Baku’s voice was small, toneless, broken.

Baek-Jin nodded, without lowering his gaze.

“It happened. But not the way you’re imagining it.” The words left his mouth heavy with disgust, not for Baku, but for the truth he was forced to admit.

Baku tried to stand, but his strength failed him, and he sank back to his knees as if the truth had struck him physically.

“What other way could it have happened?” he stammered, unable to conceive of any other version.

“Think a little more. You can figure it out.” Baek-Jin’s voice was hard, but his eyes burned with pain.

Baku, however, did not think. Or rather, he rejected every thought that brushed against him, shoved them away, unable to accept any truth that wasn’t his rage. He rose with desperate effort, trembling legs, only to collapse again at Baek-Jin’s feet.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you wait for him to do it, like this?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Baek-Jin burst out, fists clenched. “That it happened against my will? That I was drunk and he took advantage? I knew what you would do. You would have killed him.”

“You wanted to protect him?” Baku shot back, his voice breaking.

Baek-Jin grabbed him by the collar and yanked him, his eyes bloodshot with rage and unshed tears.

“HU-MIN! STOP IT! It’s you I want to protect! Don’t you get it? Why are you letting him do this to us? Why are you playing his game?”

“Because you fucked him, and I can’t accept that!” Baku screamed, spitting out the words like venom.

The collar slipped from Baek-Jin’s hands and he let him go. Baku crumpled to the ground, arms propping up his own weight, while Baek-Jin loomed above him, face twisted.

“What about me? Am I supposed to accept the ones you fucked? You think I don’t know about them? You think I didn’t think about that at all? They didn’t mean shit to me, that’s the true! Because the only one who mattered to me was you. The only thing that mattered was us…” He spat the words like blades, full of disgust, yet burning with wounded love.

“We mattered?” Baku shot back, his voice cracking.

Baek-Jin jumped to his feet, turned his back to him, his breathing heavy. “Did he forbid you from going back to Nina’s?” he asked, almost whispering.

Baku shook his head, hesitant. Then, seeing the other wouldn’t turn around, added in a strangled voice: “No...”

“That means he still has some cards left to play.” Baek-Jin’s tone grew dark, knowing.

“Jin...” Baku murmured, trying to move closer.

“You mustn’t come to the nights when I perform anymore. That’s what he’ll want, to destroy this breach, this chance I carved out for myself, with effort...”

“Jin...” he insisted, louder.

“He’ll want to take this happiness from me. It’s never enough for him, he always wants more, he...”

“JIN, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, LOOK AT ME!” Baku roared, his voice exploding into the silence.

Baek-Jin finally turned. His face was weary, afflicted, marked by a pain he didn’t want to show. Their eyes met, yet they seemed impossibly far apart, separated by an ocean neither of them could cross. They could no longer understand each other, no longer find each other. Once again, as in the past, they were two islands divided by a stormy sea.

Baku could not accept it. Not that distance, not again. He rose in a desperate motion, reached him in two strides, and kissed him. A violent, furious kiss, one that asked for no permission. He shoved him against the wall, the dull thud filling the room. Baek-Jin tried to struggle free, to push him back, but Baku was stronger, overpowering, pinning him, hands clamped on his wrists, his nape pressed to the wall.

“Stop!” Baek-Jin managed, panting, as Baku tried to force his tongue into his mouth. “Stop it!” Jin’s voice trembled, but his eyes burned: anger, fear, and a wounded love fighting not to be extinguished completely, because if that act of violence continued, Seong-je would have won.

“Baku, I said stop!” he shouted, pushing him away with a leg.

Baku stepped back, head bowed, as if in that movement he was trying to pull all the turmoil he had unleashed back inside his guts.

“Do you want to take me the way he did? Do you want everything beautiful we managed to build, with love, to end with an act of violence?” The question broke from Baek-Jin’s lips, hiding a sob behind the words as though refusing to give in entirely.

Baek-Jin looked at him, knowing Baku would not truly answer. But he had to. He had to make him understand how, because of Seong-je, his scheming, his cunning, they were about to destroy each other, irreparably, annihilating everything. With slow movements he turned to the wall and unfastened the belt of his robe; he let it slide from his shoulders, baring pale skin under the yellow lamp light.

“Go on, Baku. Take me. If this is what you need to prove I’m yours, even though I already am, every molecule of me belongs to you...” he said, his voice sharp as a serpent and soft as a lie.

That tone could have been a trap, but it wasn’t: it held all the exhaustion and surrender of someone who had lived too long in chains. Baku took another step back without touching him. That refusal was not loud; it was only a breath of wind, a distance he placed between them again, the illusion of a truce. The air stirred by that gesture made Baek-Jin turn, but he did not cover himself; he wore only a pair of briefs, his chest bare, ribs rising and falling slowly beneath his skin. He was so beautiful it hurt Baku, and that was why he turned his gaze away: he did not want their intimacy to slip into the shadow of a violent act, not even by mistake, not even through his eyes.

“I’m yours” Baek-Jin said, no longer controlled, the words pouring fast. “I’ve loved you forever, damn it! Since the day you stopped those bullies; since you reached out your hand and gave me a chance in this world without asking for anything in return! Every part of me is yours, even if others have had me.”

Those confessions had the purity of an open wound. They burned, but they healed. Baek-Jin stepped closer, measured pace, and brushed Baku’s face with his hand as one brushes a temple. “And you’re mine, even if others have had you. I know you’ve always been mine...” he whispered, stroking his face with trembling, delicate fingers.

Baku felt something dissolve inside him, a tension not only physical but moral. He looked at him again, and it was relief. He dove into Baek-Jin’s gaze, his Jin, and welcomed the trust. His eyes shone, and for the first time that night he saw the child Baku reflected in Jin’s gaze, that boy who had trusted him without conditions. For a second, all the noise faded.

Then Baek-Jin asked: “Hu-Min, do you hate me?” The word came out like a secret newly freed. With a sigh that seemed to come from far away, Baku answered softly: “No...”

They moved toward each other, like poles drawn by an undecided destiny. Baku kissed him, first slow, then with growing intensity; each kiss was an apology, a plea for forgiveness, a chance to stay with him still. “I’m sorry” he murmured against his lips, and kissed him again, until Baek-Jin stepped back a few paces and met the wall once more, the two of them caught between desire and the need for clarity.

“Are you mine?” Jin asked, his voice broken by anticipation. Baku took his face in both hands, as if to imprint every line, every imperfection, and looked at him as though he could navigate back to the origin of his love. “Yes, Jin” he replied, the word short and certain, followed by another kiss that explained everything and erased nothing.

Baek-Jin bowed his head, letting out a sigh that tasted of surrender and joy at once. “I’m yours, Hu-Min.” He slipped off his robe completely, his hands still trembling, and lowered his briefs with a gesture that held no haste, only the will to offer himself unconditionally. Then he turned.

Baku took the final half-step, the one meant to chase away all lingering hesitation. He placed a tender kiss on Baek-Jin’s shoulder, then let his hand slide down his back, fingers exploring the skin as if to memorize its warmth. He held him by the hips, felt Baek-Jin’s breath against the wall; there was no fury now, no claim, only the sweet necessity of being together.

Those hands moved as though they knew the path: not violent, but gentle, caring. They met in the skin, in small acts of tenderness: a finger mending a seam, a palm steadying a heartbeat. When Baku entered him, it was not a conquest brutally imposed but a movement that felt like a reunion: slow, attentive, attuned to the other’s breath. Every inch forward was a promise made flesh, every sigh welcomed as a yes.

Baek-Jin responded by moving with him, clutching his hip, not to dominate but to guide the dance so it would be gentle and full. Their hands sought each other, intertwined on their thighs, then above their heads against the wall; their bodies synchronized in a rhythm that matched two hearts recognizing each other after a storm. Baku felt the warm tightness that welcomed him like home, and for an instant he understood that the power Seong-je had believed he held over them had already vanished: there was no coercion here, only choice, surrender, trust. They were bound like two spouses at the altar, by a ring: with respect and mutual faith. For all the days of their lives.

In those minutes, the room became another world: time slowed until it was made of touches and whispered words. “I love you, I’m sorry, I love you Jin-ah...” Baku repeated again and again, his voice broken yet steady. Baek-Jin, his eyes full of restrained tears, nodded and answered: “I love you too, always.”

It was not revenge, not possession of something stolen. It was care, it was redemption. The act they shared was a declaration: they could hold a piece of happiness without trampling each other’s dignity.

“Harder, Hu-Min, please, harder!” he pleaded, as Baku’s hand spread wide on his chest, pulling him closer, pressing their skins together in the hope they might fuse.

At his ear, Baku whispered trembling, sincere promises, words vibrating between the beats of their hearts: he would never hurt him again, never leave him alone, never allow doubt, lies, or deceit to come between them. He assured him he would always feel this way, full, whole, unique, as if every fiber of them both had been stitched together in a single design. Two fragile bodies that had known fracture, loss, fear, now merged in a bond no one could break again.

When the world slowly returned to the room, it found them still entwined, sweating, their skin dotted with small marks, but their eyes at last calm, filled with the stillness that follows the storm. Every breath, every heartbeat, seemed to cry: we survived. We are together.

That moment of passion did not erase what had happened before, could not dissolve the scars of the past, nor cancel Seong-je’s cunning, threatening presence, capable of setting them against each other. But that evening, that gesture of intimacy, had nothing to do with possession or violence. It was not revenge or punishment. It was pure, simple, inevitable truth: an act of love reaffirming who they were and what they meant to each other.

They had answered check with checkmate against the King himself, and they had done it in the most genuine way they knew: by giving themselves to each other, with trust and devotion, with exploring hands and offering hearts, without hesitation or fear. In that embrace, among sweat and sighs, lay all the power of those who had fought and won together.

Seong-je had lost, while Baku and Baek-Jin, bent but not broken, had become stronger, closer, more indestructible than before. It was not just their bodies that had united, but their will, their trust, their very lives. And finally, in that room lit only by the dim light filtering through the curtains, they could breathe, feel, know: they truly belonged to each other.

***

The coach called him right after yet another training session, when Baku was already dragging himself toward the locker room, tired, sweaty, and with his mind elsewhere. The stern, steady voice reached him from behind:
“Park Hu-Min, come to my office for a moment.”

Baku spun around, his breathing still heavy. He wanted to come up with an excuse, to delay it, but he wasn’t the kind of person to refuse an order from his coach. He followed, albeit reluctantly, feeling a growing impatience inside that he couldn’t hide. All day he had struggled to stay focused: his teammates had noticed, he had missed a few passes, his shots hadn’t been their usual perfection. He, who normally shone in every practice, was now lagging. And not because he was physically tired, but because his mind was elsewhere.

Every minute away from Baek-Jin irritated him, ate away at him from within. Even though they had found a way to mend the tear, even though they had loved each other like never before, Baku couldn’t stop thinking that Seong-je was still free, still able to pull the strings of their lives like a bored puppeteer. That silent threat gnawed at him, made him restless. He wanted nothing more than to run to Jin, lock himself in his apartment, and forget the rest of the world.

The coach had him sit without preamble, taking his place behind the desk cluttered with papers, stats, and game notes. Then he handed him a document with a broad, satisfied smile.

“Congratulations, kid. They’ve chosen you. You’re leaving for America in a month.”

Baku stared at him, not understanding, as if the words hadn’t registered. “What?”

His ears started ringing, his heart leapt to his throat. He took the paper with trembling hands and immediately recognized it for what it was: a contract. An American team, one of the most renowned, had put in black and white their intention to take care of his career, to make him grow, to make him part of their future.

“Aren’t you happy?” the coach asked, studying his reaction.

Baku kept staring at the paper. His breath felt uneven, as if he’d just played an entire game. He knew this could happen: scouts had been at his last match, and his talent hadn’t gone unnoticed. But the truth was that, in those weeks, everything else had lost weight compared to Baek-Jin. His life, his career, his dreams… all of it had slipped into the background while he fought to defend and hold onto the only love he had ever wanted. Now that background was forcing its way forward, demanding the place it deserved.

“One month?” he stammered, barely audible.

The coach mistook it for restrained excitement. Laughing, he stood up and gave him two strong pats on the shoulder.

“One month! You’ve made them dream. They already see you as the gem of their team. And they mean it, these aren’t empty promises. This is your moment!”

Baku looked at him without smiling, then lowered his eyes to the paper. “And the university?” he asked, almost hoping there was some loophole, some way to buy time.

The coach waved it off with a dismissive gesture.

“Come on, Baku! Your grades have never been what mattered. What counts is your skill on the court, and you know that. What you started here, you’ll finish there. And I’m not talking about books. Think about basket! You’ll become an NBA pro. The dream of every player! Aren’t you happy?”

Baku swallowed, forced to give an answer. “Yes… yes, of course. Thank you, coach.” He tried to smile, but his voice betrayed his confusion. He stood up, as if the weight of the room itself were pressing down on him.

The coach pulled him into a quick hug, satisfied. “Talk to your father. And don’t forget to check your passport. You have one, right?”

Baku nodded automatically. He left the office with the document in hand, his head buzzing and his heart beating out of sync. One month. Only one month. He had never felt time as such a merciless enemy.

And the first thought that crossed his mind wasn’t about his father, nor about the glory awaiting him, nor about the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity anyone would envy.
It was about Baek-Jin.

He stopped in the hallway, staring at the paper in his hands.
Does he have a passport? he wondered with sudden dread. Because nothing, absolutely nothing, would make sense if he couldn’t take him along.

“Well? Did he tell you?” Gotak came at him with a vigorous pat on the back, almost knocking him off balance. His eyes were gleaming, his mouth split in a contagious grin. “Tell me he told you, damn it!”

Baku froze, clutching the contract like a secret too heavy to confess. Gotak was so happy, so thrilled, it almost seemed like the name on that paper was his.

“It all happened so fast” Baku murmured, trying to pull himself together, to mask the chaos swarming his mind. He forced a smile, though inside he was adrift. “I can’t make sense of it yet.”

Gotak laughed, giving him another pat. “Don’t act like an old man, Baku! If you show up over there with that depressed face, they’ll send you back with a kick in the ass!”

Baku laughed too, but it was a hollow sound, something meant to fill the silence inside. He nudged him with his shoulder, more out of affection than teasing, and together they started walking toward the exit.

“Come on, we’re all going to Su-Ho’s tonight! You’re buying drinks, doesn’t happen every day that one of us signs with the NBA!” Gotak said, euphoric.

Baku felt his heart tighten. Just moments earlier, he had thought only of running to Baek-Jin, of hiding in his arms, of telling him everything, or maybe telling him nothing and simply letting himself be held in silence. But now, looking at the friend dragging him along with sheer enthusiasm, he realized that a month was too short for them, too. To have to say goodbye to the ones who had been with him since the start, who had seen him grow, laugh, fall, and rise again.

His eyes welled up before he could stop them. He nodded, swallowing hard.

Gotak noticed and laughed even louder, slinging an arm around his neck. “Aish! Getting emotional already? Missing me that much?”

“Shut up, idiot!” Baku snapped, shoving him away with a brusque gesture that was, in truth, full of affection.

Gotak pulled him along toward the exit, chattering and laughing loudly, while Baku let that energy carry him, at least for a while. Maybe that was exactly what he needed: to forget, to celebrate, to talk with his friends. Maybe, for one night, he could allow himself not to think about the future looming like a storm.

Walking toward Su-Ho’s place, the contract now tucked away in his bag, he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. But at least, with Gotak beside him, it didn’t seem unbearable.

That night had started like all the others: noise, clinking glasses, laughter louder than the music playing in the background. The bar counter at Su-Ho’s place never seemed to empty, full of mugs that disappeared and reappeared at a frantic pace, as if it were a competition. Gotak played the showman, shouting toasts that had already lost all meaning by the second round, while Juntae kept spitting out rhymed verses that made everyone laugh, even though it was obvious by the third attempt that he’d forgotten the meaning of the first stanza.

In the middle of all that chaos, the only one holding out was Sieun, still on his first mug. From time to time, he raised it, as if to keep up appearances, but he wasn’t really drinking. Not that he could do it in peace, with Su-Ho clinging to him, having fun forcing his elbow up to make him drink a sip more, laughing like a kid and letting the weight of his arm rest on his boyfriend’s shoulders, as if to keep him from slipping away.

Baku had let himself get carried along, at least on the surface. He had laughed, toasted, pretended to be cheerful. In truth, the document in his backpack burned against him like hot iron, and every time someone shouted “America!” he felt a knot tighten in his throat. He still hadn’t managed to say anything, to confess what was really spinning in his head.

It was only when the place emptied out, the lights dimmed, and the last customers left, that silence began to creep in. Only they remained, slumped around the table, heavy-eyed, with half-empty glasses scattered like fallen soldiers on the battlefield.

Su-Ho was the first to break that stupor. He looked at Sieun, then turned toward Baku with a strange expression. “Didn’t he seem… off to you?”

Sieun lifted his gaze, curious. “Off how? Off like when you say I’m weird?”

Su-Ho chuckled softly, shaking his head. “No, you’re weird… but like, not-human weird. I mean off like… depressed. Like he’s down in the dumps at a time when he should be on top of the world.”

Sieun frowned, his gaze slowly sliding toward Baku, pinning him like a blade.
“You think so?”
“I know so.” Su-Ho slapped a hand on the table, jolting the others awake.
“Hey, Baku! Lift your head up! Spit it out, damn it. What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you happy about going to America?”

Juntae raised his head, glasses slipping down his nose. “Maybe he’s just sad about leaving us…” he said, his voice tired but sincere.

Gotak, who until then had been pretending to sleep, raised his head with a sway.
“My best friend is abandoning meee!” he bellowed theatrically, flailing his arms. “He’s leaaaving, but I’m too damn proud of him to be sad!” Then his face suddenly turned serious, eyes fixed on him. “But Su-Ho’s right. What the hell’s going on, Hu-Min?”

The silence grew heavy. Baku felt pinned by all their stares, as if each one demanded a piece of his truth. He swallowed, his eyes landing on Sieun, the most clear-headed of them all. Then he sighed, and finally spoke.
“I have to tell you something, guys.”

The words came out slow, painful. Baku told them about Baek-Jin. How behind Nina hid their old high school nemesis, how his life had become a cage built by Seong-je. He told them about that past made of running, of threats, of enemies who wanted him dead. And how Seong-je had disguised himself as a protector, but was in truth nothing more than his jailer.

Juntae shook his head, eyes wide. “That’s awful. But he has to report him, Baku. It’s the only way. Really.”
“No.” Baku shook his head, dejected. “You don’t understand… it’s not that simple.”

Gotak was tense, fist clenched on the table, jaw locked. He said nothing, but everyone could see his agitation. Su-Ho stared at him in silence, thoughtful, as if calculating something but without the courage to say it out loud.

It was Sieun who spoke, with his trademark coldness. “You don’t want to leave him in that situation.”

The truth was too heavy to digest.
Baku raised his gaze toward him, eyes glassy, and nodded without finding other words.

The reaction was immediate: Gotak shot to his feet, nearly toppling his chair, and stormed out without a word, slamming the door so hard the remaining glasses rattled on the table.

Juntae lowered his eyes, sad, and made to stand, but Baku stopped him with a hand. “I have to go.”

Baku walked toward his best friend, who was leaning against the wall, hands buried in his pockets, breath condensing in white clouds. Without a word, he draped his coat over his shoulders, having had the foresight to bring it. Gotak didn’t thank him. Instead, he shot him a glare.

“You’re mad” Baku said softly.

“Of course, I am! What, did you expect otherwise?” Gotak shot back, eyes hard.

Baku shook his head slowly. “That’s why it was so hard to tell you… I knew you wouldn’t like knowing that… I was seeing the person who-”

“Oh, shut the hell up, idiot!” Gotak cut him off with a growl that sliced through the cold air. “I don’t give a damn who you’re fucking with!”

Baku’s eyes widened, thrown off by that response. Gotak huffed, another cloud of steam rising in the dark. Then he faced him head-on, as if pinning him against an invisible wall of silence.

“Will you ever think about yourself, just once? This is your moment, your glory! Your dream is waiting for you on the other side of the world, but you… you’re too busy ruining it for yourself, hung up on someone who, let’s be honest, got exactly what he deserved!”

Baku froze, breathless. He wanted to respond, the words perched on the tip of his tongue, but saying them would be like throwing himself off a cliff.

Gotak pressed, his eyes unrelenting. “Go on, say it.”

“I love him, Hyun-tak…” Baku whispered, barely more than a breath, as if confessing a sin.

Gotak rolled his eyes skyward and let out a long sigh.

“Aish… of course you do, because you’re a damn fool!” But he grabbed him and pulled him into an embrace that seemed to shake the air itself. A real hug, warm, full of both anger and affection. “And he doesn’t deserve you!” he added, holding him tighter.

Baku trembled. It wasn’t anger, nor relief at being comforted. He trembled because, despite everything, Gotak was holding him. He wasn’t rejecting him, not even after that truth that could have shattered their bond.

Then Gotak pushed him back, fixing him with that raw, brutal honesty of his.

“So, what the hell do you want to do, then? Not go? You’ll ruin your career forever!”

Baku dropped his gaze, took a deep breath, then lifted it again, resolute. “I want to go… but I want to take him with me. Maybe America’s far enough to get away from Seong-Je.”

Gotak stayed silent for a moment, thinking. Then he shrugged and nodded.

“They’ve declared him dead, Baku… he has no papers. How the hell do you plan to take him to America without a passport?”

Baku hesitated. He had no answer. As usual, it was Gotak who suddenly lit up. He slapped him hard on the shoulder, eyes gleaming with a new idea. “Shit, it’s freezing! Let’s go back inside. I’ve got an idea!”

He turned and strode back into the bar, leaving behind the slamming door and the swirl of warm smoke mixing with the cold.

Baku stayed outside for a moment, dazed, his heart still shaken by everything. Then, looking toward the lit entrance, he felt a small spark flare in his chest. Despite everything, his friends always knew how to reignite hope, even in the darkest moments.

Gotak burst back into the bar, eyes blazing like a torch, and didn’t waste a second: he rushed straight at Su-Ho, yanking him by the sleeve. “To open this place” he shouted breathlessly, “you had to prove that all your staff were legit, right? With the law, the paperwork… all that, yeah?”

Baku arrived just in time to catch the question, stopping at the edge of the counter while the others, half-drunk and drowsy, regrouped around the table. Su-Ho frowned, confused, glancing first at Sieun, then back at Gotak. “Yeah, of course. Why do you care?” he asked, but Gotak was already carried away by his own idea and wasn’t about to stop.

He turned to Juntae with mock solemnity, as if convening a city council meeting: “And if someone was hired illegally, that’d be serious trouble in the eyes of the law, right?”

Juntae adjusted his glasses and sighed, clearly uncomfortable at being forced to play judge and lawyer at the same time. He glanced at Sieun, who looked like he was running numbers in his head, then back at Gotak, nodding cautiously. “Yes. In theory, a fake hire or falsified documents are crimes. But… it depends on evidence, liability, a lot of legal nuances.”

Gotak threw his arms in the air triumphantly. “I knew it!” he shouted, then spun toward Baku with the excitement of someone who’d just found the missing puzzle piece. “Seong-je must have papers on him, probably fake, under Baek-Jin’s name. Hell, maybe even under Nina’s, since they declared him dead and even held a funeral.”

Baku’s mind sparked. The pieces seemed to click, and for the first time, something truly lit up inside him. “Yes… that has to be it” he murmured, turning to Sieun, desperate for confirmation that this was logic, not just hope.

Finally free of his first beer, Sieun allowed himself a small smile that could only mean one of two things: either the alcohol was kicking in, or the idea made sense. “And if he doesn’t have real documents, I could try… I mean, I could make one.”

Su-Ho burst out laughing and, without thinking, grabbed him by the chin and kissed him impulsively, like sealing a dangerously reckless promise. “You turn me on when you want to do something wildly illegal!” he whispered, still laughing.

“So… we’re all thinking the same thing, right?” exclaimed Gotak, already in an action-plan trance.

Juntae, who until that moment had tried to be the voice of reason, shivered and raised his hands in surrender. “I,  I can’t do anything illegal” he said, his voice breaking, his professional ethics forcing him to speak. “I can’t tell you how to commit crimes.”

“But you want to be a lawyer, don’t you? You defend people who act outside the law!” Gotak shot back, grinning just to rile him up.

Sieun, who had seemed the coldest of the group, grew serious again and looked Gotak dead in the eyes. “You want to steal the documents, if they exist, from Seong-je?” he asked bluntly.

Gotak nodded, then turned to Baku as if offering him the sky on a silver platter. “And you, can you find out if they exist? Maybe Baek-Jin knows something. After all… they’re his, right?”

Su-Ho, ever ironic, chimed in: “Just imagine: what if we’re here planning this whole thing, only to find out the fake passport’s already in Baek-Jin’s hands?”
“He would’ve already left” Baku said instinctively, his voice betraying his fear.

But Sieun, with his relentless logic, suggested another possibility: “Or he waited for someone before running away…” That line, so out of character for him, made Baku’s heart leap violently. What if it was true?

Baku couldn’t hold back. He lunged at Gotak and hugged him like a bear trapping its prey, desperation tangled with hope. Gotak laughed, both incredulous and touched.
“Thanks! Thank you, I didn’t think…” Baku’s voice cracked with emotion.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a wonderful human being!” Gotak teased, then stepped back and looked at everyone with a commander’s air. “So, first step: we find out if the love of his life actually waited for him instead of bolting!”

Baku looked at each of them in turn, tears welling in his eyes. He thanked them, his voice breaking now and then.

“Should we still go through with a burglary at Seong-je’s place? From what you’ve told me, he kinda deserves a lesson!” Su-Ho proposed with a mischievous grin. Dangerous as it was, these situations always thrilled him.

Juntae covered his ears as if to block out the very idea, while Sieun watched him with that half-frown, half-analytical look.
“Guys, let’s not joke around” Juntae said. “Besides, you don’t even know what’s in there. Before thinking about stuff like that,  I’m not saying it’s illegitimate to want to recover him,  but we’d need to know exactly what we’re after and what the consequences are.”

Gotak, impatient as ever, refused to be discouraged. “First we need to figure out where he might hide that kind of paperwork. Maybe by now he’s gotten as meticulous as Baek-Jin and stashed it all in a safe! We need to investigate, tail him. I’ll volunteer!”

Su-Ho clapped his hands and smirked. “And I’ll be lookout, of course. You never do this kind of thing alone, I volunteer to keep an eye on the situation. Not that my boyfriend would let me get my hands dirty anyway…” As he said it, he turned toward Sieun, who nodded seriously: “I’ll comb through public records. If there are official documents, even forged ones, under Nina’s name, I’ll find them. If not, we’ll consider other options…”

Juntae, with a softer tone, added: “And I’ll prepare a legal emergency plan: if we take risks, I need to know how to protect us and what remedies we can use. But I won’t advise you on or draft fake papers. I can’t.”

Gotak, already set on his course of action, stood tall and triumphant. “Good. I’ll handle recon. Sieun digs through records and data. Juntae covers our asses if we screw up, and Su-Ho’s on standby if needed. Baku, you talk to Baek-Jin. Tonight.”

Baku inhaled slowly, looking at the faces of his friends now in motion. It wasn’t a perfect plan, nor a legal one, but it was their plan: improvised, risky, achingly human.
“Okay” Baku finally said, his voice broken but steady. “Before anything else, I’ll talk to Jin. If we learn nothing from him, then we move carefully: information first, action after.”

Gotak pumped his fist in triumph; Su-Ho raised his mug, and Sieun was already staring back down at his phone as if digging through digital archives. Juntae sighed, closing his eyes, resigned to the fact that affection would always outweigh caution.

As the group regrouped and began plotting against Seong-je, Gotak couldn’t resist pulling out an old story for the group’s benefit: “Remember that time Sieun stabbed Seong-je in the foot with a glasses arm?” Sieun looked up from his phone with a raised brow. Su-Ho looked proud, though it wasn’t the first time he’d heard the tale, so Gotak aimed it straight at him: “Oh, man, you should’ve been there! It was epic!” The laughter that followed, half nervous, half warm, lightened the tension for a moment, reminding them all that whatever they did, they wouldn’t be doing it alone.

***

When Baku arrived at Baek-Jin’s apartment, he had already gone over a thousand times in his head the speech he’d prepared, a logical thread meant to guide him through telling everything that had happened during that hellish afternoon. Rehearsing it had become almost an exercise in survival, because it would’ve been madness to just show up and, without preamble, ask about identity documents. He had imagined the words, the pauses, even the breaths, as if everything could follow an orderly script. Yet his obsessive planning had only made him distracted, lost in thought, unable to notice right away what was happening around him.

Baek-Jin, in his robe, had leapt off the couch the moment the door opened. Without a word, he switched off the television and, with a few long strides, reached him. Before Baku could even say hello, Baek-Jin had pulled him into an embrace so intense that he could feel the physical weight of his racing heart. He was breathing again, finally breathing, as if he had been holding it for days, and only now, thanks to that contact, could he let go.

Baku’s mind went blank. His entire rehearsed speech evaporated, replaced by the familiar scent of Baek-Jin’s skin. He closed his eyes and returned the embrace, wrapping him tightly around the waist, feeling him alive in his arms.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” he murmured, trying to gather strength.

Baek-Jin breathed against his neck, his voice cracking with an emotion he couldn’t contain. “Where were you? I thought… I thought…” The sentence died halfway, leaving only a silence full of unspoken fears.

Baku hugged him even tighter, understanding perfectly what was racing through his mind.

“You thought I wasn’t coming back?” he asked softly, stroking his hair with gentle fingers. When Baek-Jin didn’t reply, he raised his voice just a little: “Hey… Jin… look at me.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Baek-Jin lifted his gaze. Baku looked into his eyes, and his heart broke at the sight of them, red, wet with tears, and yet proud. He brushed his cheek with his fingertips, and there he read everything Baek-Jin couldn’t put into words: fear, despair, love.

“You thought Seong-je had done something to me?” he asked firmly.

Baek-Jin didn’t answer. He burrowed back into his neck, seeking warmth and protection. Baku stiffened for an instant: rage surged through him like a fire, the thought of Seong-je burning his insides. He wanted to smash his face, turn him to ash. But he knew that rage wasn’t what Baek-Jin needed, not now. He inhaled deeply, smothered the urge for vengeance, and decided that the only way to win was to outsmart him, to tear away the power he held over them, and to take Baek-Jin as far away from him as possible.

“I’m here” he whispered gently, holding him tighter. “Now I’ll tell you everything that’s kept me from you. We have so much to talk about.”

Baek-Jin pulled back a little, lifting his gaze once more. Determination burned in his eyes, but also a frown that made it clear he wouldn’t settle for half-truths. Baku, sensing the tension, tried to lighten the air with a smile, hoping to coax one out of him too.

“But first… how about we take a shower together?” he offered, reaching for him and slowly slipping off the robe.

That was when Baek-Jin truly smiled, a shy smile, accompanied by a sudden flush coloring his cheeks. Baku caught his breath when he saw what was underneath: delicate lace lingerie, thin and semi-transparent, pure white that caught the dim light of the room. The fabric seemed designed for him, feminine in its delicacy, embroidered with floral patterns around the hips, yet perfectly accentuating every line of his body.

The contrast was breathtaking. Baek-Jin’s broad, muscular shoulders, his narrow waist, and sculpted chest were embraced by lace with an almost unnatural grace, as though that fragile garment had been created to give elegance to a body born for strength. The grooves of his abs stood out beneath the embroidered trim of the panties, which stretched slightly over his powerful thighs, framing their strength. And yet it was precisely that detail, the swelling made even more visible by the refined fabric, that rendered him not only desirable, but beautiful in a way that defied every category.

He was a living painting, an impossible balance between masculine power and feminine fragility, between the hardness of his body’s lines and the ethereal lightness of lace. Baku stepped back, unable to look away, overwhelmed by that contradiction merging into something unique. His gaze traveled from head to toe, stopping right there, on the lace panties, on the swelling that made him all the more alluring, all the more human, all the more his. His chest burned, his breath shortened, and he swallowed hard.

“Oh, Jin… fuck. You’re so beautiful. Were you waiting for me… like this?”

“I feel like an idiot!” Baek-Jin shot back, hiding his embarrassment behind a strangled laugh.

But Baku didn’t give him time to doubt. His heartbeat was guiding him, loud, relentless, and he lunged at him with a hunger that wasn’t only carnal desire, but also a desperate need to fuse with him, to erase every fear. His lips crushed against Baek-Jin’s in a passionate kiss, burning and yet tender, as if telling him without words that he would never let him go again. His hands roamed feverishly, clinging to the robe that was already sliding away, and his mouth trailed down his neck, tasting his warm, scented skin, leaving marks along the way.

When he reached his chest, Baku paused just to take in the sight: smooth, sculpted skin, wrapped in lace that emphasized every curve. With a swift, determined motion, he drew a nipple into his mouth, sucking with tender persistence until Baek-Jin’s broken moan filled the air, a sound that made Baku’s bones tremble and drove him beyond all control.

He slid slowly to his knees, his palms caressing Baek-Jin’s thighs, up and down, as though memorizing every inch. He brought his face close to the swelling that the lace, thin and transparent, barely concealed. He brushed the fabric with his cheek, lingering in that almost reverent contact, as though holding something fragile and priceless. He stroked it softly, with fingers both hesitant and ravenous, his eyes shining with adoration.

“My treasure… you’re so, so much beautiful, my love” he murmured, his voice hoarse and broken with emotion. He felt Baek-Jin’s hands sink into his hair, stroking it gently, as though yearning for even more closeness, afraid he might vanish.

Baek-Jin chuckled softly, a laugh cracked by embarrassment and emotion, his face flushed, his gaze dazed and unbelieving. That laugh jolted Baku, who lifted his gaze, capturing every nuance of him. His lips brushed against the lace that cradled his desire, kissing it with devotion, like an act of faith.

“I’m sorry I came so late” he whispered against that thin lace, planting another kiss, longer this time, warmer, almost like an eternal vow.

Baek-Jin shuddered, his breath uneven, his eyes teary, his back arching as though that touch was too much, yet impossible to resist. But with a resolute gesture he pulled him up, helping him to his feet.

“Let’s go shower” he said, a genuine smile finally breaking across his face. “And stop being an idiot.”

He took his hand and led him to the bathroom. Baku followed, his heart pounding wildly, knowing that this night would not be just lust, but also a sealing of their bond. He would find the courage to face the conversation. Nothing and no one could convince Baku otherwise: if he went to America, Baek-Jin would go with him.

In the shower they had made love, surrendering to cuddles, kisses, caresses, and endless attentions, as if every gesture served not only to wash away the sweat but also the shadows of the past days. One had soaped the other’s skin slowly, carefully, almost as if to imprint upon that body the certainty of belonging. Baku had threaded his fingers through Baek-Jin’s wet black hair, massaging his scalp while the water ran down and the moans of pleasure blended with the sound of the shower. Baek-Jin, for his part, had traced every line of Baku’s muscles, washing away his weariness with hands and lips, turning the simplest act into one of love.

But Baku had also dropped to his knees, in an almost reverent gesture, and traced the line of his thighs with wet, slow kisses, as if worshipping every part of his body. His strong hands caressed Baek-Jin’s hips, parting the way between his firm cheeks, while his mouth and tongue left trails of heat that made Jin shiver against the misted glass of the shower.

Baek-Jin, arms raised to steady himself, spread his legs slightly, trembling when Baku’s cheeks pressed more insistently against his flesh, and the tongue slid deeper inside him. The cold glass stung his heated skin, his breath came out ragged, and the feeling of surrender grew with every movement.
“Oh God, stop, please…”
The moans slipped from his lips, mingling with the constant fall of water, like a melody keeping the rhythm of their intimacy.

Every time Baku seemed about to end the sweet torture, merely to breathe, he returned inside him with more determination, with more hunger, wrapping his lips, playing with his tongue around the reddened, wet rings, now slightly open, forcing him to yield more and more, to open himself further… Baek-Jin felt there was no escape, nor did he want one (though he said the opposite between moans). Every fiber of his body trembled, taut and ecstatic, while the certainty of belonging to the other grew more real than any promise.
“Hu-Min, fuck! I don’t know what’s happening to me…!”

Because he didn’t need to touch himself, nor did Baku need to: it was enough, that tongue inside him, the feel of Baku’s face pressed against him, his hands gripping his cheeks to hold him up, for him to completely surrender. Pleasure burst in a long, liquid shiver that made him tremble from shoulders to legs. Baku held him up with strong hands, keeping him from collapsing, kissing him as if to keep every drop of that moment for himself.

Now they were lying on the bed, bodies still warm, calm and spent. The room was wrapped in soft dimness, their breaths blending in a slow, satisfied rhythm. Baku rested his head on the other’s stomach, feeling the steady beats of his heart under his ear, while Baek-Jin’s fingers idly caressed his hair, parting the strands, smoothing them, as if that gesture had become his new addiction.

Baku had not yet found the courage to speak. The words pressed against his lips, but there was no way to say them: every attempt was replaced by a kiss, a touch, a sudden memory of the shower that still burned in him, feverish and hungry. Now, though, in the suspended silence, Baek-Jin’s voice filled the air. He was humming a soft tune, almost imperceptible, like a whisper vibrating more in the chest than in the throat.

Baku turned, curious, and looked up at him. “What are you singing?” he asked hoarsely.
Baek-Jin smiled faintly, pressing his lips together, and shook his head. “Nothing, it just came to mind.”
Baku shifted onto his side to see his face better. His Jin was beautiful even in that domestic moment: hair still a little damp, eyes half-closed and tired but shining, cheeks lightly flushed. “Sing it for me, here, now. I want to hear you” he pleaded softly.

Baek-Jin huffed, rolling his eyes theatrically, but couldn’t hold back the smile that softened his features. In the end, he gave in. He began to sing gently, a cappella, with a low, warm voice that slipped straight into the heart: “Looks like we made it, look how far we’ve come, my baby…”

Baku held his breath, a smile spreading on his lips. He was enthralled, not only by that voice he knew so well, that hypnotized him every time, but also by the words themselves, which seemed written for them. Once again, Baek-Jin was singing for him, for the two of them, as if there were nothing else in the world.

“Oh!! Am I your baby?” he teased, pouting playfully.

Baek-Jin laughed and gave him a fond smack on the head. “Idiot.” But he didn’t stop singing. His voice grew surer, vibrant: “We might took the long way, we knew we’d get there someday…”
Baku laughed and shook his head.

“Oh, calling it a ‘long way’ is an understatement… Jin, we went around the world! More than a long road, ours was a fucking odyssey!”

Baek-Jin laughed heartily, shaking his head, and gently brushed away a few rebellious strands from Baku’s forehead, gazing at him with eyes full of love. Then, without looking away, he went on, more certain than ever: “They said, ‘I bet they’ll never make it’ but just look at us holding on. We’re still together, still going strong…”
Baku nodded, his heart swelling, and laughed with delight.

“Oh, sing it loud, my love! Fuck anyone who thinks otherwise!”

Baek-Jin burst out laughing, unable to continue. That was when Baku jumped up, arms wide like a madman in love, and sang at the top of his lungs, crooked and out of tune, but with irrepressible energy: “You’re still the one I run to, the one that I belong to, you’re still the one I want for life… YOU’RE STILL THE ONE!”

Baek-Jin tried to cover his mouth, laughing, and silenced him only by sheer force. But right after, he resumed himself, more in tune, velvet-voiced, a thread of sound like a caress: “You’re still the one that I love, the only one I dream of, you’re still the one I kiss goodnight…”

At the end of the line, he lowered his hand from Baku’s mouth and replaced it with a kiss. Their lips sought each other with an almost reverent slowness, as if carving the moment into memory. It was a soft, sweet kiss, but laden with silent promises, a mute vow that spoke louder than a thousand words.

Baku grabbed his hips firmly, pulling him close as if afraid he might vanish at any moment. He guided him gently back onto the bed, drawing him beneath himself. The weight of his body, his solid, reassuring presence, made Baek-Jin smile as he surrendered, docile and eager, eyes glowing.

Their kisses quickly grew more intense, longer, unstoppable. Their mouths opened, claimed each other with urgency and sweetness at once, an alternation of bites and caresses that told of all the fire and tenderness burning within them. Their hands roamed ceaselessly: Baku traced the lines of Baek-Jin’s muscles with his fingertips, as if exploring sacred ground, while Baek-Jin clung to his back, his broad shoulders, hungry for contact, yet always with that betraying gentleness, as if afraid to break him.

Their sighs wove together, became a single melody filling the room. Every caress, every movement, was an “I love you” spoken not with words but with the body. And, once again, as if they couldn’t help themselves, they made love. An act that had nothing to do with possession or fear: it was pure passion, sincere joy, the certainty of belonging. Their bodies joined with strength and sweetness, their souls entwined in a dance beyond time.

When their breaths turned short and their bodies exhausted, they remained wrapped together, skin against skin, as if neither wished to let go. Baku kissed his forehead, his eyes, his lips, while Baek-Jin stroked his nape, his hair, tracing small circles on his skin.

And in that silence filled with promises, they both understood the truth of what they were living: there was nothing better. Together they had beaten every odd, ignored those who had written them off. And had they given in to doubt, looking now at what they shared, they knew with certainty they would have lost it all.

I’m so glad we made it
Look how far we’ve come, my baby

Morning filtered gently through the half-drawn curtains, painting the room with a pale, tender light. Baek-Jin was the first to wake, his eyes still heavy with sleep but his heart already full. Beside him, Baku slept deeply, sprawled face-down, his face half-buried in the pillow, one arm draped across Baek-Jin’s stomach. An instinctive, almost childlike gesture, as if to say without words: you’re not going anywhere.

Baek-Jin stayed still for a long moment, just watching him. His gaze traced the broad line of his shoulders, the relaxed profile of his face, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. With the lightest touch, he caressed the arm wrapped around him, then smiled quietly to himself. In that moment it seemed to him that the entire world could shrink to that room, that bed, to that man who, after so much waiting, was finally holding him with the same fear of losing him that had weighed on Baek-Jin’s chest for years.

If I could… I’d stay like this forever, he thought, closing his eyes halfway, almost imagining himself sealed in an untouchable bubble, protected from the rest of the world. There was nothing outside that apartment he wanted more than what he already had: Baku asleep beside him, and that new, aching intimacy filling his heart.

With a sigh, though, he carefully slipped away, not wanting to wake him. He gathered the clothes scattered here and there, his own and Baku’s, piling them neatly. He decided he would take advantage of the morning quiet to do some laundry. When he stepped into the living room, his gaze fell at once on Baku’s duffel bag, left abandoned near the sofa.

He grimaced: he knew him far too well. He could already imagine its contents, full of damp, smelly sports uniforms that Baku, lazy and messy as he was, hadn’t bothered to unpack. Muttering under his breath, he bent to pick it up.

The bag was heavy. He set it on the table, tugged the zipper open absentmindedly, and began rummaging inside, ready to pull out crumpled shirts and forgotten socks. But amid the fabric and the sharp odor of sweat, he spotted a crumpled sheet of paper, poorly folded. At first he grabbed it only to set it aside: he didn’t like snooping through Baku’s things. But something stopped him.

The paper looked official, rigid. When he unfolded it and began to read, his eyes skimmed the lines almost against his will. The words struck him one after the other, cold and sharp. It was a contract.

Baek-Jin felt his stomach tighten. He read and reread the clauses, the dates. There was no mistaking it. Within a month, Baku would have to leave Korea. Move to America.

He froze, the paper trembling faintly in his hand. For an instant it seemed the morning silence had been broken by thunder, but the noise was only inside him. He looked toward the bedroom door, behind which Baku still slept unaware, clutching his dream. And Baek-Jin’s heart, so full only moments ago, was suddenly pierced by the weight of that discovery.

When Baku awoke, the space beside him on the bed was empty. He reached out into the sheets still warm, as if he could summon him back by magic, but found only emptiness. Rubbing his eyes, still heavy with sleep, he sat up. On the edge of the bed he noticed a pair of neatly folded boxers: far too tidy to be his doing. He smiled faintly, recognizing Baek-Jin’s hand immediately.

He pulled them on and, hair tousled and gaze still drowsy, stepped out of the room. The smell of fresh coffee and the sound of running water led him to the living room, and from there to the kitchen. Baek-Jin stood with his back to him, bent over the sink, washing dishes. His movements were precise, almost stubborn, and the morning light filtering through the window wrapped him in a quiet yet tense glow.

Baku crept closer, slipped his arms around him from behind, and pressed a warm kiss to his bare shoulder. His lips trailed slowly upward along his neck as he murmured softly, “Good morning…”

But he felt at once that something was wrong. Baek-Jin was stiff, his body distant, far from the man who only hours earlier had let himself be adored, worshipped, possessed without reserve.

With a sharp gesture, Baek-Jin set the plate down and turned. Baku kept his hands braced on either side of the sink, as if to keep him from slipping away. And in that instant, suspicion hit his stomach like a punch: something had happened while he slept. Something he didn’t know.

“I did the laundry” Baek-Jin said flatly. “I washed your uniforms in the bag too. They stank to death.”

Still foggy from sleep, Baku nodded absently. He studied him, saw one eyebrow arched, an insistent gaze, as if waiting for him to connect the dots. It took a moment. Thirty endless seconds. Then his eyes widened.

“Shit!” he blurted. “You read it?”

Baek-Jin grimaced, turning aside. “What should I have read?”

Baku’s heart leapt into his throat. He searched for his eyes, but they avoided him. “Jin… I was going to tell you. It’s just that- the lace, the shower, you singing… distracted me!” he stammered, realizing at once how pathetic the excuse sounded, like that of a schoolboy.

“Or you didn’t know how to tell me that in a month you’re leaving?” Baek-Jin shot back, his voice breaking with barely contained bitterness.

Baku didn’t hesitate: he grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at him.

“No. Stop. I’m not leaving! Or rather, yes… but not alone! I told you I had to explain why I was kept away last night, didn’t I? Then… seriously, Jin! With that body… you make me feel things I can barely resist. I turn into a… what’s the word? A nympho-something…”

“Nymphomaniac.”

“That!”

At another time, Baek-Jin might have laughed. But now his smile was absent, and Baku knew he had messed up. That silence, that denied smile, burned more than a thousand reproaches.

“I screwed up, I know!” he pressed, his voice hoarse. “Yesterday was hard for me… the coach gave me the news all of a sudden, it caught me off guard. I don’t want to leave for America, Jin. Not now that I’ve found you again!”

Baek-Jin’s eyes shone with confused emotions. He lowered his gaze, still trapped in Baku’s grip.

“Even if… yeah, fuck, it’s the dream I’ve had since I was a kid. You know that, you remember.”
Baek-Jin nodded slowly, saying nothing.

Baku bent toward him, searching again for his eyes. “Hey… I don’t care about NBA, not if you’re not there with me. Don’t you get it? No dream makes sense if you’re not in it.”

Baek-Jin shook his head, almost unable to believe it.

Then Baku sighed, pulled back just enough, and took his hand. He clasped it tightly between his large fingers, gently tugging him toward the sofa.

“Come with me” he said, sitting beside him. “Let’s really talk about it this time.”

Baku spoke in a rush, as if every unsaid word had to explode in that very instant: he told how he had opened his heart to his friends, how he had confessed everything, that he had found him again, that he was madly in love, and that the only thing that contract had done was break his heart instead of filling it with joy. He told him about Gotak’s reaction, the initial burst of anger that soon melted into understanding glances, into a hand gripping his arm, and into a silent promise of help.

“That’s where their plan was born” he concluded, looking at Baek-Jin with eyes shining with a determination that was almost painful.

Baek-Jin frowned, as though trying to understand where that speech was heading.
“Plan?” he repeated, his voice edged with suspicion.

“Listen to me, Jin” Baku said quietly, every syllable charged with fire. “Do you really want to stay here, at Nina’s, in the hands of that slimy bastard who’s forcing you into a life that isn’t a life, forever?”

Baek-Jin looked at him, hesitated. “Do I have a choice?” he replied coldly, resignation bleeding through his words.

“YES, damn it! You come away with me!” Baku burst out, nearly leaping to his feet with the urgency of it. Baek-Jin’s eyes widened, incredulous.

“When you guys opened this place, so you could work here… Seong-je had to put you in the system, right?” Baku continued, his lip trembling with emotion. Baek-Jin nodded, his gaze falling to the floor.

“Yes, he created fake documents in Nina’s name, but… Oh Baku… you’re not seriously thinking-no!” He got up, pacing away, his voice betraying his turmoil.

Baku went after him without hesitation, grabbing his wrist firmly. “Jin! He’s got the documents, right? That’s what keeps you from leaving this place…”

Baek-Jin clenched his jaw. “You’ll never manage to steal from him, and YOU can’t put yourself in danger because of me, not now, when you finally have a chance overseas!” he shot back, fear tightening his voice.

Baku didn’t let him go; he pulled him close, almost making him stumble against him, seized both his wrists, and forced him to meet his gaze.

“DON’T YOU GET IT? I’m not leaving without you. I’m not leaving you here with him!” he almost shouted, but not with hatred, rather, with a plea lit by fire.

Baek-Jin stared at him for a long time. Emotions flickered across his face like waves, anger, fear, tenderness. And then he understood, without needing explanations, why Baku hadn’t been able to bring it up sooner: that “plan” was madness, and he wanted to go through with it only because he loved him like a madman.

He shook his head. “I can’t let you risk everything for me” he whispered, almost in surrender.

“We’re not alone” Baku replied, his voice softening but never losing its firmness. “The guys are with us. Sieun offered to forge new documents if we fail to steal the ones from Seong-je. Think about it, Jin: I can play in the NBA as a pro, and you, you could set foot on the most famous stages in the world. Nina would become the new Broadway diva.”

Baek-Jin burst into laughter, but it was a laughter heavy with the weariness of years. He lowered his head, dimming his amusement with a weary smile. Baku gently lifted his chin, locking eyes with him.

“You’re such a crazy, reckless dreamer, Hu-Min. And that’s what I love about you…” Baek-Jin said, his voice trembling with affection and fear all at once. “But this plan has a 98% chance of failing.”

“I’m an optimist” Baku shot back with a cocky grin. “And I think that 2% success rate is all we need.”

Baek-Jin shook his head, but his expression softened. “You’re an idiot, Hu-Min. Seriously, it’s dangerous, I don’t want anything to happen to you…” At last he gave in: he embraced him, hiding in Baku’s neck like someone seeking refuge. Baku breathed deeply, relief washing over him, and held him tighter, as though that contact could seal every promise.

“I haven’t asked you the most important question yet” Baku whispered in his ear.

Baek-Jin lifted his gaze, his eyes lost in Baku’s, glistening and sincere. “What is it?” he asked, his heart racing at the thought of that plan, just offered to him as an escape from his suffocating reality.

“Will you come to America with me?”

For an instant, time stood still. Baek-Jin bit his lip, holding back a smile that was equal parts fear and hope, while Baku looked at him like he was the only thing that truly mattered, as though the dream wasn’t about making it in America, but about bringing Jin with him, wherever he might go.

“It sounds like you just proposed to me” he whispered, a playful gleam crossing his face.

“We can do that there” Baku replied in a flash, enthusiasm lighting his expression. Baek-Jin pinched his side, half-scolding, half-conspiratorial. “Stop daydreaming. What you’re hoping for is impossible…”

“If we dream it together, we can do anything, Jin. So, will you come to America with me?” Baku pressed again, softer now, pleading.

Baek-Jin looked at him, weighing it all. He thought of Nina’s, of the heels, of Seong-je, of the nights spent singing, the only sparks of joy, and of the emptiness those years had carved inside him. Then he focused on Baku, who once again was offering him a way to live instead of just survive. He saw the dream not as an escape, but as a new chance, and in that moment, Baek-Jin knew it wasn’t only Baku who believed in it, but him too.

He kissed him deeply, a kiss that held all the answers his voice couldn’t bring itself to speak, and when they pulled apart, he smiled.

“I’d follow you anywhere, Hu-Min” he said at last, and in his words was a promise that needed no stamps or papers.

Baku chuckled softly, then lifted him up as though he had just won a medal.

“Then get ready, because I’m dragging you out of here!” he exclaimed, and the whole room seemed to cheer with them: between laughter and new hopes, they had leapt over yet another obstacle, hand in hand, stronger than ever, ready to truly give it a try, together.

***

The plan was ready.
The evening had begun like so many others at Nina’s: low lights, smoke curling lazily from the stage toward the ceiling, customers already tipsy, ordering more drinks. Everyone was waiting for Nina. But when the moment came, the stage remained empty.

Seong-je, who in the past few days hadn’t stopped watching Baek-Jin like a hawk, grew restless immediately. He rushed backstage, pounded on the dressing-room door, flung it open. Empty. The couch was in disarray, a few boa feathers scattered on the floor, but no trace of her. A prickle of irritation climbed his spine. He huffed, took a drag from his cigarette, and went upstairs to the apartment. Nothing there, either.

A venomous unease bit into him, but his crooked smile stayed in place. The thought that Baek-Jin, and probably that hulking idiot Baku, were plotting something amused him almost more than it angered him. Little mice, he thought, digging their burrow, convinced no cat is on their tail.

That was when he glanced out the window. And he saw him. Baek-Jin, or so it seemed, standing under the cone of light from a lamppost. A hand raised in an ironic wave, a silent invitation to follow. Like a kid beckoning someone into a game of hide-and-seek.

But he was alone. No sign of Baku. That set off alarm bells, enough for Seong-je to file it away. He wouldn’t fall for their trap so easily. And yet… he went downstairs, lit another cigarette, and stepped into the street. Under the lamppost there was no one anymore. Only the orange glare on the wet asphalt.

A whistle. Seong-je spun around and saw a hooded figure darting away, wearing the same clothes Baek-Jin had on beneath the lamppost. Not an illusion. Someone wanted to be chased.

“Tsk…” He crushed the cigarette under his shoe and started running.

The chase lasted more than half an hour, dragging them far from Nina’s. Neon lights thinned out, replaced by the heavy darkness of the outskirts, where asphalt cracked underfoot and windows were shuttered tight. The streets grew darker, the alleys narrower, deserted, silence broken only by hurried footsteps and ragged breathing.

At last, Seong-je caught up: with a lunge, he crashed onto the figure’s back, trying to wrestle him to the ground. It was his only chance. He’d never win in a straight fight, Baek-Jin was taller, more muscular, stronger. His only card was to pin him down, immobilize him.

But the hooded figure didn’t fall. With a fluid, almost dance-like move, he twisted free and answered with a side kick to the ribs, which Seong-je barely managed to block. Too fast. Too precise.

Another strike came instantly: a punch aimed at the chin, followed by a body twist that echoed taekwondo techniques, fluid yet packed with power. Seong-je staggered back, eyes wide. He didn’t remember Baek-Jin ever moving like this, with such feline speed, such disciplined training.

The hooded fighter pressed on, relentless: advancing in measured steps, fists clenched, legs ready to snap into a roundhouse kick or block a counterattack. Every move seemed calculated, as if he’d already anticipated his opponent’s next reaction.

Panting, Seong-je tried to stall for time. He spat venom between strikes, his broken breath turning words into hisses:
“What game are you playing?”

A fist grazed his cheekbone, leaving a sharp sting.
“Why this stupid, pointless escape?”

A round kick sliced the air a palm’s breadth from his chest, letting him feel the force of the blow that barely missed.
“What did Baku put in your head to make you skip a night at Nina’s?”

And finally, when an elbow strike made his knees buckle, he found strength to hiss the vilest provocation:
“Does he fuck you that well? Better than me?”

The hooded figure froze for just a moment. Only a moment. But enough for Seong-je to pounce, convinced he’d found the crack. With a snarl, he tackled him, slammed him down, and yanked off the hood.

It wasn’t Baek-Jin.

It was Gotak. With that cheeky, defiant grin. “Surprise!” he spat.

Seong-je stared, and for a moment, against all logic, he laughed. Laughed because they’d fooled him, because he couldn’t believe he’d actually fallen for it. He yanked Gotak, threw him to the ground, and burst out laughing even louder.
“What the fuck are you planning, huh?” he snarled, but in his eyes a spark gleamed, almost excited: for once, he didn’t understand what was happening.

Gotak laughed back, but the game shifted when Seong-je hissed: “Want me to break your other leg, huh?”

In a heartbeat, Gotak’s smile died. His body reacted before his mind: he flipped Seong-je, slammed him down with a speed that hadn’t been his for a long time. He straightened, looming over him.
“Maybe tonight it’s my turn. What do you say?”

Seong-je laughed even from below, as if nothing could touch him. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, still sprawled on the ground, and lit it with slow deliberation. “Oh, you’re too soft to hurt anyo, ” he began.

He didn’t finish. Gotak drove his foot brutally into his knee. “This is for what you did to my friend.” A scream of pain tore through the air. “This is for what you did to me!” Another stomp. “And this is just because I fucking hate you!” The last one. He hadn’t broken it, but Seong-je wouldn’t be walking right for days.

Gotak smiled, the look of a man who had just settled a debt long overdue.
“My work here’s done. Now try limping back home, asshole!” he spat, and walked away without turning back.

Seong-je lay on the ground, panting, his knee burning like fire. He sat up, dragged another drag of smoke, reached for his phone. Called Baek-Jin. No answer. He exhaled sharply, tossed the phone aside, and before standing, smoked his cigarette down to the filter. Then he stayed there, in the dark, with a crooked grin and pain slicing through his leg.

“Not bad, Hyun-tak” he muttered, pleased. A strange glint flickered in his eyes.

When Seong-je dragged himself toward Nina’s, every step was a blade cutting into his aching knee. He limped, he staggered, but the grin never left his face: he clung to it, as though arrogance could cover the truth of his condition. The street was almost deserted, lit only by a lamppost spilling a cone of yellowish light onto the sidewalk. It was there that his steps came to a halt.
A small group was waiting for him. Baek-Jin sat, elegant and motionless, while Baku stood beside him like a natural bodyguard. Further back, two silhouettes observed in silence. Seong-je narrowed his eyes: he recognized Sieun by his firm stride, and next to him, the boy he remembered seeing long ago in a hospital bed, unmoving, surrounded by tubes and IVs. It took him a moment to connect the face to the name: Su-Ho.

A dive into the past. One of those that burned.

Seong-je’s heart gave a jolt. That scene pulled up a memory he had never wanted to relive: the time when, leaving the police station, limping from the foot wound Sieun had given him, he had found Baek-Jin waiting for him in silence, with the same feline gaze, sharp and watchful, like a cat ready to spring. The same gaze that now pierced his gut, pinning him to the present.

He approached slowly, lighting another cigarette with a theatrical gesture to mask his tension. He inhaled, then let the smoke drift toward the sky.

“Well, what a lovely family reunion” he said, ironic. “To what do I owe the honor?” His eyes darted from one to the other, studying them.

“Oh, don’t worry” he added. “Your little friend was merciful. He didn’t break my knee. That’s the only reason I won’t report him.”

Baku stiffened, fists trembling at his sides, but stayed put. Baek-Jin didn’t break eye contact with Seong-je, his gaze sharp, glacial, like thin blades. Sieun didn’t move either, but the shadow on his face spoke of restrained anger. Su-Ho, instead, studied Seong-je from head to toe, eyes like a predator weighing the weak points of already-wounded prey.
“Where did you hide them, Seong-je?” asked Baek-Jin, his voice steady, unshaken.
Seong-je raised an eyebrow, inhaled his smoke with exasperating calm. “A little context, maybe? That way I can answer better.”

Baku growled, stepping forward, but Baek-Jin raised a hand. “Hu-Min, you promised me.” The promise weighed like a stone, and Baku froze.

“My documents” Baek-Jin continued, “my passport. Where did you hide them?”

A flash crossed Seong-je’s eyes. A flash of realization. He cursed himself, briefly, for not seeing it sooner. They had taken advantage of his absence to search, to look for those fake documents he himself had arranged years earlier: Nina’s identity, the passport, everything. But apparently, they hadn’t found them.

He smirked, puffing out his chest. “Your documents? You mean Nina’s. Don’t forget: you’re dead, Jin.”

Silence fell for a moment. Baku clenched his fists so tight his knuckles cracked, while Sieun stepped forward slightly, entering the light.

“Hey, little boy! Long time no see, uh? You came to introduce the boy you worked so hard for, five years ago?”

“Oh, he’s really annoying” Su-Ho remarked, calm but with a dangerous glint in his eyes.
Seong-je sneered, flashing quick glances at all four of them, as if he were genuinely enjoying the scene.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Baek-Jin rose to his feet. Every movement calculated, elegant. He stepped closer, stopping only a few paces away. “Tell me where my documents are, Seong-je. Let’s end this, once and for all.”

“End it?” Seong-je laughed. “Want me to make a call to Mr. Choi? Want me to tell him to… really end it with you?” His tone was honeyed, venomous.

It was Sieun who cut in, sharp as a blade: “Hard to do much… from a grave.”

For a moment, Seong-je’s sneer faltered, replaced by a flash of irritation. Baek-Jin, on the other hand, smiled. “You took him out, didn’t you? When did it happen?”

No reply. The silence said more than words ever could.

“So” Baek-Jin went on, “all these years I could have lived free. But no. It could only mean one thing: that the leash in your hands and around my neck had to stretch far too long…”

“I let you fuck your big boy” Seong-je spat back with disdain. “Didn’t hear a thank you for that.”

Baek-Jin smiled again, but it was a smile dripping with disgust. Without turning, he spoke softly: “Hu-Min.” Behind him, Baku exhaled loudly, but stayed still.

“Whether you give me my documents or not, it all ends here tonight.” Baek-Jin’s voice was clear, unwavering. “You have nothing left to hold over me. Maybe you didn’t think hard enough, when you decided to kill the one man who could have kept me tied to you forever.”

No sneer, no word from Seong-je. But that very silence was his admission.

“I could always report you to the police. For faking your death, for living under a stolen identity.”

“And end up behind bars with me, as my accomplice? I don’t think that’s what you want for yourself” Baek-Jin replied, cold as ice.

Seong-je laughed, crushing his cigarette with a sharp gesture. “You really thought big, huh? And now what will you do? Without Nina’s, you’re nobody. Will it be enough for you to just be his little wife?”

Baek-Jin slowly turned his back on him, facing Baku. No promises were needed: his eyes, calm and full of love, were enough to keep him steady.

“Goodbye, Seong-je. Take care of yourself.” He grabbed the handle of the trolley waiting for him. Baku, Sieun, and Su-Ho closed in around him, and together they began walking away down the street.

“You could have just asked me, Jin! Without putting me through this!” Seong-je shouted after them, speaking to two backs that didn’t turn, not even for a final acknowledgment.

So, Seong-je was left there, his knee throbbing, the dead cigarette between trembling fingers. For the first time, he felt not only defeated, but hollowed out. No longer the puppeteer: only a broken man, left behind. And that feeling devoured him more than any blow he had ever taken.

***

The airport was lit by cold lights, the murmur of the crowd mingling with the metallic announcements echoing from the loudspeakers. In the middle of that confusion stood the group: Baku, Baek-Jin, Sieun, Su-Ho, Gotak, and Juntae, gathered in a small circle.

“Are you sure you want to leave tomorrow?” asked Baku, pouting, his voice cracked by an unease he was trying in vain to hide. No one spoke. The silence among them was heavy, thick with emotions that found no words.

Baek-Jin smiled warmly and caressed his forearms. “It’s safer for you, Hu-Min. If something were to happen at the checks, I don’t want you taking that risk for me.”

Baku frowned. “But nothing will happen, right? Everything will go well?” His gaze shifted to Sieun, as though searching for confirmation. Sieun stood still for a long moment, then, meeting Baek-Jin’s eyes, gave a complicated smile and nodded.
“Everything will be fine” he finally said.

“And if it doesn’t, I already have a great lawyer in mind” Juntae cut in, trying to lighten the mood with irony, though failing to succeed.

Baek-Jin gave a faint smile and turned back to Baku, as if no one else existed around them.
“Everything will be fine, it’s only forty-eight hours. We’ll see each other on the other side of the world, okay?”

Baku scratched the back of his neck, hesitant, then nodded. “God, I wish I could kiss you right now!”

Their friends reacted with exaggerated groans and theatrical grimaces, and Baek-Jin laughed, shaking his head. “Say goodbye to your friends now, or you’ll be late for the gate!” he scolded him gently.

That was when Baku was overwhelmed by emotion: as he hugged Gotak, he broke down in tears. He tried to hide them by clinging tightly to his friend, but Gotak, who himself was struggling to mask his sadness with jokes and irony, failed too. In the end, he gave in, sniffling, patting Baku’s back awkwardly and mumbling, “If you cry this much, you’ll ruin my tough-guy reputation.” But his cracking voice betrayed him. What followed was a mix of bitter laughter, back slaps, and stifled sobs. One of those moments that stay etched forever.

Then it was Su-Ho’s turn. They held each other tightly, and with a half-smile he murmured: “Show those Americans who you are, big guy. But remember… don’t let it get to your head or I’ll come find you and throw you off the nearest skyscraper.” It was spoken like a threat, but it carried all his affection. Baku laughed, cheeks still wet, and nodded, knowing those words held a bond that needed no grand speeches.

Sieun, instead, hugged him in silence, without small talk. He simply rested a hand on his nape, squeezing firmly, like an older brother unwilling to admit he was hurting. Baku stood still for a few seconds, cradled in that mutual embrace, until Sieun whispered: “Don’t let them run you over. Ever.” Just two words, blunt but heavy as stones.

Finally, it was Juntae’s turn. He tried to smile and not give in to emotion, clapping him on the shoulder. “Go, champ. Don’t forget us when you’re on TV!” But as soon as Baku laughed, Juntae grew serious, pulled him closer and whispered almost just for him: “I love you, Baku. Really.”

Baku wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, looking at them all, one by one, with an expression that was both proud and broken. “I don’t know how I’ll manage without you.”
Gotak tried once more to lighten the mood: “Don’t worry, it’s us who won’t survive without your caveman roars.”

They all laughed, but the laughter was tinged with bitterness, leaving a taste none of them would ever forget.

After the farewells, Baku returned to Baek-Jin. He looked at him intently, stroked his cheek, and smiled, tears still running down his face. “I’ll see you in two days, then.”
Baek-Jin nodded, his smile faintly blurred by the dampness clouding his eyes.
“I can’t wait to start living our life together, my love…” Baku went on, holding him in an embrace that seemed endless.
With a trembling voice, Baek-Jin replied: “Me too, Hu-Min. Let me know as soon as you land.”
“I’m not letting go until you promise” murmured Baku, his head buried in his shoulder.
Baek-Jin exhaled softly.

“I love you, Hu-Min! See you in two days.”

They parted reluctantly. Baku gave him one more smile, overflowing with emotion. “I’m kissing you passionately.”

“And I’m pinching your butt with my fingers” Baek-Jin answered sweetly. Baku laughed, raising his eyebrows mischievously. Baek-Jin rolled his eyes to the ceiling and smiled.

Then Baku walked away slowly, dragging his trolley. Every few steps he turned, raised his hand, and waved again, moved to the core. Tears kept streaming down his face as his friends called out, wishing him a safe trip, their voices broken by emotion.

When he disappeared beyond the security zone, Baek-Jin remained still, his gaze fixed on the figure now lost from sight. Beside him, Sieun leaned closer and spoke in a low voice: “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”
Baek-Jin lowered his eyes slightly, then raised a hand in farewell as Baku vanished into the crowd beyond the barriers. “Because he would never have left, knowing I couldn’t follow him.”

Sieun stayed silent for a moment, but inside he replayed the moment when he had been forced to confess to Baek-Jin that he hadn’t been able to forge a document convincing enough to pass airport checks.

“It’s too risky, Jin” he had said, serious in a way he rarely was. “One mistake, one missing detail… and you’d be arrested instantly. I can’t put you in that kind of danger.”

Baek-Jin had begged him then: “Don’t tell him, I beg you. He wouldn’t leave if he knew the truth. And I couldn’t bear being the reason that kept him from his dream.” Sieun had hesitated, but in the end nodded, accepting to shoulder that burden.

“He’ll be furious when he finds out…” Gotak remarked, his tone unusually devoid of its usual lightness.

“With all of us” added Su-Ho, grim.

Baek-Jin drew a deep breath, his face torn but resolute. “We’re doing this for him. It’s his dream. He deserves to achieve it.”

He remained there, staring at the empty space Baku had left behind, heart both broken and full. Because despite the pain, he knew it was the right choice. Even if it meant staying behind, hidden in the shadow of a lie, just to see Hu-Min shine in the sunlight, Baek-Jin knew he had done the right thing.

Time, perhaps, would answer with a miracle for him too. Hope does not fade when you live walking in step with love, the true kind.

Epilogue

Outside the airport, the evening air was still thick with tension, and the white neon lights reflected their cold glare on the wet asphalt. Baek-Jin, Sieun, Su-Ho, Gotak, and Juntae walked down the driveway toward the parking lot, each lost in their own thoughts, when a familiar figure stopped them.

Seong-je was there, waiting. His gaze was proud, his steps still limping from his injured leg, but with that unmistakable air of someone who hadn’t given up, even in the face of the harshest defeat. A cloud of smoke framed his face as he held a cigarette between his fingers, as if it were an indispensable accessory to his mask of confidence.

Su-Ho took a half-step forward, fist clenched, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Sieun followed, face impassive but eyes sharp, determined not to give him any room to get close to Baek-Jin or Gotak. But Seong-je ignored them, his gaze skimming over the human wall the two had formed in front of him, and he winked directly at Gotak. The latter’s eyes widened in surprise before he quickly lowered his gaze, muttering something through gritted teeth.

Then, with a half-smile that promised nothing good, Seong-je turned to Baek-Jin:
“So? Did you let him go?”

Baek-Jin stepped forward, walking past Sieun and Su-Ho with calm but determined steps, coming within a few meters of him. “What are you doing here? Looking for satisfaction?” he asked, voice tense but firm.

Seong-je chuckled, drawing on his cigarette. “Oh, Jin… I’m not really the villain of this story, you know? Whether you’re willing to admit it or not, I really saved your life. And you really needed me, five years ago.” He adjusted his glasses, as if that small gesture lent more weight to his words. “Did I take advantage? Sure. I saw potential and made you a diamond tip. Can you really blame me for that?”

Baek-Jin looked at him in silence. No smiles, no anger, just that icy calm that always preceded his final decisions. He started to turn, determined to leave him there, unheard, but Seong-je stopped him with a quick motion. He extended an envelope toward him.

“Here. Consider it my way of apologizing. For everything I’ve done to you.”

Baek-Jin hesitated. He met Seong-je’s eyes, then glanced down at the envelope. He reached for it, fingers light as if touching a weapon, but Seong-je didn’t release it immediately. He held it a moment longer, forcing Baek-Jin to meet his eyes again.

“You should apologize to me too, you know? Or at least… thank me. We’re friends, right?”

Behind Baek-Jin, his companions’ muscles tensed. Su-Ho shook his head, ready to smash Seong-je’s face; Sieun bit the inside of his cheek, calculating every possibility. Gotak, dragged into the middle unwillingly, clenched his jaw, heart racing.

Baek-Jin’s voice hissed sharply: “I should thank you for taking out Mr. Choi?”

Seong-je shrugged, a smirk of irony on his lips. Finally, he let the envelope drop into Baek-Jin’s hands. “You should. But it doesn’t matter. Deep down, I know you’ll always be grateful. After all, if it weren’t for Nina, you’d never have found your Baku…”

Baek-Jin opened the envelope. Inside were his documents. Real, authentic, intact. His blood surged. He looked up, searching for the hidden trap, but Seong-je laughed, amused.

“You didn’t expect that, huh? What can I say… I’m an incurable romantic.” He ran a hand through his hair, raising an eyebrow. “Or maybe, when everyone thinks they can figure me out, I like to shatter all expectations.”

Baek-Jin’s hands trembled. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing vulnerability, yet his heart screamed that now, maybe, he could truly reach Hu-Min. He held back tears, but his glistening eyes were enough for Seong-je to notice. He patted his shoulder, almost affectionately.

“Take care of yourself, Jin. And show those American bastards who Nina is.”

He turned, ready to leave, but Baek-Jin’s voice called after him: “I’m sorry… for not being the one.”

Seong-je remained with his back turned, inhaling from his cigarette, the smoke dissolving slowly into the air. “I know. But it was enough for me that you were by my side. That would have been enough.”

Then he turned, just for a moment, and looked past Baek-Jin’s shoulder. His gaze landed on Gotak, lingering, ambiguous. “But don’t worry” he said, with a crooked grin. “Maybe I’ve found someone else very interesting to keep me occupied…”

Gotak’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. He immediately sought the others’ eyes, as if to confirm he had really been the target of that remark. Su-Ho stifled a bitter laugh, Sieun shook his head in exasperation.

Seong-je laughed, then cast one last glance at Baek-Jin. A silent, almost respectful farewell, before turning again and limping into the night, disappearing into the shadows with the same stubborn arrogance as ever.

***

The television was on the small table in front of the bed, the volume turned down low so it wouldn't disturb the calm of the morning; the screen still showed the last replays of the match, soaring leaps, impossible blocks, the roar of the crowd captured by the studio speakers. The shot then moved to the post-game interview: studio lights, flashing graphics, the microphone passing from hand to hand. Baku, still in his tracksuit with sweat beading on his brow, sat smiling beside the reporter, his hands repeatedly smoothing his hair like an affectionate tic.

“Are you happy?” the interviewer asked, using that voice that always sounds too warm on TV. Baku laughed; his eyes were bright like sunbeams through clouds, and he said he was “mortified with pride” for the team, for how they had fought together, for the sacrifices they had made to reach that victory. He spoke about plays, instinctive passes, the moment he’d known the game would be theirs.

Then came the question that short-circuited his thoughts: “Your fans must be wondering, is your heart taken? What can you tell us?” The camera dropped, fixing on his eyes in that long shot that demanded the confession an audience craves. Baku flushed slightly, cleared his throat, and looked straight into the camera as if answering a vow.

“Unfortunately, dear fans, I must admit my heart is taken!” he said, his voice trembling for a second before settling into a soft laugh. “The person who lives in it put down roots since we were kids. It took us a while to find each other and make it work, so we’ll fight anything and anyone to never lose each other again!”

The interviewer sighed adoringly and offered that practiced smile worth millions of clicks. “Whoever they are, if they’re watching, they’ll be very happy to hear you say that.”

Embarrassed, Baku tried to laugh off the tension. “And they absolutely did not threaten me into answering that way to that question, I swear!”

Then the final blow, the big question the producers had saved for the perfect minute: “Do you intend to marry this person?” For a moment Baku grew serious, his gaze deepened into that kind of depth that erased the TV and left only a fixed point in his soul.

“Absolutely yes” he answered, as if pronouncing fate.

The screen went dark with the network jingle and the remote fell onto the bed. Baek-Jin, who had been lying there with his legs crossed, gave him a playful shove on the shoulder, feigning a grumpy disapproval that he couldn't actually pull off.

“Hey! What kind of response is that to such a declaration?” he grumbled, though his eyes were laughing.

“What declaration? You say it to everyone but never to the person involved!” Baek-Jin shot back, then raised his hands in surrender, showing his fingers: “See? Still no ring on my finger!” he said, chuckling. Baku paused for a second, his expression turning serious, then they both burst out laughing.

Baku looked at him for a moment, as if he wanted to imprint every line of his face into his memory. Then he threw himself on him, pressed him against the mattress and kissed him long and deep, with that urgency that had become part of their shared language.

“I’m working on it, my love” Baku murmured between kisses. He took Baek-Jin’s hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed it gently. “Do you still want to marry me?” he asked, a question that needed no answer to be true.

Baek-Jin pinched his side and laughed in a husky voice. “Stop being an idiot. Of course I do. Reminder: you’re mine, even now.”

They broke apart briefly, breathing hard, cheeks flushed with pink, eyes bright with domestic happiness. Baku straddled him, his hands tracing Baek-Jin’s face as if reading a familiar map. “Married or not, you’re mine and I’m yours” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.

“Forever” Baek-Jin replied, and his smile held the grace of someone who has chosen a harbor and will never leave it.

***

Three years later…

The theater was a hive vibrating with lights and held breaths. The curtain had risen on a kaleidoscope of sequins, feathers, and bodies moving as one organism: the Burlesque-Musical was a show of low lights and neon flashes, trumpets blaring, and measured steps that made the floor tremble. Nina - Jin, his husband - emerged from the shadows with the confidence of someone who had chosen every movement with the precision of an architect and the grace of a painter. The costume, a bespoke dress of ruffles and satin, clung to his sculpted body as if made to accentuate every curve and muscle; the heels pushed the figure into a proud, almost regal carriage.

Baku sat in the front row, his heart hammering in his chest like a drum. The whole spectrum of their history had flashed before his eyes over the past years like a sped-up film. Now he watched him there on stage, and every note that left Nina’s mouth felt like a declaration: “I am here. I am alive. I am free, but I am also yours.” There was no rhetoric: there was naked truth staged with art.

The direction played with lights that carved Nina’s face, casting long shadows that pinned him to the essence of the performance. Every time Baek-Jin’s hands moved with the rhythm, Baku felt a pang that was at once pride and gratitude: that body once captive now danced and sang whole, no longer masks to hide wounds but instruments of liberation. The crowd erupted in applause that rose like a tide; yet for Baku, the rest of the theater seemed to fade, reduced to a blurred backdrop for the figure before him.

When the show reached its climax, Nina stopped center stage, lights wrapped him in a golden halo, and the audience held its breath. Baku had stood up without realizing it; his eyes were wet, his hands trembling. It was not a mere applause: it was a shower of flowers and shouts, an ovation that welcomed him like a personal triumph, not only of the artist, but of the person who had had the courage to start again.

Baku threw his bouquet with the dexterity of someone who knew every possible gesture of devotion; the flowers fell like a red rain before the stage, and Nina, seeing them, looked at him. The look he sent back was an arrow of recognition: a mischievous wink, a kiss blown with the hand.

Outside the theater, the air felt different: warmer, as if the city had taken that heat with it. The red carpet in front of the entrance was crowded with photographers and critics, fans holding posters, and people who had heard about Nina and now wanted to see the phenomenon with their own eyes. But the outside world could not scratch the private island that had formed around them.

Backstage, the scent of powder and alcohol mixed with the aroma of gathered roses. Hugs were long; colleagues kissed him on the cheek and were met with proud smiles. Nina, still glittering in costume, descended the wooden steps and reached him in a few strides down the corridor. They embraced. The outside world ceased to exist for a beat: the presence of the other was the only reality needed.

Outside, critics would write about a “voice that cuts like a diamond” and a “choreography that redefines the genre” but in that corridor the language was gestures: a hand brushing a face, a stolen kiss among the flowers, the unspoken promise that all of it would remain fragile and sacred. Baku looked at him as one looks at a relic: he was proud not because the world had recognized him, but because his man had finally chosen himself, and had done so with pride.

Later, at their home, when the city had finally settled, they laughed together reading the reviews, watched videos of the applause, and allowed themselves a glass of wine.

Baku looked at him and thought of every step that had brought them there. “I promised you” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. “And now look where we are, my love!”

Baek-Jin smiled, his eyes shining with a happiness so simple it felt unbelievable.

“We are free” he said. “And there is nothing more beautiful than being free with you, my baby.”