Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Baek-Jin has always known, in the quietest corners of his thoughts, in those moments when the noise of the world fell silent, that he didn’t deserve the best part of Park Hu-Min. But between knowing and accepting lies an abyss, and he had fallen into that abyss long ago. Not only had he fallen into it, he had built a home there, a dwelling made of guilt and desire, where he had learned to breathe darkness as if it were everyday air. And the more he tried to climb out, the more that same darkness called him back, sweet and poisonous, until it convinced him that light no longer belonged to him.

Not even when Hu-Min came back, when he finally had what he had always dreamed of: his presence, his gaze, his voice saying his name with that ease that made him feel whole… not even then was it enough. Because the abyss doesn’t vanish when you get what you love. It stays inside you, like an echo whispering that you never truly deserve it. And Baek-Jin, even with him by his side, felt that the part of himself Hu-Min had always illuminated had already dried up.

Now he sits in his small office in the abandoned bowling alley, the flickering neon lights reflecting off the dusty glass balls and the time-cracked lanes. On the table lies a half-finished test, incomplete answers, the ink thickening beneath the pressure of a pen gripped too tightly. The plastic barrel creaks between his tense fingers. He can’t focus. He can’t even pretend to try.

Baku. The nickname comes back to him like a summons, an ancient breath. He remembers the first time it was spoken. He had just finished reading a manga Hu-Min had recommended, a bittersweet story about a monster that feeds on people’s nightmares, turning them into dreams. Hu-Min had explained, smiling, that the Baku was a Japanese mythical creature capable of devouring nightmares, purifying them, and giving back serenity.

So, Baek-Jin, who lived submerged in his own nightmares, had thought there was no word more fitting. From that day on, Hu-Min had become his Baku, the silent devourer of his fears, the invisible guardian of his nights. Every time Baek-Jin fell, he was there, picking up the pieces, smiling as if nothing had happened. Asking for nothing in return, except his company.

But now, looking back, Baek-Jin realizes that gift had been a curse as well. Because the more Hu-Min devoured his shadows, the more he let himself go, unable to learn how to live with them. He had stopped fighting them, relying entirely on his Baku, on his light. And so, when Hu-Min walked away, when the world began to bare its teeth again, Baek-Jin discovered he no longer knew how to breathe without him.

Perhaps, he thinks now, staring at the blank sheet before him, the Baku had grown full. Perhaps he could no longer feed on his nightmares, they had become too vast, too dense to be swallowed by anyone. Perhaps it was Baek-Jin himself who had turned into the real monster: a creature dependent on someone else’s light, a devourer of dreams instead of nightmares.

His hands tremble, and the pen slips from his grasp, rolling slowly across the floor until it hits the wall. The silence of the bowling alley is absolute, broken only by the weak hum of the neon lights. Baek-Jin leans back in his chair, eyes closed. In his mind, one image remains: Hu-Min laughing, with that smile that tasted of forgiveness.

But he doesn’t want it, that forgiveness. Not anymore. Because to forgive himself would mean accepting that he has lost the best part of who he was, and Baek-Jin no longer knows who he is without that light.
Maybe, he thinks, he’ll have to learn to be his own Baku.
But the thought feels almost ironic, cruel: how can a monster swallow itself?

Baku arrives, and Baek-Jin senses him before he even sees him. There’s no need for his men to announce him or for his footsteps to echo down the hallway of the abandoned bowling alley. The air changes, denser, almost electric. It’s as if the darkness itself bends around that presence, recognizing it, making space for it.

Baku’s aura precedes him, sharp, heavy, saturated with something Baek-Jin can no longer decipher. Anger? Disappointment? Maybe just exhaustion.
He pretends not to notice. Keeps his head bent over the test paper, pen hovering, the timer on his phone ticking relentlessly. But every fiber of his body vibrates. His veins pulse beneath his skin, his breath stutters as he tries not to betray the agitation rising inside him.

A dull thud breaks the silence.
The keychain bounces on the desk and slides to the edge. Baek-Jin stops the timer, eyes still fixed on the unfinished equation, then slowly looks up.

Baku is there.
Not the Baku he knew, the one who laughed until he cried, who teased him affectionately, who carried a trace of light wherever he went. No, standing before him now is someone else: rigid, tense, jaw clenched, eyes merciless. Colder, more distant. And yet Baek-Jin can still feel that light somewhere within him, buried now beneath layers of resentment and fatigue.

He says nothing. He simply marks a cross on the paper. He has failed, not only the exercise, but everything. Because the distance between them is the exact measure of his failure.

The sound of the pen hitting the table barely masks the footsteps approaching. Each one lands like a blow to his chest. Baek-Jin doesn’t dare lift his gaze. He would, if not for the fear of seeing how much hatred hides behind that silence.

“What’s this?” Baku’s voice is low, rough, tired.

Baek-Jin doesn’t answer right away. He merely pushes forward an envelope, the one he prepared the night before. Inside, there’s money, too much even for him. It’s the only way he knows to ask someone to stay.

“For you.” His voice comes out almost broken. “For… the trouble.”

A bitter smile curls on Baku’s lips. Not one that warms. It’s a smile that wounds.

“The trouble?” he repeats softly. “Is that what you call it now?”

Baek-Jin lowers his gaze. He can’t find the words. Any answer would sound pathetic, and he doesn’t want to give Baku another reason to despise him.

The silence stretches, suffocating.

Baku picks up the envelope, weighs it in his hand, then lets it fall back onto the table without even opening it.

“That’s not what I want, Na Baek-Jin.”

The sound of his full name, spoken like that, hard, cold, without affection, hits like a blow to the chest. His heart tightens, a knot rises in his throat, but he can barely swallow it down. There’s no need to ask what Baku wants. Baek-Jin already knows, and that knowledge devours him from within: Baku wants the part of him that died long ago, the part that laughed without fear, that knew how to love without control, that Hu-Min once looked at as if he were worth saving. But that part no longer exists.

“Then what do you want?” he finally manages to say, his voice cold, almost unfamiliar. It’s a tone he uses as a shield, as if distance could soften the impact of the words he knows are coming.

Baku stares at him for a long time. His gaze is still, but within it churns a storm of emotion, exhaustion, anger, compassion, pain. The silence weighs heavier than any scream. Then he speaks, and every word cut like a blade.

“I know you don’t give this much money to your minions for every job, so stop trying to buy me.” His voice is low but sharp. “You can’t fix everything with money, Baek-Jin. Not with me. If you really want to give something back… stop dragging me into your shit.”

Baek-Jin inhales slowly, but the air burns his lungs. The sound of his voice fades from the room like a flame dying under rain. Only the hum of the neon remains, the hammering of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears.

He wants to react, to say something, anything, but the words die halfway up his throat. Every sentence he tries to form crumbles, as if even his tongue had refused to defend him. And maybe, deep down, that’s fair.

Baku doesn’t look at him anymore. He turns toward the exit, jacket slipping off his shoulders with a nervous movement, hands shoved into his pockets as if to hold something in, maybe anger, maybe the desire to stay. His footsteps retreat, slow but steady. No hesitation, no glance back.

Baek-Jin remains still, eyes fixed on the blank test paper, now forgotten. The cross he drew over the last answer looks like a brand, a final symbol of his unhappiness.

When he finally dares to look up, the room is empty. The air feels different, colder, as if with Baku had gone the last trace of warmth.

Only the keychain, abandoned on the table, and the bulging envelope of money remain, motionless, silent witnesses of a bond that has rotted, from which he can now draw only that: completed services and cold distance.

He stares at them for a long time, then reaches out toward the keys. His fingers tremble, but he doesn’t touch them. He can’t. He can’t bring himself to touch what Baku has left behind, because doing so would mean admitting he’s truly gone.

As the flickering neon light casts his distorted shadow on the wall, Baek-Jin understands that perhaps this is his fate: to remain there, alone, surrounded by the remnants of what he has destroyed.

Because even monsters, in the end, don’t just grow tired of the dark. They grow tired of themselves.

***

Baek-Jin knows that Baku hasn’t come home in weeks, maybe even months. Ever since he joined him, ever since he accepted his world and its rules, something between them cracked beyond repair. He knows perfectly well that Baku sleeps at the Union’s warehouse, in that damp, dusty corner where crates of stolen goods are stacked to the ceiling and the smell of iron and gasoline drowns out everything else. No one has dared to tell him openly, but Baek-Jin knows. He knows from the way Baku shows up every morning, dark circles under his eyes, wrinkled jacket, voice hoarse and distant.

He has never told him to stop, nor has he ordered him to come home. Deep down, giving him that space, that illusion of freedom, is the only way Baek-Jin knows to feel a little less guilty, to convince himself he hasn’t taken everything from him.

Usually, when he needs him, he calls.
But Baku almost never answers. The phone rings endlessly, silence stretching for entire minutes, until Baek-Jin, impatient, lowers his arm and lets the phone fall onto the table. And like clockwork, a few minutes later, the message arrives:

“What do you want?”

Just few words. Dry, sharp, emotionless.

Baek-Jin reads them and feels his nerves tighten. He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, a reflex, a small distraction to hide the ache that runs through his chest. It’s not anger, not entirely. It’s more like regret, a dull pain that resurfaces every time he reads that coldness, that distance that didn’t used to exist.

He closes the chat. Doesn’t reply right away.
Instead, he opens Seong-Je’s conversation, scrolling upward, back through the weeks, until he finds what he’s looking for: a photograph.

The image loads slowly, as if even the phone hesitates. It’s a picture taken in a bar, under lights that paint everything in pastel colors. Baku is surrounded by his friends. He’s smiling, a full, spontaneous, genuine smile. His eyes are bright, alive. Nothing like the empty, severe gaze Baek-Jin is forced to see every day.

There’s color in that photo.
There’s life.
There’s everything Baek-Jin is no longer allowed to see.

He stares at it for an indefinite time. His finger slides across the screen, as if he could reach through it, touch that moment, bring it back. But he can’t. And the more he looks, the greater the distance feels, unbridgeable. That image belongs to a time that won’t return, to a version of Baku that Baek-Jin himself helped extinguish.

With a slow sigh, he closes the photo and returns to Baku’s chat.
His fingers hover over the keyboard for a few seconds. He doesn’t type a greeting, nor an introduction, he knows it would be pointless. He simply writes an address, a place on the outskirts, where concrete crumbles and the law doesn’t set foot, and beneath it, a short instruction. No explanations, no thanks. Only orders.

He sends the message. The screen stays lit for a few seconds, then goes dark.
Baku doesn’t reply.
No “ok” no period, no sign of life. But Baek-Jin knows he’ll go anyway, like always. Because obedience, now, is the only language left between them.

He sinks into his chair, exhausted, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling. The echo of silence vibrates through the room, accompanied only by the ticking of the clock. And in that moment, Baek-Jin realizes that nothing is more tragic than the silence of someone who listens to you only because they can no longer afford to fight you.

***

The bowling alley is steeped in a silence that weighs on everything. A faint hum accompanies each of Baek-Jin’s thoughts like a steady, irritating heartbeat. He’s alone, sitting in the chair behind his cluttered desk, papers, books, a glass of water gone lukewarm, his hands clasped in his lap. In front of him, the phone lies on the table, still and lifeless.

Usually, after every job, Baku always shows up. Sometimes he says nothing, just drops the keys or a report, then leaves. Other times, he recounts things in his own way, with that neutral, detached tone that hides a fatigue deeper than it sounds. Then he disappears again, leaving behind that trail of quiet presence that Baek-Jin has learned to recognize as the only form of loyalty he can still expect.

But he always comes. Always. Except today, he hasn’t.

Baek-Jin tried calling him, first impatiently, then with growing unease. Every time he hears that automated voice, frustration rises inside him like a wave. By the fifth call, he slams the phone down on the table, knocks the books aside, and stands abruptly.

Something’s happened. He feels it in his bones.

He waits.
Grabs the phone again. Clicks on the name: Park Hu-Min.
Calls. Once. Twice. Three times.
No answer.

On the fourth, the dial tone cuts out, replaced by the coldest silence he’s ever heard.
Irritation flares, but it’s just a mask: beneath the frustration hides fear. He forces himself to stay seated, but after the fifth failed attempt, he snaps the phone shut and hurls it across the desk. The books scatter, the glass wobbles, water spills over.

With a sharp, angry motion, Baek-Jin pushes everything away, papers fluttering to the floor.

“Damn it…” he mutters, voice breaking halfway through.

He stands, grabs his jacket, and heads for the door. The night air greets him like a cold punch. The city is almost silent, but he hears nothing beyond the pounding of his own heart.

His mind swirls with images he can’t push away. He stops in front of the bar where he sent Baku, a simple job, at least in theory. Two guys who’d been late on payments, nothing serious. Baku was just supposed to “remind” them. And when Baku worked, he never failed.

When he arrives, the place looks ordinary, dim lights, soft music, laughter spilling from inside. People drinking, dancing, living, unaware that just hours earlier, something irreversible might have happened here.

The smell of alcohol and smoke clings to him as he pushes through the crowd. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t draw attention. He watches, listens. Every detail becomes a possible answer, a clue.

The lights flash in rhythm with the music. The floor gleams, too clean for a place like this. The stains on the wood look fresh, hastily scrubbed. His stomach tightens.

He’s about to leave when he catches two voices behind him. Two young women standing by the bar.

“Did you hear? It happened right here, tonight.”

“Yeah… they say it was a fight. But someone got hurt. Badly.”

“Seriously? What about the police?”

“They got here late. But the owner cleaned everything up fast. Didn’t want trouble, you know? He even threw out the dirty glasses. Said you couldn’t even tell whose blood it was.”

Baek-Jin’s heart skips a beat.
He steps out of the bar. The air outside is colder, sharper. The wind hits his face, but he barely feels it. He stares at the empty street ahead, one image drawing itself in his mind: Baku lying on the ground, eyes closed, body still, blood soaking into the floor.

He shakes his head, as if to drive it away. “No.” The word comes out harsh, like an order to himself. “Not him.”

Baku is strong.
A strength that’s never needed proving, natural, instinctive, lethal when required. He’s seen him take down men twice his size with a single strike. Seen him get back up from wounds that would have crushed anyone else. Baku was the one who taught him how to fight, not just with fists, but with will.

Baek-Jin has always looked at him the way one looks at something unreachable. Like a god.
A god made of flesh and scars, but a god nonetheless.

And yet, the feeling creeps in like poison, the doubt that, for the first time, his god might have broken.

A shiver runs down his spine. The sense that something is wrong becomes certainty. It’s not just worry, it’s fear. A visceral fear he hasn’t felt in years.

He stands frozen. Around him, the city keeps moving, unaware of the emptiness opening inside his chest.
Because Baku hasn’t shown up. Because he hasn’t called. And what if that blood, the one hastily cleaned from the floor, was his?

Baek-Jin runs a hand over his face, closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again.
He can’t stay still.
So, he moves, fast, determined. Walking, maybe aimlessly, maybe toward the one place his instincts tell him to go.

He has no proof, no certainty. Only instinct. And that instinct screams that he has to find him, before it’s too late.

***

Baek-Jin finds Baku exactly where he feared he would, and the relief that should have come with that sight gives him nothing, it’s just another blade twisting in his chest.
Baku is lying on the filthy couch, skin paper-white and slick with sweat that glistens on his forehead. His hoodie is darkened by blood, a spreading stain that looks like a map of wounds. It seems impossible that this body, the same body Baek-Jin has seen rise a thousand times after blows that would have shattered other men, now lies so still, like a broken toy.

Baek-Jin rushes closer, gracelessly, and kneels down. The metallic scent of blood hits him before his eyes can even find the wound, sweet, nauseating, omnipresent. He calls out, trying to drag him out of that fog, out of the sand dulling his gaze.

“Hu-Min… Park Hu-Min… Baku!”

Baku’s face tightens, a grimace of pain that never quite turns into consciousness. His eyes stay closed, slitted. When Baek-Jin tries to lift the hoodie to inspect the wound, Baku reacts instinctively, swatting his hand away, a sharp gesture that reeks of rejection and shame.

“Go to hell, Na Baek-Jin” he growls, his voice cutting like salt on an open wound.

Baek-Jin freezes, just for an instant, struck by the brutal awareness of how far they’ve fallen. The boy who once looked to Baku as salvation, who was lifted back to his feet when bullies cracked his ribs, is now on his knees, trying to piece together what he himself destroyed. But he doesn’t move away. He recognizes that look: it’s not just hate, it’s pain mixed with something worse, a soul-wound that turns every touch into a burn.

“I’m already there” he says hoarsely, forcing a calm he doesn’t feel. “What happened?”

Baku doesn’t answer, doesn’t stop him when he pulls again at the hoodie. Eventually, he gives in, and with a strangled, broken voice mutters:“That bastard stabbed me.”

Under the filthy rag pressed against the wound gapes a wide, deep slit, as if someone had tried to carve out part of him. Baek-Jin moves the cloth just enough to see the torn flesh, caked with blood; his vision tilts, his mouth fills with a bitter taste. He curses under his breath, letting the words spill out, useless, empty.

And Baku, against all logic, laughs, a strangled, pained sound, full of self-reproach. Usually it’s Baek-Jin who scolds him for that sharp tongue. Now it’s Baek-Jin who’s cursing, and the irony almost makes him laugh again.

“They won’t have hands left to do it again” Baek-Jin says without thinking, and it comes out as a promise.

Baku’s hand strikes him across the face, not hard enough to knock him down, but enough to throw him backward into memory: of gripping hands, of blood that was never just on their skin but soaked deep into what they were.

“Who the hell have you become, aish… The first thing you think of when your friend’s hurt is revenge…” he says, his tone a mixture of disgust and sorrow.

“Friend.” The word ricochets inside him like a stone skipping across water, an anchor, a wound.

Friend.

He, who betrayed the very idea of friendship, who turned it into currency, now stands here trying to defend it with someone’s bleeding life.

Baek-Jin doesn’t answer, not because he won’t, but because anything he could say would only sound like an excuse, and excuses don’t stop the flow of blood.

Baku pushes him away again when he tries to remove the soiled cloth; he doesn’t want to be seen like this, bare, broken, vulnerable before the man who betrayed him and made him dependent.
Baek-Jin stares at him, his expression tight with anger he can’t channel. In that look sits all the guilt that’s been hollowing him out: the knowledge that he caused this, that he didn’t, or couldn’t, stop it.

Baku’s eyes flash open, burning slits of rage and shame, when Baek-Jin forces himself upright, grabs his phone with trembling fingers, urgency breaking through exhaustion. Baek-Jin dials the number he knows too well, the crooked doctor he sometimes pays to have hands that don’t ask questions.

“Who the hell are you calling now?” Baku mutters, sarcasm cracking at the edges. “Forget it, they don’t deserve to die over this shit! It’s nothing, I’ll be – shibal! – fine by tomorrow.” He tries to stand, of course, and fails.

Baek-Jin ignores him and speaks into the phone. Hearing that metallic voice on the other end, the man who takes cash without questions and comes wherever he’s told, is a bitter relief: pragmatic, filthy, necessary.

“I need a field operation. Knife wound” Baek-Jin says flatly, then gives the address, his tone cold and businesslike. “Hurry, doctor.”

He hangs up. For a moment, the silence is so thick it swallows even breath.

Baku looks at him, this time with a faint, bitter smile.

“Of course. Even the corrupt doctors. You really thought of everything, Na Baek-Jin” he laughs, a sound that tries to challenge despair itself.

Baek-Jin stays still, locked in place. The metallic stench of blood fills his lungs, mixing with sweat and the damp air of the room. Then, with a breath that sounds almost like a groan, he leans closer. His face is near Baku’s, so close that the warmth of his skin brushes his cheek, and for an instant Baek-Jin can’t tell whether the heartbeat he feels belongs to him or the other man, who stubbornly refuses to go still. Their breaths mingle, short, rough, a single shared flicker of life that belongs to neither.

With fingers trained for precision but trembling now, Baek-Jin peels back the filthy cloth. It comes away with a sticky sound, and the sight beneath hits him like a punch. The blood is thick, dark, almost clotted at the edges, but the center still pulses, cruelly, vividly alive. He presses his bare hand to it, trying to staunch the flow, to hold in place what life itself seems ready to let go. The warmth runs between his fingers, hot, vital, and filthy, because it’s Baku’s blood, and he has no right to touch it.

Baku lets him, though every muscle is tight, trembling with pain and fury. It’s an act of savage endurance, almost animal. Not surrender, not forgiveness, just resistance. Resistance to breaking completely, resistance to showing fragility before the one who shattered him in ways no blade ever could.

Every touch from Baek-Jin is a memory. Every shared breath, an insult to the distance they’ve built. Yet Baku remains still, eyes closed, as if holding himself together purely out of spite.

“I hate you” he murmurs finally, his voice raw, scraped, a thorn beneath the skin.

It’s not a shout, but it weighs more than any scream. Baek-Jin feels it echo inside him, hollowing him out, carving through the guilt already gouged deep. There’s no relief, no satisfaction in being hated by someone who, despite everything, still orbits his life. It’s only a dull, choking ache rising from his diaphragm to his throat. He understands, in that moment, how rotten the threads between them are, and that neither of them, no matter how much they wish it, can truly cut them.

He wants to answer, to say something that might pierce the weight of that poison, but every word that comes to mind is either too honest or too useless. So, he stays silent.
The quiet between them is a heavy sea, thick with all the things unsaid, and all the things they can never say again.

“Stay awake, Baku” he whispers at last, his voice neither a plea nor a command. Something smaller, more human. A truth slipping past his lips before he can stop it. It’s the most honest thing he’s said in months, maybe years.

Baku opens his eyes, barely, fevered, clouded, and stares at him. In that look there’s a spark: anger, maybe hatred, maybe just desperate clarity. For a second, it burns him alive, then Baku turns his face away, just enough to break the contact, too raw, too intimate.
He doesn’t want to see him. Doesn’t want to give him even the comfort of feeling needed. And yet, he doesn’t move away.

Baek-Jin keeps watching him, his hand still pressed to the wound, his thumb accidentally brushing the trembling edge of Baku’s skin. Every beat he feels beneath his fingers is a small victory, and a sentence.
The room smells of blood and fear, and between their tangled breaths, in the dim light, there’s only the sound of Baku’s heart, still beating.
For him.
Despite him.

***

Baek-Jin washes his hands slowly, as if that dirty, lukewarm water could wash away not only the blood, but everything else too, the guilt, the anger, the fear. His fingers, still red and raw, move with almost obsessive care under the weak stream of the faucet. The water runs red for a moment, then fades down the drain, taking with it only the illusion of a cathartic act.
He raises his gaze to the cracked mirror in front of him: the face staring back isn’t his anymore. The deep shadows under his eyes, the tight lips, the sweat-matted, disheveled hair make him look ten years older. He runs a hand down his face, leaving a trace of water and exhaustion. Is this what a man who’s won looks like? No. This is what someone looks like who’s destroyed too much to remember why he even started.
When he returns to the room, the doctor, a pale man in his fifties with hands trained to move in silence, is taking off his gloves, now filthy with dried blood. He tosses them into the bin with a dull thud, near a desk covered in empty bottles and crumpled papers. The smell of disinfectant still mingles with that of iron and sweat.

“I gave him a sedative” the doctor says, without looking up as he wipes his hands with a handkerchief. “He’ll rest for a while. He won’t feel any pain. I’ll leave you some antibiotics and an ointment, keep the wound from getting infected.”
He tears a page from his notepad and writes the dosage in hurried but legible handwriting. “And…” he adds, glancing briefly at Baek-Jin, “you should move him somewhere cleaner. This place isn’t… appropriate.”
The tone is neutral, but there’s a shadow of judgment in his words, something he doesn’t dare say out loud.

Baek-Jin nods silently. He takes the note and reads it, more to give himself something to do than out of necessity. Then he picks up his phone, types an amount on the screen, and sends it. It’s a large sum, excessive.
The doctor hears the chime of the notification, glances at the display, then turns back to him with a faint, uncertain smile. “You’ve made sure he won’t say anything.”
Maybe he’s right.

The man gives Baek-Jin a light pat on the forearm, a gesture somewhere between respect and pity, and leaves.
Baek-Jin is alone now. Alone with Baku.

On the couch, the boy sleeps. His forehead is beaded with sweat, lips slightly parted, breathing steady but heavy. His face, stripped of expression, finally seems free of all the pain and anger that fill him when he’s awake. He looks almost peaceful. But he isn’t. Baek-Jin knows it.
He moves closer, bends over him. His fingers act on their own, barely brushing the hair stuck to Baku’s forehead. He moves it aside, as if that small gesture could erase the image of blood, of the blade, of fear.

He looks around: the warehouse is a heap of shadows and forgotten objects, stacked metal sheets, sagging mattresses, a blanket tossed over a pile of boxes, clothes rolled up in corners. And then, he recognizes them, details of Baku scattered everywhere: a hoodie, a pair of shoes, an old manga open on the table, a chipped mug.
This place has become his refuge. His exile.
A place Baek-Jin hates, because it holds every reason why he hates him.

He draws a deep breath, his gaze hardening. “We can’t stay here.”
He pulls out his phone and books a taxi. The wait time is short, but every second feels endless. He moves quietly through the room, checking that Baku is still breathing, then grabs a duffel bag and starts packing the things he knows belong to him, a few changes of clothes, some books, his phone, a set of keys. He pauses when he sees a crumpled photo sticking out of one of the books, a faded image of Baku and his friends, smiling. Carefully, he folds it and slips it into the hoodie’s pocket.

When the car arrives, his phone vibrates with a notification.
Baek-Jin walks to the couch and, with slow but steady movements, lifts Baku into his arms.
The boy’s body, warm and limp, rests against him, and Baek-Jin feels the same thing he felt the first time he saw him again after years, the sensation of holding something that no longer belongs to him.

He leaves the warehouse. The night air is cold, heavy with rain. The taxi driver waits by the car, uncertain.

“Need a hand?” he asks, but Baek-Jin only shakes his head.

“Just open the door.”

The man obeys, and together they settle Baku on the back seat. Baek-Jin makes sure he’s comfortable, that he won’t move too much, then shuts the door with a sharp click.

Before getting in, he turns back toward the warehouse entrance. The inside is lit by a single flickering bulb, a rotten place, smelling of rust and broken promises. A perfect reflection of the life he’s built.

He exhales softly, switches off the light, and pulls the door shut.

When he sits beside the driver, his face is blank, but his eyes are resolute.

“Where to, sir?” the man asks.

Baek-Jin looks out the window for a moment, then gives him the directions to his home.

***

Baku wakes with a start, his breath short, his heart pounding like a dull drum against his ribs. The soft light of the room disorients him for a few seconds. It’s not the yellowish half-darkness of the warehouse, nor the smell of mold and gasoline that had been his company for days. Here, the air smells clean, of polished wood and fresh sheets. It’s a different silence, too quiet, too controlled.

He pushes himself up with difficulty, trying to focus on where the hell he is, when a sharp pain cuts through his side. The wound burns beneath the fabric of his shirt, forcing him back onto the pillows. He groans, pressing a hand over the white bandage covering the dressing. When he finally manages to lift the cloth, he sees a large, clean, perfectly placed patch. The skin around it is only slightly red, a sign that someone, someone who knew what they were doing, had taken the trouble to treat him.

The clothes he’s wearing aren’t his. He’s been changed. Washed, maybe. The thought makes his blood boil, being touched, undressed, arranged like some fragile object by the one person he never wanted near him again.
He swallows a curse, his jaw tight. Then he studies the room: pale walls, elegant minimalist furniture, dark wood, clean lines, no personal traces. No photos, no trinkets, just order and cold aesthetics. But it doesn’t take much to understand. The expensive wood floor, the subtle citrus scent, the silence thick with control.

“Shibal…” he mutters. “I’m in his house.”

He lets his legs slide off the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. He stands, sways for a moment, clutching the nightstand to keep from falling. Every step stings, but anger fuels him.
He steps into the hallway. The walls are smooth, sterile, nearly bare. No memories, no life. Only Baek-Jin could live in a place like this, perfectly ordered, perfectly empty.

The hall opens onto a wide, bright living room dominated by a large window. On a gray sofa, Baek-Jin sits with his legs crossed, a book in his hands, posture relaxed but eyes alert. He looks up at the sound of footsteps and, as if nothing were strange about it, gives a faint smile.

“How do you feel?”

Baku stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, then growls something under his breath and heads toward what he assumes is the kitchen. The polished floor reflects his movements. He opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, twists off the cap, and drinks straight from it until he’s out of breath.

“Where the hell are we?” he demands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, voice rough.
Baek-Jin doesn’t even look up from his book.

“At my place.” The tone is neutral, as if he’d just answered an irrelevant question.

“…And how did I get here?”

This time Baek-Jin deigns to close the book, a finger marking the page. He lifts his eyes and gives a faint, almost ironic smile, enough to make Baku’s blood boil again.

He curses under his breath, face twisted with disgust and fury. The thought that Baek-Jin carried him here, helpless, vulnerable, humiliates him to the core. He can picture it, his limp body in that man’s arms, like the hero of a movie he never wanted to be in. Perfect, he thinks bitterly,  like a princess rescued by her own executioner.

Baek-Jin, expressionless, sets the book on the table and rises. His gaze measures every word, every movement.

“You should check your temperature” he says quietly. “It was still high a few hours ago.” His voice is calm, caring, almost clinical.

“Fuck the fever” Baku spits, gasping between the jolts of pain. “I’m leaving.”

He limps toward the door. There, beside the entrance, he spots a duffel bag. Inside, he immediately recognizes some of his things, a hoodie, his notebook, the folded photo, even the chipped mug. Everything he had back at the warehouse.
He freezes, his stare turning sharp as a blade.

“Oh, you even packed my stuff, huh? How thoughtful of you.”

“Baku” Baek-Jin calls, his voice low and steady. “The doctor said you need to rest. The wound could reopen, and you still have a fever. You can’t-”

“The hell I can’t stay in this house!” he cuts him off, raising his voice, tone cracking. “Not with you. Not after everything. If I’m like this, it’s your fucking fault!”

The silence that follows is razor-thin. Baek-Jin doesn’t move, but something dark flickers in his eyes, guilt, or maybe resignation.
“I know.” The words come slow, heavy, as if they weighed more than the rest. “If you stay and listen, there’s something I need to tell you. About that.”

Baku stands still, his hand still gripping the zipper of the duffel bag, his breath uneven. He stares at him, incredulous, as if unsure whether to laugh or scream. But beneath the fury, a sliver of doubt cracks through.
And for the first time in a long time, the thought of hearing him out scares him more than walking away.

His nerves are taut strings, ready to snap. His heart hammers in his chest, a dull thud echoing in his temples. His hands tremble, fingers twitching as if they could shatter the table, the wall, anything in front of him. He forces himself to breathe, nostrils flaring, and instead of walking out the door, as he’d decided, he turns back.
He plants himself in front of Baek-Jin, who hasn’t moved an inch.

“Let’s hear it” he snarls. “What the fuck do you have to say now? You gonna put money on my bank every month until I die because apologizing for the shit you do is too much effort?”

Baek-Jin looks at him. There’s something more tired than hard in his eyes, a shadowed weight, and yet he shakes his head slightly, a barely-there gesture.

“So, what then?” Baku snaps, his voice rising. “Talk! What the fuck do you still want from me?”

Baek-Jin takes a breath. When he speaks, his tone is low but sharp, like words rehearsed a thousand times in his head.

“Once the wound heals, you’ll go back home.”

Baku freezes. That’s not the answer he expected. The pain in his side flares, but it feels secondary now, overshadowed by the sudden chill crawling down his spine.

“What?”

“I hired a lawyer for your father.”

Baku’s eyes widen. For a moment, he thinks his ears are betraying him. Confusion floods him, raw, unfamiliar, uncomfortable. He forces himself to swallow, but it feels like sand scraping his throat.

Baek-Jin continues, calm and deliberate.

“You’ll go back to school. To your friends. You’ll play basketball again. Go back to your life. No more Union.”

Baku laughs, a short, broken sound without a trace of joy.

“You fucking kidding me?”

Baek-Jin shakes his head slowly. “I won’t bother anyone anymore. Not you, not your father, not your friends.”

The words hang in the air, heavy, impossible. Baku doesn’t know what to say. Every part of him, every reflex, every nerve screams that something’s off. Too neat. Too sudden. Too easy.

“That’s it?” he finally asks, his voice low and dangerous. “I almost die, and you just realize you’ve been fucking up? What’s the trick? What the hell are you plotting now?”

Baek-Jin turns away, giving him his back. For the first time, he doesn’t seem made of stone. His shoulders are slightly slumped, his breath caught, a moment of fragility he tries to hide.

“No” he says softly. “There’s something I want… before I let you go.”

Baku laughs, a short, almost animal sound. “Of course. I was starting to get creeped out.”

Baek-Jin turns back to him slowly. “Sit down, Baku.”

Baku glares at him. He wants to do the opposite, just out of spite. He wants to scream, flip the table, break something. But his legs give a little under the weight of pain and exhaustion, and in the end he drops onto the couch, muttering curses under his breath.

Baek-Jin looks at him again, eyes fixed on his face. His voice is almost neutral, but there’s an imperceptible tremor underneath.

“You’ll recover here, with me, as agreed. But to free yourself from me completely, once and for all, I want something from you.”

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. Baku drums his fingers against his knee, then snaps, unable to stand it any longer.

“Oh, come on! Enough with the fucking suspense! Just say what you want and get it over with!”

Baek-Jin slips his hands into his pockets, the posture of a man closing a deal. But his gaze, for the first time, falters just slightly.

“Sleep with me. Once.”

The world stops. Baku goes still, eyes locked on Baek-Jin. He’s not sure he heard right.

“Have sex with me, Baku. Just once. And then you’ll never have to deal with me again for the rest of your life.”

The words echo off the bare walls, the empty space Baek-Jin has just asked to fill with… a night of sex.
The air in the room thickens, heavy as lead. Baku feels blood pounding in his temples, a buzzing that fills his ears. He doesn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or hit him. The fever burns high, but not just from the wound.
And yet he stays there, motionless, staring at him. For the first time, Baek-Jin looks naked, vulnerable, a man laying everything on the table: his power, his obsession, and, unexpectedly, the only terms under which he knows how to say goodbye.

Chapter Text

Wrapped up, so consumed by all this hurt
If you ask me, don't know where to start
Anger, love, confusion
Roads that go nowhere
I know there's somewhere better
'Cause you always take me there

Take me home, Jess Glynne

Baku forgets everything.

He forgets the still-fresh wound pulsing beneath the bandage, forgets the blood, the fever, the exhaustion that should have chained him to the bed. Or maybe not, maybe it’s the fever itself that gives him that uncontrollable strength, that fury spilling from his bloodshot eyes and setting fire to his voice.

He rises from the couch in a movement almost unnatural, staggering for an instant before lunging at Baek-Jin. The punch lands sharp, without hesitation. The sound is dull, a thud of flesh against flesh that echoes through the immaculate room. Baek-Jin doubles over, breath caught for a second, but doesn’t retaliate. He merely steps back, just a fraction, as if he had foreseen every motion, as if he had already accepted the pain before it arrived.

Baku grabs him by the shirt, jerks him forward, his eyes burning even hotter with rage. He shoves him against the bookshelf behind him, and the impact sends several volumes tumbling to the floor.

“You’re manipulative, fuck!” he shouts, his voice cracking, saturated with rancor and pain. “A sick bastard who enjoys playing with people! With me!”

Baek-Jin doesn’t react immediately. His body bends slightly under the blow, but his face remains motionless, almost resigned. It’s as if he already knew this would happen, as if he had predicted it and, in some twisted way, even wanted it. He simply watches him, pupils still, a fabricated calm that only enrages Baku further.

“You took everything from me, damn it! You get off on treating people like pawns in your pathetic little kingdom? Does that make you feel powerful, huh, Na Baek-Jin? Does it make you feel alive?”

Baek-Jin lets him rage, watching him with a strange composure laced with fatigue, as if the shouting were a punishment he knew he deserved. He brings a hand to his lip, tastes the metallic tang of blood. He almost smiles, but it isn’t defiance. It’s a crack. He looks away.

“Look at me, damn it!” Baku growls, shaking him. “You’ve destroyed everything! You ruined my life, and now you come talking to me about lawyers, about freedom, about the future?! You have no idea what it means to live! You feed on people, you drain them, you break them, and then you pretend you want to fix them!”

Each word hits harder than the last. Baek-Jin lets it happen. Not because he can’t fight back, by now it’s clear that he’s choosing not to. He bends silently, breath steady, just one shallow intake of air between each accusation.
And yet, inside him, something throbs, the awareness of a man who knows he deserves every word, every insult, every wound.

Baku shoves him again. This time Baek-Jin’s side slams into the bookshelf, the impact bending him forward, but his voice remains calm, barely a whisper.

“Are you done?”

Baku struggles to breathe, each inhale scraping him raw from the inside. His hands tremble, knuckles white, chest heaving. Baek-Jin looks at him, and for the first time in that entire scene, he doesn’t look like the ruthless leader, nor the monster Baku paints him as. He just looks tired. Hollowed out.

“I don’t want to manipulate you” Baek-Jin finally says, his voice a whisper. “I just want you to think about what I asked. Because it’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you. Then I’ll disappear… for real.”

Baku stands still, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. Baek-Jin doesn’t move, but his gaze changes, where once Baku saw only coldness, now something else flickers through. Not pity, not repentance. Something rawer, more human: guilt.

Baku reacts with a dry, humorless laugh.

“Wasn’t it enough that I joined your fucking gang of bastards?”

His voice vibrates, cracked, splintered by an emotion deeper than anger: disgust, pain, maybe even horror. The veins on his neck pulse as he continues, the words slicing through the air.

“Now you want to humiliate me like this? You think I’m so desperate, that I’d trade my freedom for fucking with you?”

The sound of his voice ricochets off the bare walls, and for a moment Baek-Jin doesn’t answer. He just looks at him, as if trying to remember how to breathe.

Then, when Baku moves to strike again, Baek-Jin’s arm shoots up, not with aggression, but with something desperate. His fingers close around Baku’s wrist, holding it tight.

The impact of their bodies fills the room with a thick, almost electric tension.

They stare at each other, finally, without barriers.

Baku’s eyes burn with hatred; Baek-Jin’s tremble beneath a thin layer of ice that’s beginning to crack. Baek-Jin feels his heart hammering in his chest but doesn’t look away. Deep down, he knows that within this clash lies the truth he’s never been able to speak: it isn’t about power, or control. It’s pure despair. The need to feel alive again, even for an instant, through the only person who has ever truly reached him.

Baku tries to pull free, but Baek-Jin won’t let go.

“It’s not what you think” he says quietly, his voice betraying more pain than he wants to show. “I’m not trying to buy you, or humiliate you. What I asked has nothing to do with that-”

But Baku jerks violently, cutting him off.

“Bullshit!” he screams, swinging with his other arm. Baek-Jin catches it too, gripping both wrists tightly. Baku thrashes, face flushed, breathing ragged.

“Stop it!” Baek-Jin shouts, his tone breaking between authority and panic. “Your wound could-”

He doesn’t finish. His eyes drop instinctively to where the grey sweatshirt has darkened, blood, spreading fast, vivid and wet. The air catches in his throat. Blood. Too much blood. The metallic scent fills his nose. His skin goes cold as a curse dies on his lips.

“Shit, it’s reopened!” He releases Baku’s wrists, reaching to lift the fabric, but Baku shoves him away with a sharp, furious motion.

“Don’t you ever touch me again!” he snarls, his voice hoarse, almost broken, pointing a trembling finger at him like a blade. His eyes, incandescent with a burning fury, leave no room for misunderstanding.

There’s more than one wound open in that moment.

Baek-Jin freezes. Watches him in silence, feeling every emotion inside him twist into something new, another gash, invisible but gaping, that no bandage could ever close.
That look, so full of rage and disgust, cuts into his chest like dry earth, burning. What words could he possibly use now to make him feel what’s crushing his heart?

And yet, the only thing he can think is that Baku, even like this, even hating him, is still the only one who can make him feel something real.
He sees himself reflected as everything he despises most. And the cruelest part is, he expected it. He’d foreseen it. He’d even imagined the scene: rejection, hatred. Violence.
But he wasn’t ready for the real pain that pierces his gut, the kind no physical wound has ever inflicted.

Baek-Jin pretends it doesn’t matter, that Baku’s rejection and disgust don’t hurt, but they do. They’ve lodged themselves between them like a slow-burning fire, threatening to consume them both. And for Baek-Jin, it isn’t a warning to stay away, he’s drawn to it, like an insect to the flame. He reaches for it, burns, sears, feels, and in a way, that’s enough: it’s enough that Baku looks at him like he wants to turn him to ash.

When Baku sways, the hand that was threatening him drops slowly. His eyes glaze over, his breathing grows uneven.

“Baku?” Baek-Jin murmurs, stepping forward, but gets no response. Baku staggers backward, face paling, a low sound escaping his lips, a moan, a rasp. His eyes roll back, pupils vanishing into white.

“Shit-” Baek-Jin lunges forward, barely in time. He catches him before he hits the floor, Baku’s weight collapsing against him. Baek-Jin holds him close, feeling the feverish heat of his skin, the erratic heartbeat beneath his fingers.

Baku’s breath brushes his neck, uneven, burning.

Baek-Jin clutches him tighter, kneeling with him in his arms. Blood stains his shirt, hot and sticky.

“Fuck… Baku… stay with me, hey!” he whispers, a prayer and a curse in one.

The boy’s head falls against his shoulder.

For a moment, Baek-Jin is frozen, staring at him. His gaze drifts over Baku’s face, over the fragile, faltering rhythm of his breathing. And in that forced stillness, he feels his own soul collapse.
He doesn’t know if it’s out of love, obsession, or sheer despair, but he knows he couldn’t bear to lose him.

With a decisive motion, he lifts Baku’s sweatshirt. The bandage is soaked through, the cut reopened. Baek-Jin quickly pulls off his own shirt, hands trembling as he presses the fabric against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

Baku stirs, lets out a low groan, his face pale as paper. Baek-Jin lifts his head, rests it again against his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have…” he murmurs, almost like a prayer. “You shouldn’t have gotten up, idiot…” He brushes the sweat-damp hair from Baku’s forehead, runs a thumb slowly over his temples, as if the touch alone could anchor him to reality.

Baek-Jin holds him tighter, eyes fixed on his face. And in that moment, he truly understands how far he’s gone, how lost he’s become. There’s no redemption, no atonement in any of this.

Only that body in his arms, that smell of blood and antiseptic, and the certainty that even if Baku wakes and hates him forever, he’ll still stay there. To watch over him. To rot in his own hell.

Desire is more like an itch that torments you, that fills your head with sinful images. It crawls beneath your skin, inside you, intoxicated by the urge to have every part of that person.
But now it’s different, now Baek-Jin is on his knees, praying, panicking, not knowing what to do. And yet he would do anything to make Baku feel better.

Devotion. The kind that destroys you, bends you, makes you whisper please, don’t leave me.

Baek-Jin feels Baku’s breathing grow weaker, uneven, and his own heart speeds up as if trying to keep them both alive.
He doesn’t think, he acts. He bends down, lifts Baku carefully, one arm beneath his shoulders, the other behind his knees. Baku’s body feels heavier than it should, maybe because he’s no longer resisting, or maybe because Baek-Jin feels every ounce of that life as a weight he cannot afford to lose.

He lays him gently on the couch, arranging his head on a pillow, then rushes to the bathroom. His hands shake as he opens the medicine cabinet, knocking down bottles, gauze, bandages. He finds disinfectant, a few sterile pads, a handful of large plasters, everything he has in the house.
He already knows it won’t be enough.

He runs back to the living room, almost tripping over the carpet. Kneeling beside Baku, he lifts his sweatshirt again and begins disinfecting the wound. The sharp smell of alcohol burns the air, and for a moment Baek-Jin has to look away, the blood shows no sign of stopping. It keeps oozing, slow but steady, running down Baku’s side like a warm trickle.

“For fuck’s sake, it won’t stop” he mutters through clenched teeth. He grabs his phone, fingers sliding over the screen.
He calls the doctor, skipping any useless preamble, explaining that the wound has reopened.

“I can’t come right now” says the voice on the other end, tired, hesitant. “I’m about to enter surgery, I’m sorry. Listen… you’ll have to try to stitch the wound yourself. I’ll tell you how.”

Baek-Jin falls silent for a moment, stunned. “Me? Stitch him?”

“You don’t have another choice. Use sterile thread, suture needles, disinfectant. If he loses too much blood, you’ll be facing far worse than a bad stitch job.”

“Got it. Tell me what to do.”

He memorizes every word, forcing himself to stay cold and precise as always, though inside the tension grows until it’s almost unbearable. When he hangs up, he doesn’t waste a second. He dials another number.

“Seong-mok.”

“What’s going on?” the boy’s voice on the other end is tight, almost alarmed.

“Listen carefully, and don’t ask questions. Go to a pharmacy. I need a complete suture kit, disinfectants, sterile gauze, local anesthetic. Everything, now. Then come to my place.”

“Baek-Jin, are you hurt? What happened?”

“There’s no time, Mok!” he cuts him off, the tone sharp but trembling with a tension he rarely lets show. “Just… move. Fast.”

He hangs up before the other can reply. Leaning over Baku, he presses a fresh towel to the wound. The blood keeps seeping through the fabric, staining his hands, his skin, his wrists. Baek-Jin looks at his face, pale, lips slightly parted, breathing labored but still present.

He brushes a lock of hair from Baku’s forehead, his thumb grazing the clammy skin. “Not now… not like this” he murmurs, another prayer under his breath.
His gaze hardens, determined, but beneath that calm surface pulses a terror he can’t afford to admit.

“Hold on, Baku. I swear, if you leave me now, I’ll come drag you back from hell.”

The pressure of his hands becomes steadier, more desperate.

Every second that passes, the blood mixes with sweat and fear, and Baek-Jin knows he can’t afford to lose control.

Seong-mok arrives fifteen minutes later, breathing hard from running. He punches in the door code and bursts inside without announcing himself. Baek-Jin calls to him immediately, leaning over the couch, his hands never leaving the towel pressed to Baku’s wound.

Seong-mok rushes over, his face twisting in pure shock. He notices Baek-Jin’s split lip, the swollen cheekbone, the blood-stained hands, and then his eyes widen at the sight of Baku’s unconscious body, his sweatshirt soaked and still bleeding through.

“What the fuck happened?” he breathes, scanning the room.

Baek-Jin nods toward the table without looking away from the wound. “Did you bring everything?” he asks curtly.

Seong-mok nods and begins pulling items from the medical bag: sealed suture kits, sterile needles, absorbable thread, gauze, disinfectant, local anesthetic, syringes. His hands tremble, but his movements are quick.

“Help me” says Baek-Jin, and Seong-mok kneels beside him. Baek-Jin doesn’t lift the towel even for a second; he keeps pressing firmly, trying to slow the bleeding while Seong-mok prepares to anesthetize the area. The smell of alcohol and blood fills the room. Seong-mok, eyes wide, asks with a trembling voice as he passes the syringe,

“Do you even know what you’re doing?”

Baek-Jin clenches his jaw. For a moment, exhaustion carves shadows into his face, but his hand stays steady.

“I hope so” he replies coldly.

Mok can’t hold back the question burning on his tongue: “Can you at least tell me what happened?”

“Two bastards with a debt stabbed him” Baek-Jin says without turning, eyes locked on the wound as if it were a map he can’t afford to misread.

“And why is he here and not in a hospital?” Seong-mok asks, confused. Baek-Jin shoots him a glare. There’s no time for conventional explanations, and the word hospital sounds like a death sentence for the life they’re trying to save.

The boy stammers again: “And your face? Did you two fight?”

Baek-Jin cuts him off, his tone turning hard as concrete: “Mok, shut up and help me.”

So he does, mutely apologizing. Baek-Jin prepares the syringe with swift precision and injects around the edge of the wound with a controlled motion. Baku’s face twitches slightly, then stills, the pain threshold dulled enough for them to proceed.

Baek-Jin continues, steadier now, driving the needle through Baku’s flesh: the first stitches are careful, the suture pulling the torn skin together without distorting it, minimizing the risk of a deep scar.

Seong-mok hands him the tools, counts the stitches under his breath, wipes away blood with gauze to keep the area clean. Every pass of needle and thread feels like a fragile promise, to hold together what’s been torn apart. The blood still seeps in thin rivulets, but the pressure of the stitches finally slows it down.

The room is filled with sounds: the metallic click of instruments, Seong-mok’s uneven breathing, Baek-Jin’s strained exhales. Every so often, Seong-mok murmurs, “Maybe you should add another pass, it’s still bleeding.”

“Yeah” Baek-Jin answers, not lifting his gaze.

When he finishes the last knot, he tugs gently to test the hold; the surface no longer drips. He covers the suture with a sterile dressing and wraps it tightly with a compressive bandage.

Only then does he exhale a long breath that tastes of exhaustion. Baek-Jin finally pulls his hands away from the wound, his white knuckles relaxing slightly. Blood stains his skin up to the wrists, his shirt lies discarded on the floor, his mouth whispering curses. Seong-mok watches him, pale and visibly shaken. It’s not the first time they’ve had to patch someone up, but this, saving Baku from bleeding out, is different. And he doesn’t know why. In the Union, people always know everything about everyone, especially when it involves trouble.

“You did everything right” Seong-mok says, his voice still trembling. “I’m not sure I could’ve done it half as well.”

Baek-Jin sweeps away the used gauze and needles, cleaning hastily, tossing everything into a bag. Then he takes a moment to look at Baku’s body, his chest rising and falling more evenly now, his skin hot and damp with sweat, the fever still raging. With an almost involuntary motion, Baek-Jin brushes his forehead.

“Stay here. Don’t move” he orders, voice once again firm and practical. “I’ll get some ice. If he wakes up and starts thrashing, hold him down.”

The other nods, eyes still glistening. “And you? You should take care of your own injuries, or those bruises will stay for days” he says, still eyeing Baek-Jin’s lip and cheekbone.

Baek-Jin stands quickly, brushing him off. “Later” he replies. “For now, just watch him.”

Seong-mok pauses at the doorway before leaving. His hands are still stained, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, breath uneven from the tension. He looks back at Baek-Jin, worn out beside the couch, his face hard but marked by unusual fatigue.

“Put something on that cheekbone, it’s swelling” Mok says in a neutral, almost brotherly tone.

Then, more quietly: “And call me if you need anything. Even tonight.”
Baek-Jin only nods, his voice cold and thick with focus.

“Handle the business, Mok. Tell Seong-Je to take my place for the next few days.”

The other knows better than to argue. He nods faintly and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

When silence returns to the room, Baek-Jin stays still for a moment, the only sound is Baku’s breathing. Then he leans over, gently removes the ice cloth from his forehead, and touches his skin: still warm, but the fever seems to have eased. The contact tightens something in his throat, a mixture of relief and guilt pressing in his chest.

He goes to the table, takes the pills the doctor had prescribed, and fills a glass of water. Returning to Baku’s side, he carefully lifts his head to help him swallow them. Baku, unconscious, responds mechanically, his lips part slightly, swallowing in small gulps before sinking back onto the couch.

Baek-Jin lingers over him, watching the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the dark hair clinging to his skin. His hand slips through those strands, unsure whether the gesture is to comfort Baku or himself. Slowly, Baku’s breathing evens out again. He drifts back to sleep.

Baek-Jin watches him for long seconds, as if imprinting every detail of that tired face into his memory, despite the cracked lips, the pallor.

They say your eyes soften when you look at someone you love; Baek-Jin feels only a knot tightening in his gut, threatening to force all those feelings to the surface whenever it’s Baku. He doesn’t know if it’s love, or if eyes truly soften, but he knows Baku is the only one who makes him feel this way.

Then his gaze drops to himself. He’s covered in dried blood, stains tightening the skin of his chest and arms. Even his clothes are a mosaic of red and black, the tangible mark of everything that just happened.

The cool air of the room makes the weight of exhaustion settle on him. Then he looks back at Baku, still lying there, clean bandages standing out against his skin, and realizes he, too, is covered in blood, his torso streaked with dark, dried crimson.

He sits down beside him, with a caution that feels foreign to him. Gently, he unzips Baku’s hoodie, careful not to move him too much, and slowly slips it off, inch by inch. The fabric, stiff with dried blood, peels away reluctantly, but Baku doesn’t stir; the sleep of pain and medication keeps him anchored in some distant world.

Baek-Jin takes a clean cloth, wets it with warm water, and begins to wipe the boy’s skin. His movements are controlled, precise, almost ritualistic. He removes the dried blood from Baku’s neck and chest, careful not to touch the wound. Every so often, he stops, breathing deeply, as if afraid to give in to an emotion he refuses to name.

When he’s finished, he sets the cloth aside, takes a light blanket, and spreads it over Baku. He makes sure the injured side remains uncovered enough for the wound to breathe, but that the rest of his body stays warm. Then he sits back on the edge of the couch, watching him for another moment.

Baku’s breathing is steady. The color in his cheeks has returned, faintly, to something more alive.
Baek-Jin inhales, as if realizing only now that he, too, has survived the night. He runs a hand through his hair and, without looking back, walks to the bathroom.

He closes the door and turns on the water. The rush of the shower bursts against the tiles, filling the house with its sound. Baek-Jin braces one hand against the wall, letting the blood and sweat slide off him, mix with the water, and disappear down the drain. The hot water stings his scraped knuckles, the smaller cuts he hadn’t even noticed. He touches his cheekbone, it’ll bruise. His split lip throbs faintly but doesn’t hurt. There’s pain in his side, too, where he hit the bookshelf.
That pain feels almost pleasant, because Baku caused it.

He lowers his head, eyes closed. For an instant, the full weight of the night crashes over him like a tide.
And in his mind, the image of Baku, asleep, alive, but distant. A painful reminder that some things can only be saved halfway.

***

Baku wakes abruptly, the night thick around the living room like a shroud. The darkness is so dense it burns his eyes for a second; adjusting to the nothingness takes a deep breath.

He throws off the blanket with a sudden motion, the fabric sliding away to reveal skin still marked by the night before. He’s shirtless.

The wound on his side has been cleaned and bandaged with almost surgical care. The sharp scent of disinfectant stings his throat, an odor that reminds him of careful hands, hands that touched him when he couldn’t resist.

He sits up on the couch, the wound protesting with every tiny movement; the bandage doesn’t erase the memory of pain. He staggers to his feet, shuffling toward the fridge. Opens the door, grabs a bottle of water, and drinks like he’s putting out a fire inside himself, deep, cold gulps that restore a trace of clarity, washing away the fever and adrenaline still coursing through him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, distracted, and looks around with calculated coldness.

He hasn’t forgotten, not really. The pieces are all there, though the edges blur: the brawl at the bar, the knife sinking into his flesh, the long retreat through the warehouse, the blood that wouldn’t stop, the chill of fear. And then, being found, treated, brought somewhere more… sterile. Yes, sterile is the right word for this house.

The images flicker in fragments, incomplete, badly cut. He doesn’t know exactly how he was treated, but he knows perfectly well who did it: Baek-Jin. The name alone twists in his gut like a blade.

He limps toward the hallway, each step costing him. The floor reflects nothing; shadows swallow the edges of the furniture. Mechanically, he opens the door to the room where he first woke up. He enters without thinking.

Baek-Jin is asleep. Stretched out, breathing slowly, his face empty, an expression that, to Baku, feels like a provocation. Nausea rises in his throat like a tide. He remembers Baek-Jin’s request, his promise to let him go, the obscene offer tossed like a coin into the blood. The images those words conjured, the bed, the skin, the weight of one body over another, crawl back into his mind, unbalancing him. For an instant, the room fills with a high-pitched roar: the violent pounding of his temples, the blood hammering in his ears.

He wants to rise, to grab him, to crush him until there’s nothing left. Now that he can, now that Baek-Jin is there, defenseless, asleep at his feet, revenge feels real, sharp, almost righteous.

He clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white, veins pulsing in his neck; a shiver of pure hatred runs through him. But the fever, the wound, the exhaustion, and a more pragmatic part of himself, keep him still. Instead of acting on the impulse, he buries that rage deep down, where no one can find it. Like putting away a knife after using it.

He stays there, silent, staring at Baek-Jin’s sleeping profile. The features he knows too well, the sleep-softened face, the weight of everything they’ve never said. He breathes, once, twice, three times. Then, with a sigh that sounds more like frustration than resignation, he turns away.
He walks down the hallway in a trance, each step a dull thud on the floor. Pain flares in his side, but he doesn’t slow.

He reaches the living room and grabs the first hoodie he sees draped over a chair, pulling it on with stiff, feverish movements. The fabric still smells like Baek-Jin, a mix of detergent and aftershave, and that scent irritates him more than he’ll admit.

He bends, picks up the duffel bag by the door: there’s not much inside, but enough to remind him who he was before all this. It’s his escape route, the last piece of himself Baek-Jin hasn’t tainted.
For a moment he stands still, hand on the doorknob. The silence of the house is unreal, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock and the distant hum of traffic outside. He looks back toward the hallway.

He stares at it as if something monstrous waited there, or maybe just a man, fragile in his exhaustion. And that frightens him even more.
He doesn’t know if what he feels is hatred, disgust, or something far more complicated. Maybe all three at once. He takes a sharp breath, closes his eyes for a heartbeat, then lowers the handle and opens the door.

Behind him, it closes without a sound. The corridor outside is swallowed in shadow, the air cooler, cleaner, truer. Each step that takes him farther from that apartment gives him the illusion of breathing again, though rage and confusion still boil tight beneath his skin.

Baek-Jin woke up the moment he heard Baku’s unsteady footsteps entering the room.
He stayed still, holding his breath as he watched the shadow move along the wall from the corner of his eye. His senses were taut like strings: every step, every faint rustle of fabric against Baku’s skin echoed in his mind like an omen.
He pretended to be asleep, but his eyes followed every movement the other made with quiet attention. Baku’s breathing was uneven, heavy, like that of a wounded animal struggling to contain its rage.

When he felt the warmth of Baku’s body only a few steps from the bed, Baek-Jin stiffened. For a moment, he truly believed Baku might lunge at him, wrap his hands around his throat, and end it there. And perhaps, in some dark corner of himself, he wouldn’t even have been surprised if he did. He would deserve it.

Instead, after a long silence and a strangled breath, Baku merely stood there, motionless, then exhaled sharply and turned away.
The sound of his footsteps fading down the corridor left behind an unsettling emptiness, half relief, half dread, as if something unresolved still hovered in the air.

Baek-Jin stays lying down, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He can’t face him again, not tonight. Every word with Baku turns into a fight, every sentence into a wound. And he can’t afford to reopen either of them.

He closes his eyes, tries to breathe but then he hears the unmistakable sound of the front door: the click of the lock, the creak, and finally the dull thud as it shuts.

He jumps to his feet. His heart kicks hard, a hollow blow in his chest that steals his breath. He grabs his tracksuit, pulling on the pants as he walks toward the door, not even bothering to fasten them properly. The hallway lights are dim, but urgency guides him better than sight. He hears the metallic ding of the elevator, then the sliding of its doors.

He runs for the stairs, barefoot, the cold biting into the soles of his feet.

Each step burns through his lungs; his breath comes short, veins pulsing at his temples. He skips the last few steps and reaches the ground floor, the floor icy beneath his feet.

Baku is there, in front of the main door, his hand trembling on the handle. The duffel bag hanging from his shoulder is limp, his body ready to give out at any second.

“Baku!”

His voice comes out louder than he intends. Baku spins around, eyes blazing, fierce. Baek-Jin reaches him and grabs his forearm, yanking him back.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“I’m not staying in this place a second longer!” Baku snarls, trying to pull free.

“You’ve lost too much blood. You still have a fever. Go back inside. It’s late.”

Baku’s stare is poisonous. He struggles, twists, but his body betrays him. He staggers; his knees buckle slightly, and pain flashes across his face like lightning.

Baek-Jin catches him instantly. His arms wrap around him, and in a heartbeat Baku’s back is pressed against his chest. He can feel his breath, hot, uneven, his frantic heartbeat drumming against his ribs. Baku struggles, until the duffel bag slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a dull thud.

“Baku,” Baek-Jin whispers, his voice low, almost breaking. “Stay inside for tonight.”

“Let me go!”

“I promise I won’t ask you anything. I won’t talk. You won’t even see me… just stay until you’re better.”

Baku’s body goes rigid, then still. His breath hitches, trembling, as if he’s fighting himself. After a long silence, he takes a deep breath and straightens slowly. Baek-Jin releases him carefully, bending to pick up the fallen bag.

Baku doesn’t look at him. He simply turns toward the elevator, shoulders tense, his steps slow and uneven. Baek-Jin follows in silence, the duffel bag clenched in his hand.

The elevator doors open with a muted sound, swallowing them into its metallic space and shutting out the world outside. Inside, there’s only Baku’s ragged breathing—and Baek-Jin’s quieter, restrained one.

When the doors close and the elevator begins to rise, Baek-Jin lowers his gaze for a moment.

In the metal’s reflection, Baku appears pale, feverish but still proud. And beside him, a figure who no longer knows how to separate guilt from desire, or fear from the dread of losing him forever.

When they step back into the apartment, Baek-Jin doesn’t say a word. He simply gestures toward his bedroom with a slight nod of his head, a gesture that feels less like an invitation and more like a duty, something inevitable.

Baku walks past him without protest, determined not to waste another word on him. It isn’t gratitude, and it isn’t surrender. It’s just exhaustion. Exhaustion and the desperate need to shut himself inside a place where Baek-Jin can’t reach him, not even with his eyes.

The room is spacious, orderly, steeped in that unmistakable scent that belongs only to him, clean, cold, controlled. Everything here speaks of Baek-Jin: the neutral perfume of wood, the silence heavy as a secret, the sense of order even though the bed is unmade.

Baku lets himself fall onto the mattress, the wound at his side throbbing like a voice that refuses to stop reminding him of the pain.

He closes his eyes, but every time he does, he sees him again. The sudden contact from earlier, his body pressed close, Baek-Jin’s chest against his back, the warm breath brushing his neck.

He hasn’t managed to shake off that sensation, nor the voice that spoke against his ear, calm, terribly close, with that surgical precision Baek-Jin uses to never sound weak.

He hadn’t begged, no. Baek-Jin never begs. Yet there had been something in that voice that pierced him all the same, a fracture that sounded too much like the plea of a desperate man.

Baku turns over in bed. The sweatshirt he’s wearing feels heavy as lead, and he pulls it off with clumsy movements, gritting his teeth every time the muscles near his wound stretch.

Everything in that room smells of Baek-Jin, not only the sweatshirt. The sheets, the pillow, even the air feels saturated with him, and the more he tries to ignore it, the more it invades him. It’s a scent that suffocates, sickens… and at the same time poisons him with a feeling he can’t name. A current that warms and irritates him, that makes him furious with himself.

He clenches his teeth.

I hate him.

It’s his fault. All of it.
The wound at his side, the fever, the pain slicing through his body every time he breathes.
His father under accusation, the constant terror of worse news. His friends far away, the school he had to abandon to keep them safe.
Everything… everything that was taken from him, Baek-Jin is the root of it, the cause.

And then that proposal. That damned way he said it, with the calm of someone making a deal, laying a contract on the table.

“Have sex with me, Baku. Just once. And then you’ll never have to deal with me again for the rest of your life.”

As if his body were currency. As if everything could be reduced to a single act.

The thought bites into his flesh, because he knows it hadn’t been a joke. And that realization wounds him more than the knife that tore him open.

He finds himself wondering how long Baek-Jin had wanted him like that, how long he’d been harboring that fixation, that need.

A day? Months? Years?

He grips the pillow tightly, jaw locked, eyes staring into the dark. His breathing turns short, sharp. He wants to scream, to break something, anything.

The door opens.

Baku jolts upright, instinctively defensive. Baek-Jin enters silently, a tray in his hands, the hallway light outlining the edges of his face. He glances at him, quick, measured, then sets the tray on the nightstand beside the bed.

Baku lowers his gaze just enough to see: a bowl of porridge, a bottle of water, and the same pills he’s seen too many times these past days.

“Eat, then take the medicine” Baek-Jin says, pointing at the tablets with an absent gesture.

His other hand is tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. His tone is calm, as controlled as always, yet there’s something slightly different in the way he speaks, less command, more care.

“I won’t bother you again until the next meal” he adds. “But if you need me-”

Baku cuts him off. He exhales sharply, turns to the other side, giving him his back. The mattress dips beneath him, and for a moment Baek-Jin stays there, unmoving, watching him.

“Eat, Baku” he murmurs. “The sooner you recover, the sooner you can leave.”

Without another word, Baek-Jin turns and walks out. He closes the door softly, as if not to wake something that isn’t yet asleep.

Baku stares at the nightstand, at the untouched tray. He has no intention of touching it.
And in the dark, with only the slow beat of his heart filling the silence, he wonders how long he can bear the thought of hating a man who, in a sick and senseless way, keeps taking care of him.

***

Baek-Jin enters the room quietly, a new tray in his hands. Morning light filters through the closed curtains, spreading a pale, milky glow across the air. The previous tray is still on the nightstand, untouched: the porridge has solidified into a rubbery mass, the water remains sealed, the pills lie exactly where he left them.

He stops beside the bed, exhales slowly, restraining his frustration.

Stubborn bastard.

He sets the new tray on the desk and runs a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the sleeping figure.

He’d barely slept himself, every sound had seemed like the door opening, every sigh of wind like Baku’s steps leaving again, feverish and wounded.

Now, before him, the man sleeps, though not peacefully. His breathing is heavy, his forehead damp with sweat. Baek-Jin bends closer and rests a hand on his forehead. It’s hot, too hot.

Damn it.

With careful movements, he lifts the blanket and checks the wound at his side. The skin around it isn’t red, no pus, no sign of infection. Good. But the fever remains a problem, and Baku’s weakened body won’t last long without food or medicine.

He goes to the bathroom, grabs disinfectant and a fresh dressing, then returns to the bedside. Gently, he dabs the wound. The sharp scent of alcohol mingles with that of sweat and antiseptic. Baku’s flank twitches, an involuntary reflex, but he doesn’t wake. Baek-Jin applies a clean bandage, smoothing the edges with care, as if that small act could somehow piece together everything else that’s broken between them.

Then he rises again, goes to the kitchen, takes a cloth from the freezer and soaks it in ice. When he returns, the room is still silent, save for the ragged sound of Baku’s breathing.
He sits beside the bed. The cold cloth brushes Baku’s forehead, then trails slowly down his forearms, one after the other, following the tense lines of his veins. It glides across his abdomen, light, almost tender. It cools him, but it also cleans him, as though Baek-Jin were trying to wash away the fever, the weariness, the anger.

When the heat of his skin finally eases a little, Baek-Jin leans in and carefully slips two pills between Baku’s parted lips. He slides a hand under his nape, lifting it just enough to bring the glass to his mouth. The water trickles down, slow, but enough. Baku doesn’t wake; the fever keeps him trapped in a heavy, almost childlike sleep.

Baek-Jin studies him, the relaxed face, the softened lines that in sleep lose the hardness they bear when he’s awake. He thinks that if it weren’t for everything that’s happened, maybe he could have looked at him like this, calm, vulnerable, without guilt hollowing him out from the inside.

The problem will come later. When the fever breaks again thanks to the pills, and Baku wakes. When the hatred returns, and the rebellion, and the desperate attempts to run as if distance could save him from anything.

With a quiet sigh, Baek-Jin sets the glass back on the nightstand. But before he can step away, a hand seizes his wrist. Firm, sudden.

Baku, still asleep, draws the back of Baek-Jin’s hand against his cheek.

A faint sound escapes his lips, a sigh of relief, or perhaps of comfort.

Baek-Jin freezes. His breath catches in his throat, as if that single touch had stolen the air from his lungs.

His heart stumbles, wild, uncontrollable, pounding like a ball against the floor.

He stays still, unable to pull away, the warmth of Baku’s fevered hand pressing his own against that flushed cheek.

Time stretches. The world outside dissolves, there’s only the rhythm of his heart, steady, relentless.
And so he remains, for long, silent minutes, letting that contact burn and soothe him at once, savoring, in silence, the one moment in which Baku allows himself to be touched without hate.

***

Baek-Jin remains still for a moment after Baku releases his wrist. His breathing steadies, but his heartbeat doesn’t, it keeps pounding, hard and painful. He takes a deep breath, tries to compose himself, then clears his throat.
There’s only one priority now: make him eat.
He promised not to invade his space, to leave him alone as long as he followed the instructions to recover. But if Baku keeps refusing food and medicine, that promise can’t hold.

“Baku” he calls softly.

No answer. Only the muffled sound of rain against the windows.

“Hu-Min.” The name slips from his lips with a tremor he can’t contain. It cracks in his throat, as if every letter were a shard of something too old and too alive all at once.

Baku stirs, his lashes fluttering open. His eyes, when they meet Baek-Jin’s, are hazy with sleep and exhaustion.
He stares for a few seconds, disoriented, then a faint, almost wistful smile touches his lips.

That sound, his name, has reached him too, dragging him back to a time when there were no scars, no blood between them. But the sweetness fades quickly: the smile vanishes, his gaze hardens.

Baku pushes himself up, shoulders tense, face closed. Baek-Jin rises too, taking a small step back to give him space.

“If you don’t take the medicine, your fever will rise again. And if you don’t eat, those pills will tear your stomach apart. Don’t act like a brat” he says, voice low but firm, an attempt at authority that can’t quite hide the edge of worry beneath.

Baku grunts, glancing toward the nightstand, where the now-congealed porridge looks like punishment.

“Not exactly appetizing” he mutters, grimacing.

Baek-Jin turns away, and for the first time in hours, a faint smile ghosts over his lips. He walks to the desk, picks up the other tray, and hands it to him.

Inside: a bowl of milk with cereal, half an apple, a banana, and a bottle of fresh water.

“This is what I eat in the morning. For lunch, I’ll make something better.”

Baku watches him in silence. Then he dumps the cereal into the milk and begins to stir; the sound of the spoon against glass briefly breaks the tension. Baek-Jin keeps watching him, holding his breath. The sight disarms him, unexpected tenderness, simple and piercing.

Baku looks up, catching his gaze, one eyebrow raised.

“You’re staring” he notes, not judging, not mocking. Just stating a fact. And because there’s no judgment in his tone and Baek-Jin neither answers nor looks away, Baku adds, “It’s annoying.”

Baek-Jin’s lips curve in a barely visible smile. He wants to tell him that his eyes soften when he looks at him. He wants to admit that he’s trying to memorize him, because every moment, he knows, is both a first and a last. He doesn’t want to lose a single flicker of Baku, because he’ll need every trace of him when all that remains is his absence.

He says none of this, of course.

Turning his back, he walks toward the door. Baku follows him with his eyes.

“You do realize you’re doing the same thing?” Baek-Jin teases.

Baku glances back, surprised; then he looks down at the bowl of milk and curses under his breath.

Baek-Jin is about to leave when he hears: “Na Baek-Jin.”

Baku’s voice strikes him from behind, steeped in something he can’t define.

Baek-Jin turns sharply. He doesn’t expect a thank you, too much to hope for, but neither does he expect that tone: calm, almost measured, yet dangerous like the silence before an explosion.

Baku fixes his gaze on him, spoon suspended mid-air above the bowl. The morning light filters through the window, tracing a stubborn outline across his pale, drawn face.

“Don’t bring me lunch here.”

Baek-Jin arches an eyebrow, uncertain of his meaning.

“Why?” he asks quietly.

Baku exhales sharply, eyes rolling, a nervous tic betraying both irritation and fatigue.

“Because I’ll come out of this room” he replies, words clipped and taut with restrained anger. “Otherwise I’ll start to feel like a prisoner.”

Baek-Jin studies him silently, then nods slowly.

“You’re not” he says. “You can do anything you want.”

Baku lifts his gaze, eyes dull, lips curling into a bitter smile. “Except leave.”

“Until you’re better” Baek-Jin clarifies, and his tone sounds more like a plea than an order.

Baku stares at him for a long moment. His jaw tightens, his fingers drum restlessly on the edge of the tray.

“And I’ll be free of the Union if I have sex with you, right?”

Baek-Jin stiffens, breath catching halfway. His eyes cloud, not with surprise, but with something far deeper: shame. Or maybe pain.

“Let’s not talk about that” he manages, trying to keep his voice steady.

Baku tilts his head, watching him with an unreadable expression, a mix of mockery and morbid curiosity.

“So the offer’s no longer valid?”

The silence that follows is almost unbearable. It stretches between them like a wire drawn too tight, humming with all the words neither dares to say. The air itself feels heavy—thick with humidity, with the faint scent of milk and fever, with something raw and electric that trembles under the surface.

Baek-Jin lowers his gaze, fingers tightening around the tray’s edge until his knuckles turn white. His throat burns with words he can’t find the courage to speak, with shame, with a need that feels more like punishment than desire.

“Would you accept it?” he asks at last, voice low, rough, as if the question were scraped from his lungs rather than spoken. The bitterness in it is unmistakable, like metal on his tongue.

“For how long?”

The question lands between them, soft but merciless.

Baek-Jin looks up slowly, confusion flickering across his face, not because he doesn’t understand the words, but because of the weight behind them. Baku’s voice isn’t mocking this time; it’s steady, deliberate, almost calm, yet it carries something dangerous beneath, an undercurrent of accusation, of curiosity sharpened into a blade.

“What do you mean?” Baek-Jin manages, though he already knows. His body knows. His heart, traitor that it is, already anticipates the wound.

Baku leans back slightly, eyes never leaving him. There’s no rage in his expression, not yet, only a quiet, calculated coldness, the kind that comes from exhaustion and too much thinking.

“How long,” he repeats, slower now, “have you wanted it to happen? How long have you been looking at me like that?”

The words slice through the space between them, clean and merciless. It’s a genuine question, but also an accusation, as if he’s trying to understand how long he’s been the object of a hidden desire, an unspoken gaze.

Baek-Jin feels his pulse throb at his temples. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He blinks once, twice, as if trying to anchor himself to something real, something solid, but the room feels unreal, blurred, the distance between them infinite and unbearable.

He exhales: a shaky, uneven breath that seems to take the strength out of him. His eyes drop again to the floor, to the faint reflection of light trembling on the wood.

“Does it matter?” he asks finally, barely above a whisper.

But Baku’s eyes are relentless, steady as the rain against the glass.

“Yes,” he says. Just that. A single word, but it carries the weight of everything they’ve never said: every touch avoided, every glance that lingered too long, every lie of indifference told out of fear.

And in that moment, Baek-Jin understands that this isn’t about an offer, or a deal, or even desire. It’s about truth—the kind that leaves you exposed, trembling, stripped of every defense.

Baek-Jin goes still. Every sound seems to vanish. His chest rises slowly, then sinks with a deep exhale.

Then Baek-Jin, voice almost breaking, admits: “For a long time.”

There’s no surprise on Baku’s face. Only a slow tightening of his jaw, an extra blink. He stares into the bowl, at the cereal floating and sinking like something dying. It’s unclear whether he’s looking for an answer or simply a way to avoid Baek-Jin’s eyes.

He says nothing.

Baek-Jin, instead, remains frozen in place, a knot twisting in his stomach and climbing up his throat.

Every word he’s just spoken weighs like a sentence. He wants to add something, to justify, to explain, but there’s nothing he could say that wouldn’t make it worse.

He turns. The floor feels cold beneath his feet; his breath echoes off the walls. Each step toward the door feels like crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed.

Behind him, the only sound is the spoon clinking against the bowl. And inside him, the certainty that from now on, Baku will see him as a monster.

For the first time in years of control, detachment, and carefully built coldness, Baek-Jin feels completely naked. And not because of what he said, but because of what he finally let be seen.

Hold the gun to my head, count 1, 2, 3
If it helps me walk away then it's what I need
Every minute gets easier
The more you talk to me
You rationalize my darkest thoughts
Yeah, you set them free

Came to you with a broken faith
Gave me more than a hand to hold
Caught before I hit the ground
Tell me I'm safe, you've got me now

Would you take the wheel
If I lose control?
If I'm lying here
Will you take me home?

Chapter Text

All this time I sink
Drowning like a stone
Tryna close my eyes shut my ears on this throne
Losing my way home
Then you came along
Everywhere we are felt like where I belong
Lost in your eyes there was no place I could hide
Take me inside and let me live in your mind
No pain tonight this place is reserved for only you and I...

Why don't you stay? - Jeff Satur

Baku chews slowly, the sound of the spoon sinking into the now lukewarm milk, and the silence pressing on him like guilt.

For a long time.

The words echo in his head, repeating like a sound he can’t shut off. He hears them in a thousand different tones: Baek-Jin as he is now, calm and cold, and the Baek-Jin from before, younger, more fragile, with that same stubborn look but a shyness that used to melt Baku with tenderness.

“For a long time.” Since when? Since when had their relationship, at least for Baek-Jin, started to mean something else?

His mind keeps replaying old scenes, like a film someone keeps rewinding and projecting again, frame after frame. He reviews every fragment, and suddenly every detail, every word, every gesture he had filed away as hatred or contempt bends under a new, distorted light.

For a long time.

Since when they were kids, and Baku followed him down the corridors to stop him from falling into the bullies’ hands, those who laughed at him and kicked him for being too quiet, too alone?
Since that day Baek-Jin yelled at him, furious, because he’d seen him laughing with someone else? Or when he’d shouted, “We’ll never eat ice cream together again, you’ve ruined the taste of every flavor forever!” because Baku had gone out with a girl from his class? Back then, Baku had thought it was jealousy, or madness. Now, those words sounded like the confession of a hidden pain.

For a long time.

Maybe since their paths had split: one of them turning into a regular teenager, doing poorly in school but surrounded by friends, and the other dragged into the streets, until he became the leader of the gang that now was his own personal hell.

Baku had always believed Baek-Jin had done it out of pride, or anger, or thirst for power. But now… what if it had been to fill a void? Because Baku had left, because he had chosen normality?

Baek-Jin had often told him to join him. Baku had always taken it as a threat, a way to control him. Now he understood it had been a plea disguised as a command.

He bites into the apple hard, his teeth sinking into the flesh, the juice coating his tongue with a sweetness that feels unbearable. Anger rises, a knot tightening in his throat.

For a long time.

Since when he had beaten up Gotak just for becoming Baku’s friend. Since when he had threatened anyone who dared to get close to him. Since when he had had Baku’s father imprisoned, dragging him into a judicial nightmare, all out of revenge, or so Baku had thought.

For a long time…

The apple remains in his hand, untouched except for that furious bite. The air around him becomes unbearable to breathe. His mind races, frantic.
What if it had never been hate? What if every punch, every threat, every lie had only been a way of not admitting he’d lost him?

For the first time, the red thread that ties all the chaos together takes on a clear shape. Baek-Jin had never wanted to break him. Nor humiliate him. Nor defeat him.

He had only ever wanted to keep him close.
He desired him.

It wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t control.
It was love, distorted, sick, incapable of growing in a natural, gentle way.
It was the only way Baek-Jin knew how to hold on to someone: by hurting, by chaining, because he had never learned how to ask someone to stay.

He wanted him by his side, like before, like when they were children and protected each other, but he hadn’t known how to say it. He hadn’t known how to do anything else but turn that emptiness into power, that affection into violence, that longing into obsession.

The thought hits him like a punch to the stomach. It hurts. It shakes him.
Baku shivers, throws the apple onto the tray with a sharp crack.

Baek-Jin’s image forms in his mind: his trembling hands as he treated Baku’s wounds, the voice that had said, “I’m not saying this to manipulate you” and now that confession, slipped out by accident, honest.

For a long time.

For too long.

No…

And then the realization hits that “for a long time” actually means always.
How fucking infuriating that is.

Because the wound in his side, his father in prison, the distance from his friends, the loneliness burning inside him…every single thing was born from that twisted love.

Baku presses a hand to his forehead, his breath breaking. Everything inside him stirs, cracks, collides. Because if it’s true, if Baek-Jin really loves him, then everything he’s done, all the pain, the blood, the anger, the threats… carry an even more terrible meaning.

Because Baek-Jin had never hated him.
He had just chosen the worst possible way not to lose him.

Baku doesn’t know whether to vomit, scream, or laugh.

Because after everything he’s done to him, the most terrifying thing isn’t knowing he was hated.

It’s realizing he was loved.

He clenches his fists until his nails dig into his palms.

“Bastard” he mutters, his voice low and cracked.

Then he lets himself fall against the backrest, his breath unsteady. He can’t tell whether he wants to kill him or hold him.

And maybe, he thinks, Baek-Jin feels exactly the same.

Baku forces himself to sleep.

He tosses and turns between the sheets until he presses a pillow over his head to muffle the noise of his thoughts.

He doesn’t want to listen to his mind; he doesn’t want to see Baek-Jin’s face haunting him everywhere. He just wants silence, emptiness, darkness. But darkness brings memories, and silence amplifies the sound of that voice, the way Baek-Jin says his name, low, slow, almost devout.

So, he clutches the pillow tighter, as if he could erase everything, or suffocate himself.

The thought brushes against him with a disturbing clarity: it would be easier, after all. To disappear, and no longer live with the anger, the shame, the confusion.

But sleep, mocking, comes anyway, dragging him down into a vortex where Baek-Jin is waiting for him even there. He never lets him rest.

It begins with the sound of footsteps; the echo of shoes on the stairs of the building where his life in the gang began. Baku remembers every step. He remembers the smell of smoke, the murmur of voices like a guide to follow.
He’s walking down those same stairs now, and every step beats like a drum inside his chest.
He already knows where he’s going. He already knows who’s waiting at the bottom.

When he reaches the ground floor, he sees it: the room where the Union boys gather.
The air is thick with smoke, laughter, and chatter: the kind of chaos that makes people feel alive when they have nothing else to hold on to.
And there, in the middle of it all, stands Baek-Jin.

He shines, as always. Impeccable clothes, pressed and branded. Hair perfectly styled. His posture natural yet elegant, like a prince’s; his gaze sharp, belonging to someone who knows he controls everything.
Baku had hated him for that effortless way of seeming superior, untouchable, perfect.

But in the dream, as back then, he notices something different.

Baek-Jin is smiling. A small, restrained, almost imperceptible smile. Not the arrogant one of someone reveling in victory, but a genuine, warm one, as if something had truly moved him.

At the time, Baku had misread it.

He’d thought Baek-Jin was happy to see him bow, to finally watch him lower his head. He’d thought that smile was the triumph of pride, the cruel satisfaction of someone who had won a war year in the making.
But now, in the dream, he sees it all with new eyes.
It wasn’t a smile of conquest.

There’s warmth.
There’s relief.
There’s a spark of something that, back then, Baku hadn’t been able to recognize: happiness.

Baku feels his throat tighten. He wants to shout at him, to shake him, to ask why.

Why he hadn’t said anything. Why he had let everything twist into violence, into blood, into fear.

Baku feels small, out of place, exposed. All the anger he had used as armor melts into a tangle of confused emotions.

Baek-Jin had been happy to see him again. Happy to have him back by his side. And that realization cuts through Baku’s chest like a blade.

“Welcome back… Baku.”

He jolts awake, heart pounding, breath short, the sheets damp with sweat.

“Shibal” he curses under his breath, running both hands through his hair, pulling it back from his face in frustration.

The room is suffocating; the air feels too heavy to breathe. His breath comes in gasps, his forehead beaded with sweat. He sits up in bed, the pillow falling to the floor.

“Aish.”

He’s hot, too hot. His body burns as if fever were returning, but when he touches his forehead, the skin is only warm. The medicine is still working. It’s not fever. It’s him. It’s the anger, the confusion, the anguish devouring him from the inside.

He lowers his gaze to his side. The bandage is still there, clean, well secured. He runs his fingers along the adhesive edge and feels the skin throb beneath. It’s not real pain, but it’s enough to remind him where he is.
He should stay lying down, he knows that. He should rest, let his body heal.
But every fiber of him screams the opposite.

He feels like a dog locked in a cage, slamming against the bars until it breaks its own bones.
The room feels smaller, the walls closer, the air thinner.

He gets up, barefoot, the cold floor biting into his soles.
He paces back and forth, aimlessly, his hands clenched into fists.

“I’m losing my mind…” he murmurs and the sound of his own voice frightens him.

Because, in truth, he is. He’s going mad.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees that smile.
Every time he breathes, he hears the echo of those words.

For a long time.

And Baku realizes, with a dizzying rush that steals his breath, that he too, somehow, has lived for a long time with a thought he never dared to speak.

Baku scans the hallway, his fingers brushing against the wall to keep his balance as he tries to orient himself. The apartment is silent, but somewhere he can hear the steady murmur of running water. He’s not sure where it’s coming from, maybe the kitchen.
He stops, listens again. The sound spreads softly, rhythmically, like a liquid heartbeat following his slow steps.

He presses a hand to his side, feeling the bandage pull under his fingers. The pain is dull, throbbing, but at least it keeps him anchored to reality. He looks around: several closed doors open off the hallway, but none give him any certainty about where Baek-Jin might be.
Each step forces him to reckon with a body that still doesn’t fully respond, and with the confusion swirling in his head.
Each step echoes in the silence. He wonders if he’s ready to face him, with all that chaos boiling in his mind, with that “for a long time” still pounding in his skull, making him feel both vulnerable and angry.

When he reaches the living room, though, there’s only quiet. The room is empty. The kitchen too. The sound of running water continues, distant, but not from there. Maybe Baek-Jin is in the bathroom. Maybe he’s taking a shower.
Baku runs a hand through his hair, mussing it, and grimaces. He could use one too. He can still smell fever, sweat, and that room that now makes him sick.

He looks around: with the morning light filtering through the windows, the apartment looks different. Sharper. Colder. Elegant, yes, but soulless. Everything is tidy, polished, too perfect. There’s no photo, no personal object, nothing that tells you who lives here. It’s as if Baek-Jin made sure to leave no trace of himself, only surfaces.
Nothing tells a story about him. No photographs, no signs of daily life.
Sad, Baku thinks. A house without a past.

“Typical…” he mutters, with a half-bitter smile. “Everything neat, everything clean, as if that could fix the shit inside.”

He approaches the sofa, vaguely remembering the blood he’d left there. He expects to see the dark stains still marking the fabric, or at least to catch the metallic scent in the air. But there’s nothing. Everything is spotless. The floor shines, the sofa looks untouched.
He inhales. The smell of detergent is everywhere, strong, persistent. It almost burns his nostrils.
He smiles, shaking his head.

“You haven’t changed, Baek-Jin. Still the same obsessive bastard.”

He takes a few steps into the kitchen. On the stove, a large pot simmers softly. The lid trembles slightly with each bubble bursting beneath the surface. Curious, Baku leans forward and lifts it.
A warm, spicy aroma fills the air, wrapping around him. Meat soup, or maybe chicken. The steam brushes his face, and he closes his eyes for a second. He hadn’t expected Baek-Jin to cook like this. He’s surprised by how suddenly hungry he feels.

He bites the inside of his cheek, unsure whether to sit down or keep looking for him. But the water… the water keeps running. It’s not the shower.
He straightens up, exhales a frustrated sigh.

“Where the hell are you now?”

He heads back toward the hallway, his steps heavier. “Na Baek-Jin?” he calls, his voice rough, thick with sleep and anger.

The bathroom door swings open.
Baek-Jin stands there in a gray tracksuit, a dark T-shirt, and a pair of rubber gloves. The look he gives Baku is sharp, stern, as if he’d just interrupted something important.

“Do you need the bathroom?” he asks flatly.

Baku frowns, confused. Then he tilts his head slightly to peek inside, and what he sees stops him cold.

The sink is full of water, foam, and clothes. His sweatshirts, his T-shirts. The water is cloudy, tinged pink, a mix of soap and diluted blood. Baek-Jin’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he’s scrubbing a dark fabric with a sponge, focused, methodical.

Baku stares for a few seconds, then sighs.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Baek-Jin doesn’t even flinch. “I’m washing the clothes”

“Oh, really? I never would’ve guessed.” Baku steps closer, leaning a bit into the room. “You know washing machines exist, and have for, like, centuries… right?”

Baek-Jin rolls his eyes but keeps working calmly, the sponge gliding over the fabric in precise, practiced motions.

“Blood doesn’t come out that easily. Dried stains need to be scrubbed with the right product and warm water. Fresh ones, with cold.”

Baku looks at him for a moment, then shakes his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“Wow. You really are an expert in bloodstains, aren’t you?”

For the first time, Baek-Jin pauses. He turns toward him. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, barely there, but it’s real. And in that instant, Baku notices him fully.

The split lip. The bruised, swollen cheekbone. Small purple veins creeping up toward his temple.

“Hey.” Baku raises a finger, pointing at his face. “Did you put anything on that?”

Baek-Jin’s gaze flicks away instantly; he goes back to scrubbing as if the question had never been asked.

“No need.”

“Aish…” Baku huffs, stepping into the bathroom. He starts opening the cabinets, one after another, making as much noise as possible. “Jesus Christ, you’re still the same. Stubborn as a damn mule.”

Baek-Jin sighs, exasperated. “What are you doing?”

Baku ignores him, opening every cabinet without asking. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, medicines of all kinds, gauze, disinfectant, towels folded with obsessive precision. Everything neat, spotless, perfectly aligned.

“There’s gotta be some fucking ointment somewhere, considering you had a whole suture kit. Or something, anything, that isn’t your fucking pride.”

“There’s no need, really.”

The sound of running water continues in the background, but between them, for the first time, the air thickens with something else, a silence heavy, suspended somewhere between irritation and tenderness.

"Ah, there it is!" exclaims Baku, bending down to grab a small tube from among the obsessively arranged items at the corner of a drawer. It’s an ointment for bruises and contusions, the packaging almost untouched.

He pauses for a moment, turns it over between his fingers, glances at the expiration date out of the corner of his eye, then shoots a quick look at Baek-Jin. The other man keeps washing, his profile rigid as a statue.

“Come on, turn around.”

It’s not a request. It’s an order, or at least it’s meant to be. But Baku’s voice trembles just slightly, betraying an agitation he doesn’t want to admit. Part of him, the rational one, the one screaming that this is absurd, knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He should just leave Baek-Jin alone, go back to bed, wait for the fever to pass, and that’s it.
And yet, his fingers tighten around the tube as if it contained something more than medicine. As if it were an excuse.

Baek-Jin shuts off the tap with a sharp gesture, turns slightly, and gives him a sidelong look. His eyes are calm but filled with a quiet irritation. He peels off one glove with a slow, deliberate motion and holds out his hand.

“I can do it myself.”

Baku raises an eyebrow, a smirk twisting his lips without reaching his eyes.

“If you could, you would’ve done it already. Now stay still and suffer my clumsy hands and my not-so-gentle touch.”

There’s sarcasm in his tone, but also something else… and maybe the sarcasm is just there to cover it, to hide the tension rising in his throat that he can’t seem to swallow down.

Baek-Jin sighs, resigned. He pulls the glove back on, turns the tap again, and resumes scrubbing. The motion is maddeningly calm, as if he’s proving he doesn’t need Baku at all. The sound of the running water fills the air, drowning out the pounding of Baku’s heart, too loud, too present.

“Are you seriously ignoring me?” he mutters, voice lower now.

No answer. Only the steady sound of water and the slow rhythm of hands at work.

His patience snaps like a wire pulled too tight. In two strides, he’s behind him, grabbing his arm and forcing him to turn, pressing him against the sink.
Baek-Jin drops the sponge; water splashes over the edge, soaking the floor.

“Don’t piss me off, or you know how it ends…” Baku hisses, teeth clenched, eyes locked on the other’s face.

Baek-Jin doesn’t look scared. He stares back, calm, his breath just a little quicker. Then he glances meaningfully at the bandage on Baku’s side.

“Good. I see you get it. Now stay still.”

Baku inhales deeply, as if trying to smother an impulse. He turns slightly, opens the tube, and squeezes out a small amount of ointment onto two fingers. The texture is cold, greasy. For a few seconds, he just stands there, staring at his fingers, as if questioning what he’s really about to do.

The menthol scent spreads between them. His mind screams at him to stop, to stay the hell away from this man.

He can do it himself, damn it. Why am I doing this?

But his hands won’t listen.

He steps closer, careful not to brush against him, but the space between them inevitably shrinks. Every inch less feels like a risk. Every breath, a mistake waiting to happen. Baek-Jin’s breath brushes against his wrist, and that tiny contact sends a tremor through him. When he finally touches Baek-Jin’s cheekbone, he feels the warmth of his skin, the tension beneath it, and sees the brief wince the other can’t quite suppress.

Serves you right, he thinks. But his fingers move slowly, almost gently, tracing the injured area in small circular motions. The ointment leaves a dull sheen on the reddened skin.
When the first layer is absorbed, he takes a bit more, just on his index finger. It’s almost automatic, but his mind is elsewhere.

Holding his breath, he leans closer and brushes his finger over Baek-Jin’s split lip. The contact is minimal, yet the world seems to halt.

He focuses on the motion, because looking him in the eye would be too much.

Baek-Jin stays still. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t pull away. His breathing is quiet, barely there, and every exhale ghosts against Baku’s cheek, warm, soft, intoxicating.

For fuck’s sake, he feels like an idiot. A puppet in the hands of someone he can’t even name.

When he reaches the corner of the lip, where the skin is broken and red, Baku hesitates a moment. Then, slowly, he spreads the ointment there too. Baek-Jin’s eyes are steady, silent. Not defiant, not provocative. Just watching, as if he wants to remember the sensation.

Baku swallows hard, his fingers trembling as he works the ointment into the tender skin. It gives under his touch, soft, hot.
Baek-Jin flinches again, more visibly this time, holding back a small sound that isn’t pure pain.

Baku feels it vibrate beneath his fingers, and everything inside him stops. His eyes lock with Baek-Jin’s, dark, deep, unreadable, and for a second he forgets how to breathe.
He can’t tell what’s going through his head. If he hates him, if he’s studying him, or, worse, if he’s waiting for him to break.

“I’m not apologizing” Baku mutters finally, his voice low, almost to himself. “You deserved it.”

Baek-Jin doesn’t answer. He just looks at him. A sharp, heavy silence stretches between them.

Baku’s mind is a storm. The thought that Baek-Jin might be picturing them, this closeness, their mingled breaths, lips that could… no. No, don’t go there.
But the thought is there anyway, poisoning him like a gulp of rum swallowed too fast.

His fingers press a little too hard, unintentionally.

“Ah!” Baek-Jin lets out a soft sound of pain.

“Sorry…” slips out before Baku can stop it.

“You said you wouldn’t apologize” Baek-Jin replies, his usual calm tone tinged with faint irritation.

Baku glares, growls under his breath, then abruptly steps back, setting the tube down on the sink with a sharp thud.

“Okay. You’ll have to reapply it later. It’s not a miracle cure.”

Baek-Jin gives a brief nod and turns back to the running water. But as Baku walks away a bit and has his back to him, he can feel the other’s eyes on him, silent, watchful. Measuring every movement, every breath.
And Baku knows, without turning back, that if he looks at him again, even for a second, he won’t be able to keep pretending indifference.

When Baek-Jin turns his back on him without a word of thanks, Baku stands there for a few seconds, jaw clenched, then throws his hands up in the air in frustration.

“Of course, sure, no need to say thank you, uh?!” he snaps, his voice echoing off the bathroom tiles. But Baek-Jin doesn’t react. Not even a flicker. Not a tilt of the head. Not a single glance in the mirror that might betray a hint of attention. Baek-Jin is focused entirely on himself, on his tired, bruised face, on the faint traces of dried blood on his fingers.

It’s as if Baku no longer exists. Baek-Jin studies his own reflection, inspecting the bruises on his cheekbone and the cut on his lip. He touches his skin lightly, checking the ointment’s hold, then breathes in slowly, as if trying to regain control. Everything about him is composed, contained. Even after a night from hell. Even after everything that has happened, or not happened, between them.

Baku watches him from behind, hands on his hips, foot tapping impatiently on the floor. He wants to yell, to call him out, or even punch him again, hard enough to use up the whole damn tube of ointment, but instead, he just exhales sharply.
He suddenly feels filthy, sticky, heavy. The bandage tugs against his skin, sweat glues his shirt to his back, and the sensation only makes him angrier.

He needs to wash.
He needs to do it now.

It’s as if his skin is burning under an invisible weight, a crust of thoughts and sensations he can’t shake off. Even though he knows, and he knows well, that Baek-Jin already cleaned the blood off him, disinfected the wound, and changed his clothes, it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

He feels dirty. Not on the outside: inside.

“I need to wash myself” he mutters at first, to himself. Then louder, almost as a challenge: “I’m taking a shower!”

Baek-Jin lifts his gaze, meets his eyes in the mirror. He doesn’t turn, but watches him. It’s a brief, calculated look that lingers first on Baku’s face, then slides down to the bandage.

“You can’t get it wet” he says in a neutral, almost absent tone.

“Yeah, well, I need to do it.” Baku throws his arms out, exasperated. “And don’t even think about it, you’re not washing me!” he blurts out, the flush creeping up his ears betraying him instantly.

Baek-Jin lowers his eyes, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He rinses his hands, grabs a towel, and says nothing. He simply dries his hands slowly, folding the towel with surgical precision, then walks away.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Baku yells after him, but the other is already down the hallway. The sound of his footsteps fades.

“Aish, that arrogant bastard” he growls through his teeth.

He turns toward the shower, spacious, modern, all glass and steel, as spotless as the rest of the house. He opens the door, lets the hot water run, and waits for the steam to fill the air.
He shuts the bathroom door with a frustrated slam, runs a hand through his hair, and starts undressing, slowly, painfully, careful not to pull too hard on the skin around the wound.

He stops in front of the mirror: tense muscles, skin marked with bruises and scratches, eyes hollow and tired. It’s not a pleasant sight. He’s never liked what he sees, but this feels different. He feels vulnerable. Exposed.

He’s just about to pull off his underwear when the door opens without warning.

“What the-!” he spins around, and there, in the doorway, stands Baek-Jin.

The other man is utterly composed. Perfectly calm. A clear plastic bag in one hand, a roll of tape in the other.

Baku freezes mid-motion, one bare foot on the bathmat. “Are you serious?!” he explodes, pointing at him, wobbling slightly.

“I’m in my underwear!”

Baek-Jin barely lifts his eyes to him, studies him for a moment with that glacial calm Baku hates more than anything, then steps toward the shower.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before” he says evenly, not even bothering to look at him.

It wouldn’t be the first time they’d seen each other like this, back when they were kids, they used to sleep in the same bed sometimes, sharing laughter, secrets, and fights.
But this time it’s different. There’s nothing innocent about it now.
Now there’s something else between them, something called for a long time.

“Oh, here we go” Baku snaps, masking his tension with sarcasm. “This is it! You’re gonna chop me up and toss me in a dumpster.”

No reaction. Baek-Jin calmly sets the objects down on the sink, leans forward slightly to test the water temperature, then shuts it off. The only sound left is the soft dripping that runs down the glass panel.

Baku watches him, tense, heart pounding wildly. Baek-Jin’s calm unnerves him more than anger ever could.
The other opens the plastic bag with precise, almost elegant movements, cutting it down with his fingers until he has a rectangular sheet of transparent plastic. Then he turns toward Baku.

“We’ll cover it, so it doesn’t get wet.”

For a moment, Baku just stands there, confused. Then he shakes his head and takes a step forward.

“No, forget it, I’ll do it myself.” He reaches out a hand, but Baek-Jin steps back, refusing.

Two stubborn men. Any excuse will do for a fight.

“I’ll do it” Baek-Jin replies firmly, his voice steady, unraised.

Baku sighs, exasperated, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. He folds his arms across his chest, trying to cover himself as best he can, even though it’s ridiculous at this point.
Baek-Jin bends slightly, carefully lifting the bandage, then starts securing the plastic over it. His fingers brush against Baku’s skin, and Baku holds his breath, muscles tightening like steel cables.

He watches Baek-Jin’s hands move with confidence, then his gaze drifts to his face, to his mouth.
He sees him tear off a strip of tape with his teeth, and for a moment, he freezes. The gesture is simple, banal, but something about the way Baek-Jin’s lips pull at the tape hypnotizes him. He realizes he’s staring only when the other looks him in the eye again.

“All done” Baek-Jin murmurs, smoothing the plastic with his hand to check that it’s sealed. His fingers glide briefly over Baku’s abdomen, a touch that shouldn’t mean anything, but sends a sudden jolt up his spine.

“Yeah, it’s perfect. Now get out” Baku says quickly, his voice too loud, too forced to be convincing.

Baek-Jin watches him for a moment, then one corner of his mouth curves in a faint, teasing smile. Baku feels a knot tighten in his stomach. What a bastard.

“Hurry up” Baek-Jin says at last, already turning to leave. “I’m hungry, and lunch is almost ready.”

Baku slams the door behind him, too hard, then leans his forehead against the fogged shower glass and swears under his breath. “Damn bastard.”

The steam wraps around him, thick and hot. But not even the water can wash away the confusion that Baek-Jin keeps leaving clinging to his skin.

When the water stops running and the steam begins to fade, Baku stays inside the shower for a moment, his forehead resting against the glass, his breath still uneven. He feels lighter, yes, but also emptied. Every time he dares to relax, Baek-Jin somehow manages to slip into his thoughts like a leak you just can’t seal.

He finally steps out, his feet sliding slightly on the smooth floor, and that’s when he realizes his mistake: he never asked Baek-Jin for a towel. Or clean clothes.

“Genius” he mutters to himself, staring at the empty shelf. The only thing within reach is a dark gray bathrobe hanging behind the door. The fabric is soft, heavy, and smells clean, smells like Baek-Jin.

Baku sighs, annoyed. “Of course. It has to be his.” Still, he grabs it with a grimace and reluctantly slips it on. The fabric falls over his skin warm and snug, and for some reason, that makes him even more irritated.

In front of the mirror, he runs his fingers through his wet hair, then grabs the brush and starts combing in quick, impatient strokes. Water droplets fly in every direction, splattering across the mirror and the tiles.

When he stops to look at the mess he’s made, a crooked smirk curves his lips.
“Oh yeah” he murmurs with satisfaction. “He’s gonna love this.”

He can already picture Baek-Jin noticing every stray drop, his brow furrowing, his hands itching to grab a cloth and wipe everything down. The thought makes Baku chuckle under his breath. “Take that, you perfectionist bastard.”

He opens the bathroom door and heads toward the room where he slept. He walks slowly, his bare feet sinking into the carpet in the hallway, trying not to think about the fact that the robe he’s wearing belongs to Baek-Jin.

When he steps into the room, he stops in the doorway. The bed is made, the sheets perfectly straight, and on top of it, neatly folded, are some clothes: a dark gray cotton tracksuit, a clean T-shirt, and a pair of underwear, all arranged in an absurdly precise pile. Everything smells faintly of that same neutral, familiar soap that lingers everywhere in the house.

Baku rubs his forehead, sighs, and shakes his head. “Couldn’t he just leave me a towel?” he grumbles. He walks closer and touches the clothes, they’re soft, warm, good quality. Naturally, they’re all Baek-Jin’s.

“Fantastic. Now I’m even wearing his stuff. Might as well tattoo his name on me while I’m at it.”

He dries himself off as best he can, then pulls on the shirt and tracksuit. They’re a bit loose but comfortable. The scent of Baek-Jin clings to him, and it bothers him more than he wants to admit. It’s like that man can invade even the most private spaces without being there.

Baku sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, takes a deep breath, and massages the back of his neck.
“Calm down. It’s just lunch. No drama.”

He stands, absently adjusts the sleeve of the sweatshirt, and heads toward the living room.

The smell of soup and spices reaches him before he even sees Baek-Jin, and his stomach gives a low growl. He takes a long breath.

He’s ready to step once again into Baek-Jin’s perfectly ordered hell.

***

Baek-Jin is in the kitchen, and the silence of the house weighs on him like a sheet of lead. The clock on the wall marks lunchtime, but he’s been sitting still for several minutes, hands clasped on the already-set table. Two plates. Two glasses. Two pairs of chopsticks, perfectly parallel. It’s strange. He had almost forgotten how unnatural it feels to set the table for two.

For a moment, he studies the symmetry he’s created, but instead of feeling satisfied, a faint unease trickles through him. The image of Baku sitting across from him comes to mind, something that will disturb and reassure him at the same time.

He stands, restless, and stirs the soup absentmindedly, though there’s no need, watching the slow curl of steam rise as his thoughts inevitably drift toward places he struggles to revisit. He’s known Baku since they were kids, impulsive, loud, emotional to the point of excess, but always sincere. Baku has never known how to lie, at least not to him. Reading him was always easy, like an open book left on a table, its pages facing him.

But now he’s changed. The wall Baku built to protect himself is showing deeper and deeper cracks.

And it all began with that question.

How long have you... wanted it to happen?

A provocation, maybe. One of many, but different. There was something in the way Baku reacted. Not just anger or embarrassment. There was confusion, hesitation, as if for a moment he had actually needed to ask himself that question.

Baek-Jin inhales slowly, trying to shake off the thought.
He doesn’t believe, not even for a second, that Baku has suddenly discovered feelings for him. That would be absurd. Even if Baku’s gaze no longer burns with blind hatred, even if there’s something new there (something Baek-Jin isn’t sure whether to fear or desire, a faint curiosity, a fracture in his anger, an attention that’s no longer pure repulsion), he doesn’t delude himself. He can’t.

Baku isn’t like him. He never was.

Baku has always been attracted to women: never missing a chance to comment on their bodies or brag about his conquests. A simple man, direct, often clumsy, but fundamentally good. Too good. And how many times has Baek-Jin received videos or photos of him surrounded by girls, or on yet another date, always different girls, never the same one.
He’s straight. He has no sexual curiosity. Baek-Jin is sure of it, so sure that he knew asking him to have sex with him would make him explode, react just like he did.

He never thought it would be easy to convince him. He knew that for the sake of freedom, Baku might yield, but not easily.

Because he’s straight.

So, the way Baku looked at him earlier in the bathroom can mean only one thing.
And perhaps that’s what irritates him the most, the possibility that his kindness is starting to blur into pity.

He doesn’t want Baku’s pity. He doesn’t want to see that light in his eyes, the one that says “I forgive you”, or worse, “I feel sorry for you.”

He doesn’t need that.

And yet… something has changed. He can feel it.

He recalls the moment Baku insisted on applying the ointment to his bruises. His stiff hands, his uncertain gaze as he rubbed the cream over his cheekbone, the distance between them shrinking by the second. Baek-Jin remembers the held breath, the tension in Baku’s muscles, the way his eyes flickered from his lips to his hands, as if unsure where to land.

Then there was that fear.

Not of him, not exactly, but of what he might do.

Baek-Jin saw it clearly: the fear that he might not hold back, that he could go too far. But at the same time, there had been no disgust, no rejection. No step backward. Only that heavy, almost hypnotic silence. The awareness that he could have done it, and the kindness of being allowed to, simply because now Baku knew that Baek-Jin might have wanted something like that.

That unsettles him more than any insult or slap could.

Because in that silence, Baek-Jin felt exposed, naked, not physically, but as if Baku were truly seeing him for the first time, stripped of masks and versions of himself he had carefully built.

That vulnerability still burns on his skin.

A faint sound makes him turn. The floor creaks in the hallway. It’s Baku.

Baek-Jin immediately straightens, tearing his gaze away from the door, moving with precise gestures: he grabs the pot, pours the meat and vegetable soup into the bowls, and sets everything neatly in front of them.

When Baku walks in, he’s wearing Baek-Jin’s tracksuit, the one left on the bed, and Baek-Jin swallows back a comment, though a flicker of warmth ripples through his chest.

Fuck, I hate myself.

He doesn’t look at him directly.
Baku sits quietly, scratching the back of his neck, also avoiding his gaze.

Baek-Jin turns his back to place the pot on the stove, then takes a small bowl of spicy sauce and sets it beside Baku with a natural, wordless gesture.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Baku glance up, surprised. His eyes light up faintly, as if he hadn’t expected Baek-Jin to remember, but he does. After all these years, he still remembers Baku can’t eat anything without a touch of heat.

They don’t say a word. They don’t need to.

But that suspended moment is almost worse than silence itself.

Baek-Jin sits across from him, picks up his chopsticks, and begins to eat, his face neutral, gaze lowered to the steaming soup. The quiet clinking of chopsticks against bowls is the only sound in the room.

Baku follows his lead, and the room fills with an impenetrable silence.

Two men. Two warm meals. And a wall of unspoken thoughts standing between them, stronger than any grudge, more fragile than any truth.

As he eats, Baek-Jin thinks that silence is the cruelest form of dialogue.
Because they’re both saying everything without saying a word.

Baku chews slowly, trying to ignore the knot of tension tightening in his throat. Then, suddenly, he breaks it.

“Didn’t know you could cook this well” he says with a crooked smile, his voice laced with a light, almost playful irony.

Baek-Jin barely lifts his gaze, chopsticks frozen halfway between bowl and mouth. His eyes, cold but carrying something deeper, rest on Baku for just a moment.

“Seems like you’ve missed a lot.”

The tone is sharp, almost defensive. His voice never rises, but each syllable lands with surgical precision.

Baku arches an eyebrow, choosing not to answer right away. He doesn’t want a fight. Not now. He knows Baek-Jin is in a fragile state, and maybe he is too. But the way Baek-Jin avoids looking at him, the way he stiffens every time their hands brush, irritates him more than he’d like to admit.

It happens again, they both reach for the water pitcher at the same time. Their fingers touch, barely, but the contact is enough to spark a short circuit. Baku pulls back, then forces himself to stay calm, to act casual. Baek-Jin pours the water, first for Baku, then for himself, and sets the pitcher down with a small thud.

Then they resume eating, eyes on their bowls, lips pressed tight. Only a slight twitch in Baek-Jin’s brow betrays his irritation.

What the hell is wrong with him? Baku thinks, forcing a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The air is dense, almost electric. Every movement, even the smallest one, feels heavy with meaning: the sound of water filling glasses, the steam rising from the soup, Baek-Jin’s breathing, too close, too familiar.

When Baku finishes his meal, even going back for seconds, he stands without a word.
Baek-Jin watches him, confused.

“There’s no need to wash them. You should rest.”

But Baku is already pulling on gloves with a firm motion. “If I get back in bed, I’ll start yelling like a lunatic.”

Baek-Jin sighs, as if he wants to argue but decides against it. He stands, quietly gathers the remaining dishes, and carries them to the sink. He takes his place beside Baku and, without a word, picks up a towel to dry what the other has washed. The sound of running water fills the kitchen again, covering their breaths and their thoughts.

The battlefield is now made of small gestures: the bowl passing from one hand to the other, their fingers brushing again, Baku’s arm grazing Baek-Jin’s. The smell of soap mixing with that of the soup, until it feels as though even the air has stopped moving.

Baku keeps his focus on the water, on the bubbles slipping away, but he senses every reaction in the other man, the way Baek-Jin holds his breath when he gets too close, the tension in his shoulders, the precise, almost desperate movements of his hands.

There’s no annoyance. Not even true discomfort. It’s something else.
An invisible wall neither of them dares to cross, but one that wavers every time they glance at each other.

Baku realizes he’s trying to stay calm, even gentle. He doesn’t recognize himself. That’s not who he is. And yet, he can’t bring himself to act otherwise.

Baek-Jin, on the other hand, interprets that calm as something worse. Every restrained smile, every thoughtful gesture, every glance that lingers too long burns on his skin like pity.
And pity, he cannot stand.

As he dries the last glass, Baek-Jin averts his gaze, folds the towel slowly, precisely.

Don’t look at me like that, he thinks. I’d rather you hate me.

But the echo of that closeness, the memory of Baku’s fingers brushing his cheek earlier, haunts him like a desire only a condemned man could guard so carefully in his heart.

The silence thickens again, but now, it’s different. It pulses with something neither of them dares to name.
And yet, they both stay there. Washing. Breathing.
Too close to feel truly apart.

***

Baek-Jin isn’t sure what to expect from the afternoon.
Every step Baku takes sounds like friction, every breath like effort, yet it’s not the wound that makes him look so tense.
Baek-Jin just moves around naturally, or rather, pretends to. He heads to the bathroom, trying to ignore the pressure building in his chest.

The silence in the house is so intense it’s almost deafening. Every tiny noise, the drip of water from the faucet, the soft rustle of damp fabric under his fingers, feels amplified. He grabs the basin filled with freshly washed clothes and carries it to the terrace that opens off the living room.

Baku is still in the living room. Baek-Jin can feel him, like a constant, warm, cumbersome presence he can’t ignore, no matter how much he wants to. Baku doesn’t seem to know whether to sit down on the couch or go back to his room, and that hesitation grates on Baek-Jin’s nerves like an echo he can’t shake off.
He never knows what to do, until he explodes.

The air outside is cool, and for a brief moment it gives Baek-Jin relief: a clean breath, a draft that wipes away the tension. He bends over, picks up a sweatshirt, and spreads it carefully across the drying rack, smoothing out every crease with obsessive precision.

Behind him, the sliding door opens softly. Baku appears on the threshold, his broad frame outlined by the light streaming in. He stretches, then inhales deeply, as if trying to shake off the tension.

“Need a hand?” he asks, his tone casual, or pretending to be.

Baek-Jin doesn’t turn immediately. He keeps arranging the sweatshirt, then glances sideways at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. That gentle tone irritates him, enough already.
If that conversation had never happened, Baku would probably still be growling and swearing loudly that he’d hate him for the rest of his life.

“No.”

But Baku doesn’t move. He stays there, close, as if challenging him just by existing.

Baek-Jin feels it, the silent struggle Baku is waging against himself: the urge to react, to bite back, and the effort it takes him to stay calm. He knows him too well not to notice. That forced composure, that calm that smells of surrender, gets under his skin.

Baek-Jin watches him a moment longer than necessary.

What’s changed in you, Baku?

“Did you skip school? Isn’t that a problem?” Baku suddenly says, breaking the silence.

Baek-Jin exhales, eyes fixed on a t-shirt he’s spreading with too much care.

“Missing one day won’t make me lose anything I don’t already know.” Then, his tone sharpening slightly: “You, on the other hand… with your grades and all those absences…”

Baku laughs, but without joy. “You didn’t leave me much of a choice, did you?”

His voice comes out more bitter than he intended. Baek-Jin turns slightly, arches a brow, that same expression that’s always made Baku want to punch him.

“If I go near my friends, you do some-” Baku cuts himself off with a shake of the head. “Forget it.”

Baek-Jin finishes hanging the last sweatshirt, then straightens up.

“No, go on. What do I do?” His tone is provocative, calm but loaded with challenge. “It’s good that you don’t forget it.”

Baku clenches his jaw, his breathing uneven. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then why are you suddenly being nice?”

The first domino falls, soon they’ll all go down, and they’ll end up fighting… right?

“Nice?” Baku laughs, bitter. “Just because I don’t punch you every time you say something stupid or make that smug face, that doesn’t mean-”

“It means exactly that” Baek-Jin cuts in. “What is it, now? You feel sorry for me?”

He knows he’s provoking him, he’s doing it on purpose. He wants him to react, to shout, to hit him, anything but show him that expression that disarms him.
Then he looks at him. Baku is frozen, fists clenched at his sides, eyes burning with anger and confusion.

“Sorry?” he growls. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t feel sorry for you…”

Baek-Jin looks away, as if the conversation no longer concerns him. “I hope not” he murmurs. “Because that’s not what I want from you.”

Baku moves restlessly. He paces back and forth across the living room, limping, running a hand through his hair, his face twisted in frustration. Then he turns to him again, leaning against the terrace doorway.

“And what do you want, Na Baek-Jin?” His voice rises, but doesn’t explode. He’s tired, wounded. “Because I really don’t get it. You say you want to have sex with me, then act like the idea of touching me, or even breathing the same air, disgusts you.”

Baek-Jin turns around, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He brushes past him to go back inside, but Baku follows him with his gaze, his eyes blazing with restrained anger.

“And that fucking smile, what does that mean?”

“I don’t want to fight with you” Baek-Jin replies coolly. “Go rest… wherever you want. I don’t care.”

Baku watches him walk away, his pulse pounding so hard in his ears he barely hears his own words. Then he follows, limping, nerves frayed to the limit. He grabs Baek-Jin’s arm, forcing him to turn around. The touch is more instinct than violence, but the tension in the air is enough to make it tremble.

“How am I not supposed to think you made that proposal just to humiliate me? To break me again, when you act like this?”

Baek-Jin looks straight into his eyes. He doesn’t step back. Not right away.
There’s a flash of wounded pride in his gaze. Then it hardens, defensive, guarded.
Every word from Baku weighs on him, pushing him toward a place he doesn’t want to reach.

Pity. He’s trying to understand because he feels pity.
The thought makes Baek-Jin boil.

He feels like he’s suffocating. He yanks his arm free with force.

 “What did you expect from me?” His voice trembles, not with fear, but with fury. “That I’d get on my knees and beg you? That I’d confess I’ve been in love with you all this time and that I’m so desperate to fuck you I’d do anything for it?”

The words explode through the room like a blast.

Baku freezes. It’s like the air’s been punched out of him. Like that sentence cut his breath in half.

Baek-Jin tries to repress the grip in his chest. He knows he’s gone too far. But it’s too late to go back.
For the second time, fuck, this suffocating closeness feels worse than any horror movie.

He sees Baku’s gaze blur, his shoulders sag, his jaw tighten as if he’s holding back something that could tear through him.

Baek-Jin’s chest rises and falls, his eyes sting. Then he exhales softly, not out of fatigue, but to stop himself from breaking. From showing it.

But no explosion comes. Baek-Jin turns away, heading for his room. He swears he hears Baku mutter under his breath: “Fuck you, Na Baek-Jin.”

He stops at his doorway, his hand still on the handle, fingers trembling slightly. The echo of that “fuck you” clings to him like a bitter relief, a balm that burns but somehow eases the ache.

His heart is still hammering, his breath uneven. He knows he crossed the line, said too much, but at least now it’s clear. At least Baku can go back to hating him.

He closes the door behind him with a soft click and lets his back slide down against the wood, slowly, until he’s sitting on the floor.
The air in the room is still, heavy. He brings a hand to his face and inhales shakily, trying to calm down, but his throat burns as if he’s swallowed glass.

It’s better this way.
Better if Baku hates him.
Better if he looks at him with anger, with that familiar contempt. At least that’s a feeling Baek-Jin knows how to handle, a role he knows: the guilty one, the executioner, the unreachable.

The alternative, the thought that Baku might feel compassion, or worse, tenderness, is unbearable.
Because he wouldn’t know how to react. Because the image of himself that would follow would crush him completely: a man who has always been afraid, who has always tried to control what he couldn’t have, who’s done everything, however wrong, just to stay close to him.

He closes his eyes.
He replays every gesture, every word, all the times he thought he could hurt him to protect himself. And now there’s nothing left, only that rough, low voice echoing in his head: Fuck you, Na Baek-Jin.

Yes.
It’s better this way.
Better to be hated than to be seen for what he truly is: a weak, pathetic man who’s lost every time he tried to win.

A man who’s done everything, every wrong thing, only for Baku.

***

A few hours later, Baek-Jin gets a call from Dong-Ha. His friend’s voice sounds uncertain.

“Baek-Jin… Sieun’s here. He says he needs to talk to you. And he looks dead set on not leaving until he sees you.”

Baek-Jin stays silent for a few seconds, his gaze unfocused. Then he runs a hand over his face and pinches the inner corners of his eyes between two fingers, trying to relieve the pressure throbbing at his temples. He’s exhausted, mentally and physically. The entire day has been a slow grind, a constant tension that hasn’t given him a single moment of rest.

“Alright” he murmurs at last, voice low and dull. “I’m coming.”

When he hangs up, he stands still for a moment, staring at the phone. He doesn’t really want to go. He doesn’t want to see Sieun, or face yet another complicated conversation.
But maybe… maybe getting out for a while is the best thing to do. Not just for him, but for Baku too.

He gets up slowly, feeling as if every movement costs him an enormous effort. He opens the closet and grabs the first shirt he finds. Puts it on with quick, mechanical gestures, then slips into a pair of pants, takes the black jacket hanging over the chair, and pulls it over his shoulders.
In the heavy stillness of the house, the metallic sound of the zipper closing cuts through the air, sharp and clean.

When he returns to the living room, Baku is lying on the couch. His hair falls across his forehead, his breathing is slow but uneven, as if he’s trying to sleep but can’t quite manage it. At the sound of Baek-Jin’s footsteps, he stirs slightly and sits up, eyes still hazy with sleep and mistrust.

“Where are you going?” he asks, voice hoarse, low, almost lazy, but with a faint edge of curiosity he tries to hide.

“I’ve got some things to take care of” Baek-Jin replies, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. His answer is curt, deliberately vague.

Baku watches him for a few seconds, then scratches the back of his neck and sighs.

“Did you check your temperature?” Baek-Jin asks automatically, without looking at him.

Baku snorts and slumps back onto the couch, pulling the blanket over his legs.

Baek-Jin steps closer. He stops beside the couch, looking down at him silently for a moment. Baku doesn’t even glance at him.

“Did you take your medicine?” Baek-Jin asks more quietly this time, his tone almost brushing against concern.

Another snort. No answer. Worse than a five-year-old.

Baek-Jin leans forward, hesitant, and rests his fingers against Baku’s forehead. It’s a quick, instinctive gesture, one he didn’t plan. Baku’s skin is warm but not feverish.

Baku jerks, eyes widening in surprise. Then, irritated, he grabs Baek-Jin’s wrist and pushes it away with a sharp movement.

“I don’t have a fever! I took the damn medicine, just go wherever the hell you’re going!” he snaps, cheeks flushed more with embarrassment than anger.

Baek-Jin inhales slowly, swallowing back a comment that dies in his throat. Then he straightens up, adjusts his jacket, and heads for the door.

“If you need anything, call me” he says simply, without turning around.

He slips on his shoes at the entrance while behind him he hears the rustle of the couch as Baku turns to his side, deliberately facing away from him.
The afternoon light filters through the windows, warm but dim, and the house is filled with a silence that presses against his temples. Baek-Jin closes his eyes for a moment, drawing a slow breath.

He’s so tired, inside and out. But maybe, he tells himself, this is for the best. Better to go out, to get away. The air outside will be cold, but at least it will be different. And, in the end, it’ll be good for Baku too. Staying trapped in the same space for too long has become dangerous. Every word risks turning into a fuse, every glance into a reason for something both of them are trying to bury.

When he turns for one last look, Baku is still there, his head buried in the pillow, one arm hanging off the side of the couch. His fingers twitch slightly, as if wanting to say something but unable to find the strength.
Baek-Jin opens his mouth, to tell him rest, or don’t move too much, but nothing comes out. He just looks at him for a moment, as if to etch that image into his mind: the way the light outlines his face, the bitter curve of his mouth, his hair still damp from the shower.

He lowers his gaze, tightens his fingers on the handle, and opens the door. The air outside hits him like a blow, a jolt. He steps out, then another step.

Before the door is closed, he hears Baku’s voice, muffled but sharp: “You call if you need something.”

His heartbeat skips. For an instant, just an instant, he wants to turn back.

Then he breathes deeply, squares his shoulders, and keeps walking.

***

Sieun sits upright, hands clasped on the table, eyes fixed ahead. Two boys from the Union, easy to recognize by their attitude and black jackets, are standing by the stairs, waiting for a signal to step in.
When Baek-Jin arrives, he doesn’t even have to speak; one look is enough.

The two don’t hesitate and move away, leaving the pair alone.

Baek-Jin sits across from Sieun. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile, doesn’t change his expression. The flashing lights from the dance floor flicker across his face, carving cold shadows into his features.

Sieun watches him, motionless. His eyes are tired, but there’s a feverish determination burning inside them.

His self-control is impressive, but Baek-Jin isn’t surprised. He’s always thought it: they’re more alike than he’d like to admit.

Both calculating, both hiding, both repressing to keep from showing where it really hurts.

“What do you need to tell me?” Baek-Jin asks finally, voice flat, stripped of any inflection.

“I want to know where Hu-Min is” Sieun replies without hesitation. “And what you’re doing to him.”

Baek-Jin lets the silence stretch for a few seconds, then gives a small, cold smile.

“Baku made his choice. He joined the Union.”

Sieun’s eyes narrow slightly, but the rest of his face remains still. Only his jaw tightens, barely perceptible.

“He chose?” he repeats, voice low but cutting. “And how did you make him choose?”

Baek-Jin folds his hands on the table, maintaining an unnaturally calm expression.

“I don’t understand why you always assume there’s a trick, Sieun. Sometimes people just realize on their own which side they belong to.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do” the other replies, tilting his head slightly. “It’s just that with you, they only ‘realize’ things after a threat…”

Baek-Jin doesn’t react. He just stares, letting him talk. Sieun knows it, and yet he goes on.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand about you” he says at last, voice calmer but no less venomous. “You’ve got a scholarship, you’re the top of your class… and yet you started laundering money, stealing bikes, getting your hands dirty with people who’d use you and throw you away in a second. Why?”

Baek-Jin tilts his head slightly, a faint smile that never reaches his eyes.

“Interesting that you care so much about my career.”

“Not about you” Sieun counters. “Hu-Min.”

Baek-Jin’s smile stiffens. “Ah, there it is. Back to Baku. You want me to bare my heart now?”

“Why do you want him with you?” Sieun presses, voice low, almost a whisper. “Why are you so obsessed with him?”

Baek-Jin leans forward slightly. “Do you really want the truth, or are you just trying to get me to say something you can use against me?”

Sieun doesn’t back down. “Your heart” he says softly. “You said, you want me to bare my heart. So… I take it Hu-Min already knows everything about you. Even the reason you created the Union.”

Baek-Jin laughs, a short, icy laugh, devoid of joy.

“You’re implying I keep him close because I’m afraid he’ll talk?”

“No” Sieun replies, almost inaudible but firm. “I think you keep him close because he’s the only one who’s really seen you. The only one you’ve let into your heart.”

Baek-Jin looks away, trying not to let a single tremor cross his face. He simply picks up his phone and sets it on the table, pushing it toward Sieun with a slow, deliberate movement.

It’s a live video feed, from a security camera, showing Gotak and Juntae walking toward the Daesung warehouse.

“You think I don’t know you’re here to distract me?” he says coldly. “While your friends are rummaging through my things? My men are already on their way.”

For the first time, Sieun falters. It’s a flicker, a single instant, but Baek-Jin catches it. The muscle twitching in his cheek, the shift in his breath.

They’ve both hit where it hurts most, the heart.

Baek-Jin leans across the table, his voice low and dangerous.

“Last time, you told me to separate the variables” he reminds him. “I, on the other hand, think it’s better to eliminate them all.”

Sieun rises to his feet; Baek-Jin mirrors him, like a reflection in a mirror. Sieun’s hands tremble, clenched into fists. In one swift motion, he grabs a pen from the table and holds it like a knife, trying to strike.

Baek-Jin is faster. His arm shoots up, blocking the blow, the pen drops to the floor with a sharp sound. One step forward, and the distance between them collapses to mere centimeters.

Sieun’s eyes burn with fury.

“What will you do now?” Baek-Jin hisses, almost a poisonous whisper. “Run to save them?”

Sieun glares at him, his chest heaving with tension. But he doesn’t answer.

They lock eyes, an exchange that says more than any threat ever could.

***

Baku scrolls through his phone on the couch, his thumb sliding over the screen without really reading anything, more to keep his hand busy than out of actual boredom. The light from the screen glows against his face. Every vibration makes his heart jolt; every notification is a small shock reminding him how much tension his life is steeped in.

Gotak’s name appears on the display, and his chest tightens, he hasn’t heard from him in weeks. Ever since he joined the Union, everything changed too fast. He remembers vividly the day Baek-Jin set the trap for his father: the alcohol sold to minors, the report, the conviction that followed, and the fear that cracked open inside him.

That was when he understood, anyone who got close to him could end up used as a pawn, punished, destroyed. He remembers what had happened to Gotak when they became friends, how Baek-Jin had broken him, humiliated him. So, this time, Baku hadn’t hesitated. He decided to sacrifice himself for the sake of the people he cared about: he distanced himself, avoided school, stayed away from places where they could find him, and ignored every message that could drag him back in.

He doesn’t want to answer. He knows how much his three friends care about him, and how dangerous those feelings are now. The wound burns like that call’s notification, maybe they found out he got hurt, maybe they just want to make sure he’s alive. He feels the need to reassure them that he is.
He answers.

“Hey.”

Gotak’s breathless voice hits him like a blow.

“Baku! We’re heading to the Daesung warehouses. Sieun’s distracting Baek-Jin, we might’ve found a way to get you out of this mess!”

Baku’s heart leaps into his throat. The first thing he thinks of is the blood on the couch where he collapsed, the stains he left behind. But more than anything, he thinks of the three of them getting into trouble because of him. He pictures Sieun with Baek-Jin, Sieun trying to distract him, and Baek-Jin, without saying a word, already out of the house.
He curses under his breath.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, sitting up suddenly, his voice strangled by fear.

“You heard me, we’ve got him! We just need to find some proof about the laundering or the stolen motorbikes and we can free you from that human parasite!” Gotak’s words tumble out in a rush, full of excitement and hope. He doesn’t know a thing.

Baku’s palms start to sweat. His head spins from panic and lack of air; every movement makes his pulse throb harder, and he can feel the fever creeping back.

“Listen to me, Hyun-tak” he says, using the boy’s real name, a sign of how serious this is. “Get out of there. Right now. That area’s under surveillance, there are cameras everywhere! Baek-Jin isn’t stupid, he’s already sent his people after you! I have to go to Sieun, you reckless idiots! Do you hear me? GET OUT!”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end. Then Gotak’s voice stammers, hesitates. Baku can tell he’s being stubborn, arguing with Juntae; that’s how Gotak has always been, never easy to convince. Baku rubs his face, pressing his fingers to his temples as if he could wipe away anger and fear at once.

“I can’t go to you and to Sieun at the same time, so you need to listen to me. Don’t go into those damn warehouses. Because if you get yourselves killed, I-”

The sentence breaks, his voice betraying the edge of desperation.

There’s a grunt on the line, and finally, surrender.

“Okay. Okay, Baku… we’ll do as you say.”

A hollow weight settles in his chest, not relief, not really. Just temporary safety. Enough for now. Baku exhales so deeply it feels like he’s emptying his lungs. He ends the call with a low growl.

Sweat runs down his spine. He knows that just the thought of getting up, going out, and running to the bowling alley with this kind of desperation will spike his fever, or tear his wound open again. And yet, the need to stop them, to keep his friends from getting hurt because of him, is stronger than caution.

He stands, his legs trembling under the weight of his anxiety. He adjusts the bandage pulling at his skin, grabs his jacket, and shoves his arms into it.

As he runs toward the door, each step feels like a countdown: the faster he goes, the more the heat builds. He knows that by the time he reaches the bowling alley, the fever will probably be raging, his thoughts clouded, his legs weak. But he can’t stop. He has to get there before it’s too late, he has to reach Sieun before he comes face to face with something far bigger than himself.

Baek-Jin won’t stop, just because Baku now knows the real reason behind everything he’s ever done.

***

Baek-Jin stands still, his gaze fixed on Sieun.

He watches him with that expression that comes naturally to him: amused and dangerous, the look of someone who knows he’s in control and finds everything else, others’ moves, others’ emotions, predictable and dull.

Sieun stands before him, motionless, eyes focused, his body tense like a wire ready to snap. Baek-Jin wears that thin smile that never reaches his eyes; every muscle in his face is calculated. He knows how to read people, knows when fear hides behind control. Sieun seems calm, as if he’s weighing every opportunity to his advantage, whether to attack again or run to help his friends.

His brow is barely furrowed, the mark of someone pretending to be confident, but unease stirs just beneath his skin.

A voice behind Baek-Jin, thunder before a storm, rips through that calculating silence: “HEY!”

Baek-Jin turns. The staircase leading to the exit spits out a shadow: Baku’s.
He descends, bent from pain, one hand clutching his side, his steps short and limping; every movement hurts, yet he doesn’t slow down.

Baek-Jin takes in the scene and, for a heartbeat, his own heart stops, struck by an emotion he hadn’t foreseen: he wants to rush to Baku, throw his arm around him, support him... help him. But he doesn’t move.
Not because he doesn’t want to, because he can’t. Sieun’s eyes flicker between him and Baku, unseen sentinels measuring his weakness.
Any impulsive action would reveal too much.

Baku reaches them with one last burst of effort. He shoots Baek-Jin a glare filled with blind, consuming hatred; anger carves deep lines into his face. As he passes him to reach Sieun, he bumps his shoulder, a brief, almost childish shove, and Baek-Jin barely steps back. But that backward step burns like a slap: it’s not the impact that stings, it’s the rejection, being pushed aside so Baku can go help someone else.

Baku wastes no time.

He grabs Sieun by the wrist with the hard grip of someone who’s just pushed past his limits.

“Come on” he says, his voice a command, not a request.

Sieun doesn’t resist; his body is ready, and he lets himself be dragged toward the stairs. Their footsteps echo through the hall as they leave, and Baek-Jin watches them disappear into the shadows.

He picks up his phone from the table.

The screen is still lit with the live feed from the warehouse cameras: flickering corridors, no sign of Gotak or Juntae. His men are already searching the area, moving with sterile frenzy. Baek-Jin watches, his eyes black as wells: they’ve vanished. The rush, the footsteps, the others’ frantic movements, all of it only confirms an uncomfortable truth: someone got ahead of them.

His mind starts racing: How did Baku know Sieun was there? Why did Gotak and Juntae disappear so suddenly?

Without crossing the line of visibility, he climbs the stairs, slow, calculated steps, stopping before he can be seen. He listens.

Sieun speaks first, concern threading his voice.

“What happened to you? Are you okay?”

Baku doesn’t answer right away; Baek-Jin hears him panting, holding it in, before his voice bursts out, sharp and heavy as a punch:

“What the hell were you thinking, huh? Trying to get yourselves killed?”

His tone is low, hard, full of fear disguised as fury.

Then, more hurriedly: “Gotak called me. I convinced them to leave before they got caught!”

“We’re trying to find a way to get you out of all this-” Sieun says, his voice controlled, almost flat.

“I’m already working on it” Baku snaps. “Everything I’ve done was to keep you safe, damn it! But if you keep this up, we’re all gonna end up dead!”

Sieun’s question comes again, insistent: “What happened? You don’t look okay... Did Na Baek-Jin hurt you?”

Baku doesn’t answer directly; he just clenches his jaw, breathing short and sharp.

“This is how you think you’ll save us?” Sieun presses, his voice tinged with accusation, and concern. “By risking your life?”

It’s clear Baku doesn’t want to talk about the wound; pride draws a barrier between them.
“Na Baek-Jin is my problem. I’ll deal with him myself. Stay out of it. I can’t save everyone.”

Baek-Jin feels those words like hammer blows carving into his silence. His chest aches. There’s something both fierce and tragic in that I can’t save everyone, a self-imposed burden that isolates him from the rest. As if the Na Baek-Jin problem rested solely on his shoulders. As if Baek-Jin’s very existence were his fault.

Baek-Jin lingers there a moment longer, absorbing every tone, every hesitation. He understands, with a painful clarity, that Baku chose, of his own will, to carry that weight. He’s tangled himself in a web to protect the others and, in doing so, accepts dying a little each day.

A feeling both warm and cold surges through Baek-Jin’s chest: anger at the situation, jealousy of the closeness Baku shares with the others, and something deeper, the knowledge that Baku is wasting away because of him.
He grips the railing tighter, his knuckles white.

His emotions swirl into a storm: a burning in his gut, a sense of helplessness he longs to turn into control, into possession. The thought that Baku, injured as he is, still managed to keep his friends safe.

Would he ever do that for me?

No. For him, now, Baku reserves only pity. Before that, hatred.
And before even that, abandonment.

The times when they’d been best friends, when Baek-Jin protected him from every danger, when a moment of silence was enough to make Baku laugh and ruffle his hair... those days are gone. Faded. Perhaps even forgotten by Baku.

Baek-Jin, having climbed the last few steps unnoticed, now steps into the cold light, performing calm, detachment, while dying inside.
Sieun stares at him, ready to strike; his muscles tense. The movement sets Baku off, he turns, facing Baek-Jin, chest heaving, eyes burning.

“Sieun” Baku says, his voice measured, yet there’s weight in the way he says the name. “Leave.”

Sieun freezes for a couple of seconds, suspended. Then, slowly, as reason begins to sink in, he steps back. The tension in the room loosens just enough for Baek-Jin to regain control effortlessly. He takes another step forward, hands buried in his pockets.

Baku looks at him, his face still etched with exhaustion. His voice is a whisper forced into steadiness: “Go. I’m fine. We’ll talk later.”

There’s so much in those words: reassurance, maybe a lie, maybe the memory of a promise.
Sieun exchanges a brief glance with him, then slips away, quick, decisive steps.

The silence that settles between them is thick, suffocating, eroding. Baek-Jin feels it like a too-warm blanket on his chest: he knows he’s lost a chance to act, and he doesn’t fully regret it. He also knows this isn’t over.

He looks at Baku, and in his gaze there’s more than analysis.

Baek-Jin speaks first.

“You were supposed to rest. Your fever’s probably back up...” he says, calm, almost gentle.
He steps closer, his hand already half-raised to touch Baku’s forehead, but Baku jerks back sharply. He grimaces, pain shooting through his side, and lifts a hand to stop him.

“You were about to hurt them.”

Baku’s voice vibrates, full of anger, full of that fire Baek-Jin has learned to both fear and love. The air between them charges, electric, like before a storm.

Baek-Jin tilts his head slightly; his hand drops to his side, then slides into his jacket pocket.
“They were breaking into my warehouses...” he replies evenly, more a justification than a defense.

Baku steps forward, body taut, jaw locked. He wants to grab Baek-Jin by the collar, drag him down, beat him senseless, but stops himself.
Baek-Jin has already stepped back, not out of fear, and Baku knows it. He’s doing it because any wrong move might reopen his wound. Baek-Jin’s eyes drift there, to the spot hidden beneath his jacket.

“It didn’t reopen, did it? Let me check.”

“Oh, fuck off! I’m fine!” Baku snaps, his voice blazing, out of control, filled with his concern, with his burden as the gang’s boss, tired of threats against his friends. And, maybe more than anything, tired of dealing with Baek-Jin.

He steps back, needing space, distance, anything to keep himself from lunging and strangling him.

“Na Baek-Jin, you can’t even keep your own word. You were about to hurt my friends!”

“I’ve always kept my word, Baku. They’re the ones looking for trouble.”

“Yeah? Trouble I’m in because of you!” he yells, his voice cracking under the weight of rage and exhaustion.

Baek-Jin closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, Baku already knows what he’s going to say, because it’s always the same line, the same offer, the same vicious cycle they fall into and tear each other apart.
So he doesn’t speak. Neither of them does.

They stand there, silent. Eyes locked, breaths short, emotions twisted into an unmanageable knot.
Baku runs a hand through his hair, as if trying to shake everything off.

“Alright” he says finally, without looking at him.

Baek-Jin watches him.

“Alright? About what?”

Baku lifts his gaze slightly, there’s no challenge in it, only deep, resigned fatigue.

“I’ll have sex with you. The offer still stands, right?”

Baek-Jin feels the world end over him in that moment.

There’s no triumph in his eyes, only a subtle, disarming kind of shock. He understands that Baku’s agreeing not out of desire, but to set himself free.
Free from him.

And even though he’s always known this was how it would end, hearing it said so plainly, so coldly, still catches him off guard, and it hurts.

Because Baku is ending things with him. For good.
It’s what Baek-Jin asked for, what he thought he wanted when he saw Baku wounded because of him, but maybe he wasn’t ready to face it. Maybe he still isn’t ready to let him go.
But he has to.
He never goes back on his word. Not him.

He simply nods. He doesn’t dare speak, if he did, Baku would hear the tremor in his voice, the knot in his throat.

“And after that, I’ll be free. You’ll leave me, my family, my friends... everyone, alone. Right?”

Baek-Jin nods again.

“Na Baek-Jin, I need to hear you say it. No tricks this time. Say it.”

When Baek-Jin speaks, his voice is barely a whisper, costing him every breath.

“I’ll leave everyone around you alone. And you’ll be free. After.”

Baku sighs, curses under his breath. He runs a hand through his hair again, then turns his back.

“Where are you going now?” Baek-Jin asks, taking a step forward, his hands half-raised, ready to support him, to take him under his wing, to bring him home.

“No, I’m not going back to your place. I need... to be alone. I’ll come back for... what we have to do.”

“Baku, you’re not well. You must have a fever, and your wound needs to be checked, otherwise-”

“I’m going home, okay? I’ll take care of myself. And when I’m better, I’ll come to reclaim my freedom.”

His voice is hard, final, leaving no room for reply.

Baek-Jin lowers his hands, lets them fall at his sides. He nods slowly. He feels wrecked, but hopes he doesn’t show it too much.

He says nothing. If he did, he’d betray himself, betray how much it’s killing him to let Baku go.

They stand like that for a few seconds, facing each other. Time stretches, distorts.
Then Baku turns and walks away, limping, his steps heavy but determined.

Baek-Jin remains still, his eyes fixed on the retreating back.

His heart dies slowly, sadly, as if trying to follow even when his body stays behind, every inch of distance weighing down his heartbeat.

It’s not a goodbye.
But it feels so much like one.

Chapter Text

Baek-Jin doesn’t go home. He calls himself an idiot for thinking it was suffocating when Baku and his chaotic presence had filled it, bringing disorder to his order and giving memory to a place that hadn’t had any for a long time.

Now he knows that if he went back there, alone, he would only feel the emptiness, and right now he can only bear what he carries inside himself. 

When the bowling alley doors close behind him, the only sound left is his labored breathing; he still feels like he’s dying, and yet he walks, and he knows that this is how he’ll keep living from now on, feeling like he’s dying a little more each day, and never really dying at all. 

If Hell truly exists, maybe he’s been in it ever since he realized that everything he did for Baku was wrong. To be redeemed, a true sinner must endure the punishments the devil has sentenced him to.

Only that, in his own sentence, as if it were a last wish granted to the condemned, there’s a bittersweet taste that makes it all worse than a quick death, because instead of letting himself die, he keeps living for that moment. 

He heads to the office. Turns on the light: a cold, flickering glow that makes the room look even sadder. 

He drops onto the swivel chair and stays still for a few minutes, hands clasped over his stomach. Then, as if to shake off the thoughts crowding his head, he grabs a sheet of paper and starts doing calculations. 

Equations, graphs, problems of advanced algebra. 

Numbers line up, neat, perfect, and for a moment he truly believes mathematical logic might save him, that the rigor of numbers might bring him a sense of control. But every time his mind tries to focus, one thought splinters through: what if Baku never got home?

The pencil slips from his fingers. He runs a hand through his hair, then stands, rubbing his face. He’s tired. 

He decides to lie down on the old couch in the corner, the one that smells of sweat and worn-out plastic. He takes off his shoes, stretches out, but doesn’t really close his eyes. The neon light flickers on and off, each blink a small jolt to his brain. 

He checks his phone. 

Again. 

And again. 

Every ten minutes he unlocks it, scrolls through the screen, rereads Baku’s last message, which is his own, the one that nearly sent Baku to his death. 

He stares at the chat, as if sheer willpower could summon a call, a notification, a voice on the other end saying: I’m fine, asshole

But nothing. 

He imagines Baku walking through the cold, damp night streets, limping, his jacket too thin to keep out the wind. He imagines him stopping, losing balance, collapsing to the ground. His feverish body giving in. 

His breath catches in his throat. He knows that, in that condition, he should never have let him go alone. He knows it, and yet he can’t move a finger. 

He could call him. 

But pride is an invisible chain, heavier than any wound. 

He could send a message, even just to ask “are you alive?” but he already knows the answer that won’t come. 

All that’s left is to wait. 

Wait for Baku to heal. 

Wait for him to come back. 

Wait for him to show up and say he’s ready to “redeem his freedom.” 

“I’ll have sex with you. The offer still stands, right?”

The words echo in his head like a cruel refrain. 

He shivers. 

Turns on his side, clutching his chest as if to hold together something inside him that’s falling apart.

He can’t even indulge in the idea of that near future, when he’ll be able to touch him, kiss him, fool himself into thinking he belongs to him for at least one fleeting moment. Every image, every thought, every desire is poisoned by the knowledge that that moment will be the last. The clean cut that will forever sever what ties them. 

And after that? 

What will be left of him then? 

He’ll keep running the Union. Finish school, go to university. Become stronger, more respected, more feared. Maybe even richer. 

He’ll go out with men like Mr. Choi, elegant, composed. Build a full, planned, perfect life. 

And yet everything, every goal, every smile will feel dimmed, because there will always be a void gnawing at his chest. 

Does any of this make sense without Hu-Min? 

He already knows the answer. And it hurts. 

He grabs his phone again, but not to call. He types a short message to two of his men. 

He instructs them to make sure Baku made it home. No explanations, no emotion. Just an order. 

The hours crawl by. 

The ticking of the clock and the hum of the neon light are the only sounds keeping the room alive. 

Every now and then he gets up, pours some water, paces back and forth. Then sits again. 

When his phone finally vibrates, his heart skips a beat. 

A few words. 

He’s home.

Baek-Jin stays still, then exhales a long breath. His shoulders drop; the tension eases slightly. He closes his eyes. 

For the first time in hours, he lets his body give in. He sinks into the dark, and the dark welcomes him with the same gentleness with which it destroys him. He knows it’s only a dream, but deep down he feels it clearly: that same darkness will swallow him whole the day his only source of light decides not to return. 

***

The next morning Baek-Jin wakes with a start, neck stiff, shoulders sore from having slept all night on that couch. For a few seconds he doesn’t even remember where he is: the light filtering through the blinds cuts the gray air into thin stripes, and the muffled silence of the closed bowling alley amplifies every sound: the beating of his heart, his heavy breathing, the creak of his jacket’s leather beneath him, used as a pillow. 

He sits up slowly, runs a hand through his messy hair, and reaches for the phone lying on the table beside him. The screen lights up immediately, but the notification he longs to see isn’t there. No message. No call. 

The screen stays still and bright, cold, empty like the silence pounding in his ears. He scrolls aimlessly through chats, opens group messages, reads meaningless texts, jokes, school photos, homework notifications, chatter that means nothing. Every word feels like it belongs to a world he’s been shut out of. 

Nothing from him. 

He falls back, staring at the ceiling. 

For a moment, he wants to get up and go find him, but he remembers what he promised. And what Baku promised in return. 

Better not to think. Better to focus on something that doesn’t immediately make his head ache. 

He gets up, walks into the small bathroom next to the office. The faucet drips, the mirror is fogged. He splashes cold water on his face, lets the drops slide down his neck. He looks at his reflection: eyes red, jaw tight, face more tired than usual. He notices the bruise staining his cheekbone, a dark shade just beneath pale skin. Under the light, it looks deeper, almost pulsing. He runs a slow thumb across his split lower lip. 

The pain is dull, but it’s not what makes him falter, it’s the memory. 

Baku hitting him, the sharp sound, the rage exploding between them. 

And then Baku tending to him. His fingers trembling slightly as he applied the ointment, his hesitant eyes avoiding his, his choked voice muttering “stay still”.

Baku had been as violent as he was gentle, as if two opposing forces lived inside him: one that destroyed, and one that desperately tried to make amends. 

Baek-Jin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The memory of that closeness clings to him like a scent that won’t wash away. 

The distance, even just a few hours, weighs on him like a physical absence, a constant ache in his chest. It’s unbearable, and he knows it will always be, especially after they cross that line, after they have sex and there’s no going back. 

And yet it must be so. There has to be distance. Because every time they get too close, it always ends the same way: with violence, with cutting words, with one of them bleeding and the other dying inside. 

Their balance is impossible to maintain. 

Love, if he can even call it that, is a war they both lose every time. 

Baek-Jin opens his eyes and looks at himself once more. 

The bruise, the cut, the pale reflection: every mark is a map of what Baku has left on him, inside and out. And despite everything, he can’t truly wish them away. 

No, I can’t afford to fall apart, he thinks. Not me. Not now. 

He repeats the phrase like a mantra as he dries his face with a worn towel and slips into his school uniform hanging from a hook in the corner: the slightly wrinkled white shirt, the gray blazer. The uniform of the model student, the school’s pride, the exemplary boy who hides beneath his skin the restlessness of a criminal. 

Every gesture is an attempt to rebuild a semblance of normalcy, piece by piece. If he can force himself back into routine, maybe he can also force his heart to behave. 

He knows too well, giving too much space to feelings would make him vulnerable. And Baek-Jin can’t afford that. 

As he straightens his tie before the cracked mirror, he forces his mind to focus instead, on lessons, exams, the student performances he’s in charge of. 

Routine. Discipline. Control. 

That’s what it takes not to think, not to fall apart. 

Just as he grabs his backpack to leave, the office door opens with a creak.
A cloud of cigarette smoke drifts into the room, followed by a slender shadow and a shameless grin.

“Are you in a hurry?” Seong-je asks, his voice already thick with sarcasm.

He’s wearing his school uniform carelessly: unbuttoned shirt, loosened tie, crooked collar. The cigarette dangles between his lips, and his expression is that of someone who enjoys provoking anyone who crosses his path.

Baek-Jin stares at him silently for a moment, then raises an eyebrow.

“Do you need to talk to me?”

Seong-je smiles, exhales a puff of smoke into the stale air.

“I heard your cute little friends tried to sneak into the Daesung warehouses.” He strolls around the office as if taking a walk in the park, brushing his fingers over every object, every surface. “Why didn’t you order us to settle the score?”

Baek-Jin watches him coolly, hands in his pockets.

“Since when do you take such initiative?”

The answer comes with a short laugh, almost a snort.

“Since you stopped caring.”

Baek-Jin stiffens slightly, but says nothing. Seeing that his jab didn’t land, Seong-je presses on, stepping closer.

“And since when do you let Baku screw with your head?”

Baek-Jin’s gaze snaps up. It’s glacial. Razor-sharp.

Seong-je stops, but then smiles again, even more provocative.

“Oh, come on, don’t deny it. You even went out of your way to handle him personally, the guy you dragged into this after ruining his life. And while you were playing nurse, who do you think kept the Union running, huh?”

He pauses, letting the words settle between them like ash.

“You put me in charge, Baek-Jin. Me. And you’d never have done that before. Don’t think I’m not flattered, but I know perfectly well this isn’t about trust, it’s about desperation. Yours. For Baku.”

He steps closer until he’s almost touching him, his voice dropping, more personal.

“You’ve let your guard down, all for someone who hates you. Do you realize how pathetic that is?”

Baek-Jin inhales slowly, fingers tightening inside his pockets to keep from reacting. The air around him hums with that dangerous stillness that always comes before something breaks.
Seong-je senses it, but doesn’t stop.

“You know what happens when the boss stops being scary? Someone else starts thinking they can take his place.”

Baek-Jin lifts his gaze, fixing him with a look that makes Seong-je forget, for an instant, the thrill of the game.

“You’d better choose your words carefully, Seong-je.”

The tone is low, controlled, but something sharp vibrates beneath every syllable.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” Seong-je mocks, turning slightly to exhale another cloud of smoke.

Baek-Jin goes perfectly still. His eyes darken; his lips press into a thin line.
Seong-je looks pleased with himself, swaying lazily like a bored dancer.

“I never minded following him around, keeping tabs on his moves. I admit it was stupid not to ask why you wanted it done. But as long as you let me rough someone up now and then, I didn’t complain. It was fun.” He pauses, leans in slightly, eyes glinting with irony. “What’s wrong now? Going soft? Want me to be the reasonable one between us?”

Seong-je laughs at the absurdity.

Baek-Jin inhales slowly, as if to cage the anger pressing under his ribs.

“Baku joined us” he says at last, voice flat.

Seong-je bursts out laughing again, incredulous. He adjusts his glasses, tilts his head.

“Joined us? Really? And that’s supposed to justify everything?”

He steps forward, words sliding out like blades.

“His ‘little friends’ are trying to ruin you, and you let them, just because Baku’s in the Union? Are you really that stupid?”

There’s contempt in his tone, but also something else, a faint, almost human trace of disappointment, hidden beneath the sarcasm.
Baek-Jin doesn’t respond. He stands still, hands in his pockets, eyes on the hallway. The silence between them grows heavy.

“I have to get to school” he says finally. “Any other complaints?”

Seong-je grins, showing his teeth, then shakes his head.

“No, boss. None. But think about what I said. From one friend to another…”

He flicks the cigarette to the floor, crushes it under his heel, and walks out.

Baek-Jin stands motionless for a few more seconds, watching him leave.
He exhales a long breath, almost a groan of exhaustion.
He slips a hand into his pocket, pulls out his phone.
No notifications. Again.
The screen is empty.

He adjusts his backpack on his shoulder and, without looking back, follows him down the hallway.
Outside, the sun has just risen, but to him, it already feels like the day is over.

***

School is a disaster. From the moment he sits at his desk, Baek-Jin knows the day is doomed to be a long torture. The voices of his classmates, the sound of turning pages, even the screech of chalk on the board all feel muffled, distant. Every time he looks down at his notebook, he finds himself staring at the same words, unable to make sense of them. No matter how hard he tries to focus, formulas, definitions, calculations, everything slides off him like rain on glass.

He checks his phone constantly, between classes, during breaks, even while the teacher writes on the board, as if the device could finally grant him a reprieve, a sign, a notification, anything to reassure him. But the screen stays empty. White. Silent.

With every passing hour, he feels the weight pressing harder on his chest. He’s frustrated, restless, tired of himself. He feels stupid, for the anxiety, for the dependency, for constantly thinking about a boy who probably doesn’t want anything to do with him right now.

Even Seong-je’s words echo in his head, sharp as glass.

You let Baku screw with your head.

And maybe he’s right, Baek-Jin thinks. Maybe he really has lost control. But every time he tries to convince himself of that, an image slips into his mind, Baku bent over in pain, forehead burning with fever, hands trembling, voice hoarse, still stubbornly refusing to ask for help. And that’s when Baek-Jin gives in to the truth that nothing else matters.

Nothing has ever mattered, except Baku.

Not even the empire he built, with effort, with blood, feels important anymore. Everything seems hollow.
He’s sacrificed his youth, his freedom, even the idea of being normal, just to become what he is. And yet now that he has everything, he can’t think of anything but Baku.
Of the fact that he’s not answering. Not giving any sign of life. Of how every minute that passes pushes him a little further away.

He feels as if time in his life has become a countdown, an inevitable ticking toward something he can’t name, but knows will be final.
Every hour without Baku is a loss, a void that can never be filled again.

When the day finally ends, he leaves school without saying goodbye to anyone. He walks through the crowded streets full of students and noise, but to him it all feels muffled, distant, meaningless.
The air is cold, the sky gray. He pulls his coat tighter, hands in pockets, and heads toward the bowling alley, toward the silence of his office and the solitude he’s chosen.

But as soon as he sits at his desk, the tension becomes unbearable. He grabs his phone.
He hesitates for a long moment, holding it as if it weighed more than it should. Then finally, he gives in.
He types a short, simple message, almost impersonal, as if showing vulnerability might ruin everything:

Let me know how you’re doing.

He sends it. And stares at the screen for a time he can’t measure, waiting for a sign, a heartbeat, a reply.

Time passes.
Five minutes. Ten. Twenty-five.
No answer.

Baek-Jin drops the phone onto the desk, leans back, and closes his eyes.
The feeling that washes over him is suffocating, like a weight pressing down on his chest.
He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath.

He knows Baku won’t reply.
And yet, part of him will keep checking that damn screen every few minutes, as if salvation could come from a message that will never arrive.

***

It’s been a week since Baku accepted Baek-Jin’s deal.
Seven exact days since he last saw him, in the dim bowling hall heavy with the smell of rubber and dust.
Seven days spent trying, with every fiber of his body, to forget the sound of his voice and the way he looked at him.

When he came home that night, he didn’t say a word. He shuts himself in his room, took off his shirt, and dressed his wounds as best he could, gritting his teeth each time the gauze brushed against the cut on his side. His father didn’t notice, or maybe he chose not to ask.

Only two days later, seeing how pale Baku looked and how slowly he moved, his father finally asked if he was sick.

“I caught a cold” Baku said, careful not to turn too much. His father stared at him with that tired but kind look of his, then sighed and let it go.

He was far more surprised to learn that he was already out of jail. Even more so when he heard that a good lawyer had taken his case for free.

“Quite a stroke of luck, huh?” he had said. “Sometimes life decides to give something back.”

Baku had only nodded, lips pressed tight. He wouldn’t have known how to explain that behind that “luck” was Baek-Jin himself. And he didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t tell the truth either.

Since his father managed to reopen the restaurant, he spends almost all his days there, trying to rebuild their customer base. He’s become cautious, almost obsessively careful: no more alcohol to minors, no favors, no unnecessary risks.

Baku spends his time at home, in silence.
At first, his friends tried to reach him, first with messages, then calls, then showing up at his door.

They found him pale, irritable, but lucid.
They insisted, almost begged him not to give up on their plan: to expose Baek-Jin, destroy him, make him pay for what he’d done to all of them.
But Baku didn’t give in.
He didn’t mention the deal. He didn’t explain what still tied him to that man. He just reassured them, voice low and steady, that it was almost over, that he’d found a way out of the Union.

“You just have to trust me.”

And though they grumbled and protested, in the end, they left him alone.

During the week, Baek-Jin sent only one message.

Let me know how you’re doing.

A simple sentence, almost harmless, yet to Baku it felt like a weight pressing on his chest.
He didn’t answer.

But since that day, the visits began.
Every day, at least once, someone shows up in front of his house or at the foot of the hill leading up to it: men from the Union, faces he barely knows, or would rather forget.

“Baek-Jin asked us to check how you’re doing.”

At first, he just slammed the door in their faces. Then he started threatening to call the police.

“Don’t come near my house again.”

But they still came back, same fake-concerned tone, as if their boss had ordered them to watch over a wounded animal.

Baku tries not to think about it.

Tries not to think about him. He fills his hours watching TV shows he doesn’t like, reading comics he leaves unfinished, leaving the television on just so the silence won’t swallow him. Sometimes he falls asleep on the couch; other times he lies awake staring at the ceiling.

But every night, inevitably, his mind drifts back there, to what he’ll have to do to win back his freedom from that nightmare.

One nightmare for another.

He would never admit it, but he’s scared. Not of sex, not of intimacy with another man, he’s seen too much to be scandalized. He’s scared because it will happen with Baek-Jin.

He’s dated plenty of girls. He’s always liked them. There were kisses, hands that wandered too far, but never beyond that. And now, his first time will be with Na Baek-Jin.

His childhood friend. The boy he taught how to fight. The man who betrayed him, who became his enemy.

The one who ruined his life.

Sometimes, when he thinks about it too much, nausea grips him, a tight knot in his stomach, a dizzy spell that forces him to sit down and breathe.
It’s not disgust, he knows that. It’s refusal.

Refusal of what’s about to happen, but also of the necessity driving him to it.

Because he knows it’s the only way to end this story, this damned, toxic story that keeps him chained to the Union, to Baek-Jin, to everything he hates. But he also knows that ending won’t be freedom.

It will be a mark.

He knows everything will change. That once he crosses that line, there will be no turning back.
That he’ll carry forever the weight of what they once were: the heat of their skin, the mingled scent of sweat, the taste of their mouths, Baek-Jin’s broken voice whispering his name, the inevitable pleasure their bodies will find, the moans, the sensations that will sink into him like tattoos.
Indelible.

And in a future where Baek-Jin will no longer be there, that memory will be a sentence.
Not freedom.

***

That afternoon is cold, damp; the air smells of wet asphalt and fried food drifting up from ground-floor kitchens.

Baku lifts his grocery bag higher and walks slowly up the street, determined to lock himself inside and speak to no one. His side throbs like a warning not to forget, every now and then a dull sting reminds him of the wound, of the night he almost died. Every step makes him clench his teeth.

Suddenly, halfway up the slope to his apartment, he spots Seong-Mok standing there, hands in his pockets, that nosy expression he never bothers to hide. Baku rolls his eyes, sighs, and quickens his pace. Seong-Mok hurries after him, hands clasped behind his back as if restraining himself from blurting something out.

“Did I not make myself clear enough? Do I have to call the police?” Baku snaps, irritated.

Seong-Mok raises his hands in mock surrender and forces a nervous smile.

“Relax, tiger.” He tries to sidestep him, but Baku shoulders past him, sharp, instinctive rather than violent.

Seong-Mok laughs and keeps up, undeterred.

“I see you’re doing fine. Fever’s gone? How’s the wound healing?” he chirps, his voice too bright to be genuinely concerned.

Baku doesn’t answer. He keeps walking, his breathing steady despite the steep climb. Seong-Mok, however, is soon gasping for air; his labored breathing grates on Baku’s nerves until he stops and turns on him.

“You want me to punch you? Get lost!” he hisses, eyes narrowed.

“Come on, what’s the harm in giving me an update?” Seong-Mok insists, words spilling fast, ignoring the growing irritation. “You know, Na Baek-Jin and I worked pretty hard patching you up with all that blood everywhere!”

Baku freezes, eyes wide. “What…?” is all he manages, caught between disbelief and annoyance.

Seong-Mok takes the chance to drop another piece of the puzzle.

“You were unconscious. Na Baek-Jin called me, totally panicked, begging me to grab a suture kit. He was a wreck. Didn’t even want to treat his own wounds, and trust me, they weren’t much better than yours! I’ve never seen him like that. We all thought he was some kind of machine… but that guy’s got a lot going on himself.”

Every word hits Baku like a small blow. He clenches his fists; Seong-Mok talks too much, filling the air with details he’s not sure he wants to know.

If Baek-Jin were there, he’d probably silence him with a glare. Instead, Baku listens, swallowing each sentence like a bitter pill he refuses to spit out, against all his pride.

“You and he… stitched me up?” he asks quietly.

Seong-Mok nods, pleased to have piqued his curiosity. “He even cleaned you, changed your clothes… I’d only do that for family, you know.”

That for family line digs into Baku’s chest, clawing at a truth he doesn’t want to face. A bitter taste rises in his mouth. He starts walking faster, but Seong-Mok keeps up, unwilling to let him go.

“You see? I’m fine, now go tell him” Baku says sharply, trying to end it.

“He asked, well… if you could tell him yourself. Maybe by answering his messages…” Seong-Mok chuckles, childlike.

Baku feels his blood boil. His eyes turn icy. “He didn’t send any” he lies.

But Baek-Jin had sent one. Just one. Cold, sterile. Why the hell should he answer that?

“Oh… okay, I’ll tell him. Maybe he’s having phone trouble, you know, happens…” Seong-Mok mutters, inventing a flimsy excuse for a lie neither believes.

Baku exhales sharply and quickens his pace.

The thought that the Union’s men have been sent to watch him, to hover around his house, to “look after” him makes him sick. He knows they’re there to ensure he keeps his word, to measure his recovery, his reliability. Baek-Jin’s way of verifying the schedule, the progress, the truth. It burns inside him, this sense of being monitored like an animal. He wants to scream, to grab the first one he sees and beat him bloody, but anger is a trap that explodes too easily, one that could only cause more damage.

Seong-Mok, feigning innocence, persists: “So, will you? Write him?”

Baku plants his feet on the asphalt, muscles taut. His instinct is to refuse, to deny Baek-Jin the satisfaction of controlling even that, his choice to speak or stay silent.

He isn’t free. And if he wants freedom, Baku knows what he has to do. It’s as if Baek-Jin delights in reminding him of how many ways there are to be hated.

If he had him in front of him, no audience, no eyes to judge, he’d lunge at him, hands around his throat, rage overflowing, satisfaction burning at the sight of him breaking. Not out of desire, his mind clarifies coldly, but from the brutal eruption of justice that scorches his chest.
He wants to tear him apart, wants to see him crawl and finally beg for mercy.

He turns to Seong-Mok.

“If he’s so concerned about my health, tell him to come see me. Then maybe this damn parade will finally end.”

Each word is a calculated blow, not a plea, but a challenge, raw and defiant at once.

Baku wants him, Baek-Jin in the flesh, to look at him, to see with his own eyes that he’s still alive. He doesn’t want messages. He doesn’t want guards. He wants the confrontation, even if he knows it’s loaded with meanings that make him sick.

Seong-Mok stares at him for a second, then laughs.

“I’ll tell him. But he is, you know, interested in you.”

The words scrape inside Baku like claws, and before he can push them away, a memory rises unbidden.

The day of his father’s arrest. The chaos, the shouting.

And then that boy, one of the henchmen, turning to him before leaving and saying,

“Na Baek-Jin asked me to tell you he misses you.”

Then Baku had trembled.

Not only out of anger, the kind that rose in him every time he heard that name, but out of fear, too.
Because his nightmare never ended. Baek-Jin never let him breathe, never let him forget, not even when everything else around him was collapsing.

That message, whispered by a stranger, had tasted like both a threat and a confession.
A sentence that, back then, had sounded like a warning.
Today, instead, it echoes with a different tone, subtler, more disarming.

In that week of silence and visits sent by others, Baku had found himself thinking about it far too often.
Every man sent to his door, every message left unanswered, every pretext of a “check-up” was nothing but Baek-Jin’s latest excuse.
That was how he operated: hiding behind others, too proud to show himself, too fragile not to, in some other way.

Just to keep his walls from falling, he always found a way to let Baku know what his heart was suffering.

Back then, months ago, it had been his longing.
Now, it was his worry.

When he reaches his building door, he enters the code and goes inside without saying goodbye to the other guy, who waves his hand while looking down at the steep climb he has just completed, like a predator exhausted by the prey that has just escaped him.

Baku shuts the door, tosses the envelope onto the table, leans his back against the fridge, and lets the lock click into place. For a few seconds he stays still, listening to the city sounds filtering in from the window, then grabs his phone with a sharp movement. The screen is empty, as always. He scrolls through his messages, then closes it and throws it onto the couch in frustration.

He won't write. Not even to remind him how fucking much he hates him and wants to kill him.

He sits down, forehead in his hands, and the thought that bounces inside his chest is the same one he despises: that deep down, that man, that bastard who holds him and torments him, always knows how to reach him, even when he tries to run away.

***

The doorbell rings once, twice, while Baku emerges from half-sleep on the couch with a groan. His eyes open sluggishly; the room is dim and warm, the scent of the takeout that hasn’t arrived yet drifting through his mind like a promise of survival.

He rubs his face with one hand, trying to wake up as fast as possible, and with the other reaches for his phone to check the time.

“Finally” he mutters, sitting up. “I hope they at least remembered the sauces this time.”

He crosses the living room barefoot. But when he opens the door, there isn’t a delivery boy in uniform.

Standing before him is Na Baek-Jin.

For an instant, Baku’s brain short-circuits. The light from the stairwell illuminates Baek-Jin’s face, his dark jacket glistening with rain despite the umbrella above him, and his gaze, sharp as ever.

“You’re not my dinner” Baku says flatly, his voice dull, maybe with a hint of stupid disbelief.

He actually came. He actually came to my door.

He hadn’t thought Seong-Mok would take his words seriously, let alone tell Baek-Jin. And he certainly hadn’t expected Baek-Jin himself to show up.

Baek-Jin barely raises an eyebrow, the shadow of a smile that never quite reaches his lips.

“Are you going to let me in or not?” he asks, as if showing up after a week of silence and second-hand check-ins were the most natural thing in the world.

Baku rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

Everything in him screams to slam the door in his face, to leave him out there, under the rain that now beats harder on the roof tiles.

The air smells of metal and wet asphalt, and for a moment, the thought of Baek-Jin standing out there, having to retrace every step back through the storm, drenched to the bone, seems almost right. Almost poetic.

He places his hand on the door, ready to shut it, but Baek-Jin must read that thought in his face, because he lifts his palm and stops the movement with chilling calm.

“I’ll just check the stitches and leave,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly.

His voice is low, steady, and more than any threat, it disarms him.

Baku stares at him for a moment; his sharp, dark eyes leave him breathless, his stomach twisting, but he uses it as an excuse for his missed dinner.

So, he turns around and walks back inside without saying a word. He doesn’t invite him in, doesn’t step aside, simply ignores him.

Baek-Jin follows, closes the umbrella and leaves it by the door. Then he slips off his jacket with a slow, measured movement and leaves his shoes by the entrance, putting on a pair of guest slippers.

Raindrops from his damp hair slide down onto the floor, forming dark specks on the wood.

“I’m fine, shibal,” Baku snaps, sitting back down on the couch. “You’ve had one of your guys tailing me every damn day to make sure of it. I’m not going anywhere, relax.”

His voice trembles, not just from anger, but from a kind of irritation he can no longer tell apart from pain or pride.

Baek-Jin emerges from the hallway and stops on the threshold of the living room. He looks around slowly, and his expression changes, just a little: annoyance.

The table is cluttered with empty cartons, clothes piled on a chair, a mug of cold coffee on the armrest of the couch. Everything speaks of neglect.
He’s probably thinking that even the Daesung warehouses, where Baku had built himself a little nest during his time with the Union, were better than this.

Baku watches him, and when he sees that flicker of disapproval cross his face, a weary, ironic smile escapes him.

“What’s wrong? You expected something clean and sterile like your place?”

But Baek-Jin turns toward him, face serious, gaze steady, unreadable.

“I never thought you wanted to run away” he replies, ignoring Baku’s jab, his calm tone sounding more like a warning than reassurance.

Then he steps closer to the couch, sets a backpack on the table, and unzips it. Inside are gauze pads, disinfectant, medical instruments.

Who knows if the corrupt doctor gave them to him, or if Baek-Jin called Seong-Mok again, desperate, to get them.

Baku finds himself watching him, his slow, calm gestures, so natural he could pass for a man with twenty years of medical training.

“Lie down,” Baek-Jin says, cold, clinical, like a doctor who doesn’t take no for an answer.

Baku looks up at his face, his jaw tightening as he stares back, motionless.

His fingers grip the edge of the couch, breath caught in his throat. He doesn’t move.

It isn’t just pride anymore, but mostly self-defense. Rage for every day of surveillance, for every unsent message, for every boundary Baek-Jin keeps crossing without asking.

Baek-Jin sighs, places the bottle of disinfectant on the table, and looks up at him.
There’s something different in his eyes this time, not arrogance, not coldness. Something that looks almost like patience.

“Don’t make it harder than it already is” he says quietly.

Baku doesn’t know whether he wants to punch him or let him get closer just to end the nightmare faster.

The sound of the rain grows louder, sliding down the windowpanes like a breath accompanying the tense silence between them.

Baek-Jin leans forward slightly, waiting, and time freezes: two bodies suspended in the narrow space of a too-familiar living room, with years of unspoken words hanging heavier than any pride.

Baku stares at him for a moment, lips pressed tight, chest rising and falling slowly.
He thinks: might as well get it over with. The sooner he shows him the wound, since that’s supposedly why he came, the sooner he can throw him out.

But lie down? Hell no.

He won’t grant him that kind of vulnerability. Not to Baek-Jin.

God knows what thoughts might cross his mind, with him stretched out, his body exposed, under the pretext of “checking the stitches.”

The idea makes his mouth curl into a grimace.

Baku presses his back against the couch, lifts the hoodie up to his chest and, in a dry and sarcastic tone, spits: “Come on, let’s play the doctor and the sick man. You must have seen a lot of porn start like this.”

Baek-Jin has already crouched down, one knee on the floor, both hands reaching toward the bandage now exposed.

But at those words, he freezes. His fingers hang in the air, trembling just slightly, as if that sudden spike of irritation runs through his tendons.

Baku notices the shift in his breathing and feels a bitter satisfaction.

He’s gotten under his skin. Good.

Baek-Jin straightens his shoulders, inhales slowly, then leans in again. His fingers, cold, precise, work at the bandage, peeling it back with careful control.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t show concern, only the sound of adhesive lifting and breath mingling with silence.

Baku holds his breath. The smell of disinfectant clings to the air, sharp, stinging. When Baek-Jin presses a gauze pad to the wound, it burns, but more than the physical pain, it’s the calmness of his touch that infuriates him.

As if it were his body, as if it belongs to him, too.

Then come the forceps.

Baek-Jin leans even closer, his face hovering just above Baku’s abdomen, his cold, deliberate fingers brushing against skin as he checks the stitches.

Baku clenches his jaw, head falling back, eyes shut tight, trying to think of anything else.

But Baek-Jin’s breath grazes his skin like a warm ripple, a subtle wave that makes it hum, lighting up thoughts he doesn’t want.

Baek-Jin on his knees, his head just above his hips, his body exposed, heat, breath, closeness...

Shibal, it really is the start of a porn scene.

He forces himself to ignore every reaction his body is having. He can’t rationalize any of it, otherwise he’ll spiral into a panic he’ll never be able to explain to the last man on earth he’d want to see him like this.

“Are you done?” he growls through his teeth, trying not to let the tremor in his voice show.

Baek-Jin doesn’t answer right away.

A finger traces slowly along the scar, with a gentleness that both irritates and disarms him.

“There’s pus” he states, as if merely reciting a fact.

Baku jerks his head up. His eyes flash.

“Impossible.”

Baek-Jin looks up, serious. The tension could be sliced with a feather.

“You didn’t clean it properly” he murmurs at last, pulling another tube of ointment from his backpack.

Baku straightens, ready to stop him, but Baek-Jin moves first, he catches his hand with a single motion, and with the other begins spreading the salve over the wound. His fingers brush the skin, slow, steady, methodical. Gentle, too gentle…

Baku flinches as a shiver runs down his spine, not so much from pain, but from the touch.

It burns, yes, but the sting mingles with something else, a warmth flaring in his chest that irritates him more than anything.

“Have you had a fever these past few days?” Baek-Jin asks without looking up.

“I’m taking my meds” Baku snaps.

Baek-Jin shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

“What?” Baku challenges. “What did I mess up now?”

The other raises his eyes, dark, calm, yet filled with a wordless rebuke.

“You messed up by thinking you could handle it alone.”

Baku grabs his arm in a rough jerk, then shoves away the fingers still spreading the ointment.

“If I’d stayed with you, we’d probably be nothing but ashes by now!” he explodes, voice breaking.

Baek-Jin sighs, tired, almost resigned, and starts to approach again.

“Don’t touch me!” Baku snaps, stepping back. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need anyone, least of all you.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Only the ticking of rain against the windows and the discordant rhythm of their breathing.

Baek-Jin straightens slowly, hands at his sides, eyes fixed on him. The silence is heavy, it tastes of surrender and restrained anger.

“Really?” he asks finally, in a low voice.

Baku looks away, lips pressed tight. He doesn’t answer.

Not because he doesn’t want to, but because, deep down, he wouldn’t know what to say without betraying himself.

Baek-Jin takes a fresh bandage, unwraps it with quiet precision. He leans toward Baku again, who keeps his fists clenched on his knees, staring off elsewhere. He lets him work, even though each touch feels like a scratch inside. He says nothing, not even when Baek-Jin pulls the skin taut with his usual meticulousness, the slow brushing, the muffled sound of the tape adhering, the hand smoothing it down that lingers for an instant, hesitant, before truly pulling away.

When Baek-Jin straightens and begins putting the gauze and bottles back into his bag, Baku yanks his hoodie down with a sharp, almost angry motion. He springs to his feet, ready to tell him to leave, to end this interlude, that weighs like something he can’t bear anymore.

Maybe it was a mistake to think he could patch himself up alone, but it was salvation not to share the same space with Baek-Jin: not even fifteen minutes together and they’re already on the verge of tearing each other apart.

Before he can throw him out, the doorbell rings. And this time, yes, he knows it’s his takeout.

He exhales sharply, shoots Baek-Jin an annoyed glance, and walks to the door.

“Finally!” he mutters through his teeth as he opens it.

On the other side, the delivery boy hands him the bag with a nervous smile. Baku pays, gives him a small tip, mumbles a curt “thanks” and shuts the door.
He heads back to the living room, food in hand, ready to enjoy his meal in peace, but freezes in the doorway.

Baek-Jin is still there. Sitting on the couch, legs crossed. No intention of leaving anytime soon.
He watches him in silence, with that composed, predatory calm of someone who doesn’t need to move to dominate the room. His eyes gleam faintly in the dim light, like a cat waiting in the dark.
Baku grunts in irritation and retreats to the kitchen, ignoring him completely. He sets the bag on the table, opens it, the scent of fried chicken and spicy sauce filling the air. The crumpling of cardboard drowns out his thoughts for a moment, but not enough.
Not enough to keep him from hearing Baek-Jin’s footsteps following him.

“You should eat something healthy, not this garbage” he says in a calm but firm tone, like a habitual scolding.

Baku slaps his hands on the table; the sharp sound echoes through the room.

“What are you still doing here? You’ve done what you came for, haven’t you? You know where the door is.”

Baek-Jin doesn’t move. He tilts his head slightly, then reaches out and pushes the food bag toward himself with two fingers, slowly.

“You won’t heal properly if you don’t give your body proper food.”

“Aish, you’re so damn boring” Baku snaps, yanking the bag back like a child defending his toys.

Baek-Jin doesn’t reply. He turns, opens the refrigerator, and looks inside: a wasteland of half-empty bottles, a few canned leftovers, and beer. No vegetables, no real food. He closes the fridge quietly and faces him again, weary.

How could someone so strong and solid have grown up eating this badly?

He’s a god, he doesn’t need human food to look like the most powerful creature on Earth.

Baku is biting into a piece of chicken, spicy sauce staining the corner of his mouth.

Baek-Jin watches him for a long time, rubs his eyes with two fingers, then speaks, perhaps for the first time, honestly.

“Come back to stay at my place”

Baku freezes, coughs, nearly chokes. Then grabs the bag and walks out of the kitchen without a word, as if escaping.

Baek-Jin follows, turns, takes a few steps, slow, measured.

“If I say no, what will you do?” Baku shoots back, suddenly turning around, eyes hard, voice sharper than usual. “Find another one of your ways to get what you want?”

Baek-Jin watches him, pupils wide, a shadow of melancholy crossing his face.

“What I want…” he repeats softly, almost to himself. “You say that often.”

He sits down on the couch, at a certain distance from him, hands clasped between his knees, elbows resting, gaze lost in the void.

“You want to win, to hear that you managed to break me… I thought that was all” Baku continues, voice rising a notch, thick with anger and fatigue. “But now you can’t wait to break me physically too. You’re worried I’ll back out before you’re satisfied.”

The words drip with venom, but Baek-Jin doesn’t react. Doesn’t even move.

He blinks once, breathes in, and speaks calmly, with that voice like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“I won’t deny I’m selfish” he says. “But I didn’t come here to see if you’d keep your promise. I don’t care about that right now. And I never wanted to break you, neither mentally nor physically, Baku.”

Those words move slowly, unnaturally so, reaching Baku, who has stopped eating. They’re circling around the truth, but Baek-Jin has never been this sincere before, and Baku knows it. He just isn’t used to it. So, he stares at him, wary, though something in those words, or maybe in the way he said them, stirs a strange unease inside him.

Because deep down, as much as he wants to forget it, he knows now, he’s aware of it: Baek-Jin isn’t here to win. He’s here to stay a little longer.

To prolong something, he already knows is doomed to end. And that, perhaps, is the worst part.

“Then why are you here?” Baku asks, because if he can tell the truth now, then Baku wants to hear it.

The question slips out almost absently as he bites into another chicken wing. He tries to look indifferent, to focus only on the crunch between his teeth and the spicy sauce stinging his tongue. He sets the bag on the low table between them, not pushing it toward Baek-Jin, but not pulling it back either: an ambiguous gesture, both defensive and conceding.

If Baek-Jin reached for a piece, he wouldn’t stop him.

“You told Seong-Mok to ask me to come in person” Baek-Jin replies, his voice low, steady.

Baku looks up, a sarcastic laugh shaking his shoulders.

“Oh, so now it’s me who wanted to see you?” he says mockingly, but something about that line echoes inside him.

Baek-Jin doesn’t answer right away. He lowers his gaze, studies the greasy chicken box. Then looks up again. He’s smiling.

“I texted you and you didn’t reply” he begins, lifting one finger, voice almost a whisper. “You threatened anyone who tried to come near you, and you specifically asked for me to come” he lifts another two fingers “you let me into your house and patch up your wound, and…” he raises a fourth finger, pausing briefly, tilting his head just a little, “now you’re even offering me dinner.” He opens his palm with a smug grin.

Maybe, just maybe, Baek-Jin wants to win a little.

Baku stares at him, speechless for a second. Then he realizes what Baek-Jin is implying and flushes crimson.

“You’re insane!” he shouts, clutching the chicken box to his chest like treasure. “You’re delirious! I don’t want you here, and I’m doing everything I can to make that clear!”

His voice is sharp, exasperated, but Baek-Jin doesn’t flinch. He only curves his lips into a half-smile. Then he rises, slowly.

“Fine, I’ll go” he says calmly. “But starting tomorrow, I want you in my office.”

Baku blinks, confused.

“What?”

“You’re still part of the Union, aren’t you?” Baek-Jin says, straightening his jacket. “You work for me.”

Baku shoots up, the chicken box toppling over, spilling pieces onto the table. He steps closer, eyes blazing.

“And that’s not an excuse to see me, right?”

He’s so close he can feel his breath on his skin. That familiar scent, Baek-Jin’s soap, the one that lingered on his clothes for days, his aftershave, all those smells now feel nauseatingly invasive.
Baek-Jin looks at him, a second too long, with that calm that’s more dangerous than any shout. Then, slowly, he steps back.

“If I don’t see you” he says, voice low but firm, “I’ll send someone to fetch you.”

He turns toward the door.

Baku takes a step, as if to stop him, then freezes. His fingers tremble.

“The deal between us, when…” he murmurs, as if the word itself scraped his throat.

Baek-Jin stops at the threshold, doesn’t turn around.

“When you’re healed and the wound won’t reopen, we’ll have sex and end this story” he replies calmly. “See you tomorrow.”

“Fuck you!” Baku shouts, voice strangled with rage and frustration.

Baek-Jin turns slightly, just enough for Baku to see his smile, tired, ironic, and heartbreakingly gentle.

“Goodnight, Baku.”

The door closes with a muffled sound.

Baku stays still for a few seconds, his breathing uneven. Then he collapses onto the couch, eyes on the now-cold chicken.

He doesn’t know if he’s angrier at Baek-Jin, or at himself, for never being able to truly throw him out, or end this thing for good.

***

The afternoon stretches slowly behind the fogged glass of the office. The light is warm but murky, and the smell of the bowling alley mixed with the coffee left in the thermos creates a familiar, almost comforting soundtrack that Baek-Jin clings to so he doesn’t implode. He takes off his backpack, sets his books on the corner of the desk, and takes his phone, almost hoping for a message that never comes.

Baku isn’t there. He hasn’t shown up, not at the agreed hour, nor in the one that followed, and the silence starts to bite.

He sighs, then grabs the phone and dials the right number without hesitation. On the other end, Seong-Mok’s voice answers groggily, brushing against the edge of rudeness that comes naturally to him. When Baek-Jin says curtly, “Come here” the other lets out a groan from deep in his throat that sounds like the beginning of a small novel of complaints.

A few minutes later, the office door opens with its familiar squeak, and his friend trudges in, still in his disheveled school uniform, an unlit cigarette between his fingers and the air of someone who’d rather be anywhere else. He steps into the room wearing the classic look of someone thinking at least this might kill the boredom.

“Go get Baku and bring him here” Baek-Jin orders, not lifting his eyes from the scattered papers on the desk.

Seong-Mok grimaces in clear dissent: the climb to that building is a brick in his memory, and the idea of hauling himself up to Baku’s apartment frustrates him because he knows Baku will never come willingly.

“What is it? What’s the problem?” Baek-Jin asks.

“He won’t come” Seong-Mok replies, with a resigned half-smile. “And that hill is a nightmare.”

Baek-Jin lifts his gaze, and his look falls on him like darkness extinguishing every source of light.

For a moment the air freezes: his calm is an order that allows no reply.

“Tell him that if he doesn’t come with you, the deal he has with me is off, and he’ll never be free” he says quietly, his voice steady. “You’ll see he’ll come.”

Seong-Mok’s reaction is an immediate, theatrical grumble. He scratches his head and, muttering curses, agrees.

“Can I bring someone else, maybe, more of us might-” he begins, but Baek-Jin cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

“No. Just you.” He knows Seong-Mok makes a better first impression than the others: his face, cocky but not cruel, is the right ticket not to provoke too strong a reaction from Baku, who had at least talked to him instead of threatening to call the police as he’d done with the other men.
Seong-Mok sighs, swallowing his annoyance, and leaves, muttering under his breath.

An hour later, the office door bursts open with a bang. Seong-Mok enters dragging behind him a cloud of sweat and stale air, his forehead shining.

Behind him, like a thunderstorm made flesh, appears Baku. He steps inside, his gait anything but meek, it’s a return weighted with fury. He’s furious. He moves with that limping stride that still betrays him, his hand sometimes pressing to his side where the wound is still an open story. His eyes burn under lowered lids; his expression is feral.

Seong-Mok jerks his chin toward the desk as if to signal victory, then slips into the hallway like a cat who doesn’t want to stick around to see the hell about to break loose.

Baek-Jin barely lifts his gaze. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t rise. He keeps the posture of someone who grants neither weakness nor indulgence. His presence is geometry made flesh: chin slightly raised, shoulders straight, weight perfectly balanced.

Without raising his voice, he says, “Make yourself comfortable. And wait.” He gestures toward the couch with one hand, still not looking at him.

Baku obeys, but like someone executing an order he resents: loud steps, sitting down with a thud that shakes the air; fists clenched on his knees. He doesn’t meet Baek-Jin’s eyes. He avoids them with the tenacity of someone refusing to look at a ghost.

The air between them becomes a live field of tension, charged with things unsaid: the promise made, the threat just recalled, the idea of freedom as either reward or punishment.

Seconds pass in strict rhythm. Only the rustle of fabric and, from time to time, Baku’s slightly labored breathing can be heard, he hides his fatigue in short sips of air. Baek-Jin studies him with the focus of someone examining details that matter: hands gripping the edges of his pants, the way his jaw tightens, the faint tremor of his lip. Every small movement confirms what he knows, and what he wants.

At last, without preamble, Baek-Jin stands, gathers several folders of papers, and tosses them onto Baku’s knees.

“Check these for me” he orders. Nothing more. His decision is clear.

Baku sits there, staring down at the papers between his thighs.

What the fuck does that mean?

He jumps up. The folders slip from his hands, but he grabs them again and slams them onto Baek-Jin’s desk, the papers fanning out between them like a gust of anger.

“You’re not sending me anywhere? What do you mean: check these?” he snaps, planting both palms on the desk and leaning forward.

Baek-Jin glances up, swiftly scans the papers Baku has thrown back at him, then fixes his gaze on him. His face is impassive, a flawless mask.

“Missing school for a few months and you’ve already forgotten how to read?” he provokes, voice flat, almost bored. “I don’t need to send you anywhere, and in your condition, you couldn’t do what you’re best at anyway. But you can go over these accounts for me. Help me.”

It’s a low blow. Not just because it’s humiliating, but because it’s logical, and Baku can’t dismantle logic that clean. Heat rushes to his head; his knuckles whiten as his hands stay braced on the desk. He’d like to grab him by the collar and scream in his face, but he knows it would do no good.
Baek-Jin instead leans slowly forward, until his face is inches from Baku’s.

“Problems?” he asks, in a tone devoid of real interest. It’s pure challenge.

“You dragged me here for nothing” Baku spits, trying to hide the tremor running through his hands.

Baek-Jin shakes his head once, calm. “I told you why your presence isn’t useless. Now sit down and work for me. In silence. I have to study.”

Baku’s fist hits the wood with a dull thud, but he doesn’t answer.

He grabs the folders, grips them tight, and returns to the couch with heavy, snorting steps. He drops down hard, shooting Baek-Jin a look filled with contempt.

“Stupid bastard… what a fucking waste of time” he mutters, riffling through the papers with such roughness he might tear them.

Baek-Jin doesn’t reply. He pulls out his earbuds, fits them in, and presses play. Music fills his small world, shutting Baku out.

From time to time, he looks up and sees him there, hunched forward, flipping pages and moving his mouth. Probably insulting him. But Baek-Jin doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He only lets the corner of his lips bend, something that, for those who know him, almost counts as a smile, and returns to his notes.

Half an hour later, when the office silence has grown thick and the air smells of paper and fatigue, Baek-Jin notices him stand abruptly, gather the papers, and slam them onto the desk with a sharp thud. But he doesn’t for a second expect what follows: Baku crossing the room in two strides, stopping inches from him, yanking one earbud out, and shoving it into his own ear, daring him to react to the invasion of his space.

Baek-Jin doesn’t react the way he’d like to. He could stop him, rise, strike, but he stays still, back straight, fingers interlaced. He lifts his gaze slowly to Baku, studying him, waiting for the expression that will tell him the moment he understands what he’s hearing.
Baku catches his eyes, and for the first time looks truly surprised.

“Seriously? You listen to this crap?”

Baek-Jin tilts his head slightly, eyes back on the open books. He doesn’t answer. He gives him a few more seconds.

Baku’s always been hopeless at school, except for English. It takes him no time to start understanding the lyrics. At first he’s just puzzled, then he stiffens, and Baek-Jin feels it. Baku’s body is a language he knows too well: the change in his breathing, the tension in his shoulders, the twitch of his fingers against the fabric of his pants.

When he finally grasps the song’s meaning, Baku’s eyes widen and lock on him for a heartbeat.

Then he tosses the earbud onto the desk with a brusque flick and retreats to the couch. He lies down, shuts his eyes, pretending to sleep.

Baek-Jin watches him for a moment longer, then returns to the folders. He aligns them neatly, opens them, skims the pages: notes, correction marks, numbers circled in blue ink. Baku has worked, though he’d never admit it.

“I can’t remember that singer’s name” Baku says suddenly, breaking the silence.

Baek-Jin sighs. “Adele.”

Baku snorts. “You… listening to that junk” he mutters, almost offended, turning over on the couch.

Baek-Jin says nothing. Lets him talk.

“The title of the song?” Baku asks, trying for indifference but not finding it.

Baek-Jin’s lips curve faintly. He closes the music app, removes the remaining earbud, and stands. He picks up his backpack, the same one he always carries, filled with gauze, disinfectant, ointments.

It’s time.

When Baku hears his footsteps approaching, he lifts just one eyelid. He knows instantly. He sighs but raises his hoodie quickly, revealing taut skin over his abdomen and a bandage peeling at one edge.

Baek-Jin kneels beside the couch.

“All I Ask” he says softly as he disinfects his fingers and begins to peel the bandage away. His voice is calm, almost a whisper.

He cleans the wound with slow movements, checks the stitches, studies the color of the skin. More scabs than pus, a sign the healing’s going well. He applies ointment with habitual care, then covers the wound again with fresh gauze.

“Took inspiration from her for your dirty proposal?” Baku teases, pulling the hoodie down and closing his eyes as if he could ignore him. Every fiber of his body is tense, but his voice remains, almost playful.

Baek-Jin packs everything back into his bag in silence. Then he straightens and looks down at him.

“Are you going to keep up this sarcasm much longer?”

Baku smiles faintly, a smile that tastes of challenge and sudden amusement.

"Until you fuck me, I guess."

Baek-Jin turns his back to him, his fingers on the backpack handle. He sets it down slowly on the chair, turns around, and heads back toward the couch.

"Sit down” he says in a firm voice.

Baku stares at him, motionless. It's the first time, since he entered, that Baek-Jin speaks to him in that tone. And he doesn't know whether to obey or punch him in the face... anyway, he knows that conversation will end like that.

Baku sits on the couch, if only out of curiosity to see where Baek-Jin wants to go with that conversation. He crosses his arms, feigning indifference, but his body is already tense like a violin string.

"I'm about to sit on your lap, can you handle it?" Baek-Jin asks, in a neutral tone, as if he were asking for weather information.

"What the fuck are-" Baku blurts out, unprepared. His gaze immediately falls on the room's door, as if expecting someone to burst in at any moment. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of astonishment and panic.

"No one will enter without announcing themselves first” Baek-Jin replies, reassuring him with a security that seems absolute. But this isn't enough to calm Baku's sudden agitation, who feels cold sweat forming on the back of his neck.

"You know, Baku, I don't think you've understood much of what I asked you to do for me” Baek-Jin begins to explain, his hands tucked into his pants pockets. He walks slowly back and forth, like a predator studying its prey.

Baku raises an eyebrow, trying to maintain an air of superiority.

"It seems like a very simple request: sex isn't complicated..." he retorts with determination. In reality, he doesn't know what he's talking about, he's a virgin, after all, but he wants to give the impression of having absolute control. If even one of them doubted, it would be the end for his pride.

Baek-Jin gives him the benefit of the doubt, without openly contradicting him, but continues with placid calm, as if discussing everyday affairs.

"Let me explain anyway, so we'll avoid misunderstandings."

Baku doesn't retort, limiting himself to staring at him with narrowed eyes. Baek-Jin takes a step forward, getting closer.

"You've always liked women, I don't need you to confirm it because it's always been very clear."

The muscles in Baku's legs tense instantly, but it's strange: Baek-Jin hasn't yet acted as he had promised. He stands there, on his feet, towering over him with his presence and talking about his tastes as if he had never doubted anything. Baku doesn't affirm the contrary; he doesn't deserve his honesty, not in that moment, while treating him like prey in a trap.

"So, I don't think you're prepared to have sex with me, and I don't mean just physically” Baek-Jin continues, casting a fleeting glance at Baku's side.

Baku bursts out, exasperated.

"What kind of preparation do you think is needed? You stick it in, take what you want, and we're done."

Baek-Jin gives an oblique smile and shakes his head slowly. And it's at that moment that he advances, sitting on his knees with a fluid and unexpected movement.

"See? You haven't understood…" Baek-Jin breathes, about ten centimeters from his face, his hands placed on Baku's shoulders. The friction of their thighs is a warm, electric surprise that makes Baku stiffen even more, if possible. He doesn't know where to put his hands and leaves them still on the couch, clenching his fists until his knuckles turn white.

"What...?" Baku murmurs, his voice cracked, his eyes fixed on Baek-Jin's.

Baek-Jin lowers his gaze between the crotches of both their pants and gives another enigmatic little smile, as if he already knows everything.

"First of all, I don't want it to be violence or a purely physical act of a few minutes. I'm not interested in that and I didn't ask you for that."

He pauses.

"I want you to desire it too, to be completely there, with your body as much as your mind, while we fuck” he continues.

"And then..."

Baku swallows excess saliva. He's about to threaten him to keep talking instead of creating all that pathos that only makes him nervous, but Baek-Jin speaks and what Baku hears leaves him completely speechless.

"I won't be the one fucking you, but you fucking me” he explains, with the same calm tone he would use to talk about linear math equations.

Baku widens his eyes. He was convinced up to that moment that things would go differently in that sexual encounter. After all, it's easier to think that a man would want to be the top rather than the bottom. He can't hide his surprise; his face flushes violently.

"And since you prefer the other sex, I think we need to prepare you... to desire a male body. Do you get what I mean?" Baek-Jin hisses, like a snake coiling around its prey.

Baku feels his face on fire, shakes his head in denial, but his body is already betraying an unexpected reaction.

"I asked you for one night, just one, then you'll be free. But that night has to be unique, as if you desired me totally, devotedly, as if in your heart only I existed and you wanted me to belong to you with every part of me."

Baku is drunk on those words, his body is already reacting in ways he can't control, but fortunately the sweatshirt is long enough to cover him, and Baek-Jin's thighs are far enough away not to feel every physical reaction he's having because of his words and that damned proximity.

"So, you want me to pretend” he says in a hiss. Baek-Jin sketches a smile, shrugs as if he doesn't care.

"I want it to seem real, if you have to pretend it'll be up to you not to let me notice” he replies, batting his eyelashes. Baku is hypnotized but tries to control himself.

His breath becomes short, his heart a mad drum, as he struggles not to give in to that overwhelming intensity.

"Now, do you think there could be any other misunderstandings between us?" Baek-Jin asks, his voice a hoarse whisper that vibrates in the air charged with electricity.

His hands slide slowly over Baku's forearms, tracing lines of fire on the already warm skin, then resting on his own spread thighs, like a forbidden invitation. He waits for the response, pinning Baku with a gaze that burns with possession, a predatory light in his eyes that Baku has never seen on him, a mix of feline elegance and raw sensuality that disarms him, makes him feel naked under that absolute dominance.

Baek-Jin is different now: he controls every breath, every beat, with a grace that screams danger and desire. Baku feels like a total idiot, trapped in his pathetic attempt to turn the situation around, to ridicule or embarrass him, while it's he who is melting at that spectacle above his thighs.

He tries to push him off with a brusque movement of his legs, but Baek-Jin tightens his thighs against his, the muscles contracting in a stubborn grip that sends jolts of heat straight to his lower abdomen.

"Answer me first” Baek-Jin orders, his voice low, a command wrapped in velvet that quickens Baku's pulse.

Baku clenches his jaw, glares at him with his eyes, the embarrassment merging with a boiling rage, an explosive cocktail that inflames his veins.

In an instant, his hands leap to Baek-Jin's hips, sinking into the firm curves with a force that is half threat, half involuntary caress.

"Your confidence makes me want to smash your face!" he growls, his breath short, his body betraying an emerging erection.

Baek-Jin arches an eyebrow, unflappable, his lips curving into a slow, mischievous smile.

"Don't worry, when the time comes, you'll be the one in full control between us” he reassures him, the words dripping like poisoned honey, further igniting Baku's fury, who grips Baek-Jin's hips harder, his fingers digging into the warm flesh as if he wanted to brand him, disintegrate him. But Baek-Jin doesn't even concede a grimace; he's pleased, his eyes dancing with triumph, his body arching slightly against that rough touch, transforming it into something intimate.

Baku is breathless, and before any sound he can't control escapes from his mouth, he exclaims: "Alright, I get it. What do you plan to do to make me start liking sex with another man?" His voice is hoarse, broken by the repressed desire that tightens his throat.

Baek-Jin places his hands on Baku's, a light touch that asks for permission, fingers that brush, caress, but then he verbalizes it anyway, with that silky voice: "Do you want to try something, now?" His warm breath brushes Baku's skin, sending shivers down his spine.

"Fucking hell, are you asking me for permission? You're getting on my nerves” Baku blurts out, his face flushed, his heart pounding like a war drum, while his body screams for more contact.

"I'm avoiding taking another punch to the face; with you, you never know” Baek-Jin replies, a veil of irony hiding a deeper invitation, his eyes challenging him to give in.

"Keep talking and you'll get it anyway” Baku threatens.

So, Baek-Jin falls silent, a silence loaded with promise, and guides Baku's hand with his own, moving it to his own abdomen, sliding slowly, inexorably lower, toward the pulsing heat hidden under the fabric. The touch is slow, deliberate, a sensual torture that makes Baku hold his breath.

With a fluid movement, he slips Baku's fingers under his shirt, making them rise slowly along the skin, one centimeter at a time along his toned muscles, a path of fiery silk that ignites every exposed nerve. Baek-Jin's palm presses firmly on the back of Baku's hand, pushing it upward until it reaches the chest, forcing him to grip it hard: the muscles contracting under that touch, the nipple hardening at the contact, Baek-Jin's heartbeat pulsing against Baku's palm like a primordial drum, a hypnotic rhythm that echoes and pushes down to the lower abdomen of both.

"It's not soft like a woman's, but man's nipples are very sensitive." He informs him as if giving a lesson. The sound of his voice is guttural, warm, and manages to reach straight into Baku's eardrums with an erotic violence that makes him ecstatic.

"I bet yours are too, and I'll show you how to feel pleasure touching, teasing, biting them, no matter who does it..."

Baku trembles, a deep, electric shudder that shakes his body from his guts to his fingertips, his breath becoming short and irregular, but he says nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line of futile resistance, his eyes burning with a mix of boiling rage and raw, unstoppable desire.

Baek-Jin, on the other hand, seems calm and resolute, a living statue of absolute control, his regular breathing contrasting with Baku's inner chaos, but his eyes betray a famished gleam.

He approaches his ear, breathes on his neck: "There are so many delicate spots like that, I'll show you mine and we'll discover yours..." He doesn't even touch him but moves his face slowly along the entire neck, and just this makes Baku feel strange sensations in response for every centimeter where he feels Baek-Jin's breath settle.

He has goosebumps, hoping only that Baek-Jin isn't noticing or that he mistakes it for disgust at that shameless proximity.

The hand descends again, slow and inexorable, tracing a trail of heat along the abdomen that contracts again at the passage, Baek-Jin's back arching slightly, a friction between their thighs but nothing that reveals the erection of one or the other, while the hand arrives just above the waistband of the pants, where the heat intensifies in a palpable, pulsing aura, a forbidden invitation that quickens both their heartbeats.

Baek-Jin removes his hand, leaving Baku free, but he doesn't move, paralyzed by that silent invitation, his palm suspended as if balanced on a precipice of pleasure, his member hardening under the sweatshirt, pressing against the fabric in a painful, treacherous erection, while the air between them charges with the scent of their overheated skins. They look at each other, their eyes locked in a silent, intimate duel, their short breaths mingling, the air electric with anticipation and sexual tension that could explode at any moment.

"I'm not different from you, it's like giving pleasure to yourself… have you ever masturbated, right?" Baek-Jin murmurs, breaking the silence with a question that's pure erotic poison, the words caressing the air like invisible fingers.

"What fucking question" Baku growls, grabbing the fabric of Baek-Jin's school jacket and yanking him toward himself with a violent tug, annihilating every distance: their noses brushing, their lips a breath away, the heat of their bodies merging into a private inferno.

Baek-Jin tilts his head slightly, exposing his neck in a gesture that screams submission and dominance at the same time, his scent invading Baku's senses.

"And kisses, what do you think about them? Do you think it would disgust you to kiss me?" Baek-Jin provokes, his voice a low hiss, his lips parting slightly, inviting, moist.

Baku blinks once, twice, his pupils dilating as he stares at that insolent, perfect mouth: he would want to tear it off with his teeth, bite it until it bleeds, taste the metallic flavor mixed with sweetness, while his body pulses with an unstoppable desire that consumes him from within.

Who knows if Baek-Jin is reading his body language and has already reconsidered the story about his heterosexuality or if, deep down, Baku is acting well. After all, that tension could be the result of rage caused by that provocation.

The important thing is that Baku doesn't come across as submissive, weak. He's not the real prey, even if that serpent Baek-Jin has put all his goodwill into putting him in difficulty.

Out of mere instinct, or a courageous act, or sheer arrogance, Baku wants to annihilate that sliver of distance, a fiery breath separating them, to kiss him, or maybe really bite him, sinking his teeth into those rosy lips. Just to confirm to him that he already has all the control, that he's the one dictating the rules in that perverse game, and not because he desires it, no, absolutely not.

His body trembles, the blood pumping furiously in his veins, the raw desire pushing him forward like an unstoppable tide. But it's rage, he just wants to avenge the audacity with equal arrogance.

Then something between their legs starts to vibrate, an insistent buzz that breaks the spell. Baku lowers his face abruptly, and Baek-Jin imitates him, their gazes converging on the point of contact.

"I swear it's not my dick" Baku murmurs, his voice hoarse, a clumsy attempt to downplay it that makes Baek-Jin burst into a low, genuine laugh that vibrates against his chest.

That statement dissolves the tension in an instant, and Baek-Jin slides off Baku's legs with a fluid movement, landing beside him on the couch. As if he suddenly needed space, perhaps able to anticipate what was about to happen between the two: that stolen kiss, that possessive bite, and finding himself suddenly not ready, his heart beating at an irregular rhythm under the facade of full control.

"Answer it, it's your phone” Baek-Jin informs him, getting up with grace and approaching the desk to sit down, putting enough distance between them to cool the air.

Baku pulls the phone out of his pocket, covering himself better with the sweatshirt so that Baek-Jin doesn't see what he's caused between his legs, that treacherous erection, still throbbing, an echo of repressed desire.

It's Gotak. Perfect timing.

"Hey?" Baku answers, his voice coming out tense, a broken thread.

"Baku... Hu-Min... I'm at the hospital... Sieun... He..." Gotak's voice is a broken sob, a sound that pierces the air like a blade.

Baku stands up abruptly. His side pulls, and suddenly he feels pain: he's overheated, the blood still flowing all downward, a blazing fire that inflames his body, but Gotak's words are already rebalancing everything, extinguishing the flames with a glacial cold sensation. It's like when the news he never wanted to hear is about to arrive, and the bad premonition that something horrible has happened to one of his friends suddenly becomes real, a punch to the stomach that takes his breath away.

"What happened?" he asks, his throat dry, the world starting to narrow.

Gotak sobs harder. "He ended up under a truck, fuck, the driver says he didn't avoid him... he tried... he tried to kill himself."

Baku widens his eyes. The cold envelops him like a vise, penetrating his bones. It's impossible. It doesn't make sense. Sieun, his friend, the silent pillar... no, not him.

"What the fuck are you saying? He wouldn't do it... He would never do it” Baku retorts, his voice cracking, a mix of denial and terror that tightens his chest.

"They put him in a coma, come right away."

Baku looks at Baek-Jin, who, with the little he's heard, is showing him an indecipherable expression, perhaps disturbed: his eyes darkening, a crack in his armor.

"I'm coming” Baku says, ending the call with a trembling gesture. He messes up his hair violently and curses, a guttural sound that echoes in the room.

"I have to go." He takes a step, but staggers, his legs giving way under the weight of adrenaline and panic. Baek-Jin approaches him immediately, his hands grabbing him to keep him from falling, a firm touch that Baku feels like an anchor in the midst of the storm.

"What happened?" Baek-Jin asks, his voice low, worried.

"Sieun is in a coma..." Baku murmurs, trying to push him away and regain his balance, but his head is a vortex of terrible images, blood on the asphalt, blinding lights, the impact of metal and bones, making the world spin.

The situation has flipped to the worst scenario far too quickly, from a burning desire to an icy nightmare. Baek-Jin doesn't move away and helps him stand, his fingers gripping firmly. He seeks his gaze, pinning him with intensity.

"Baku, you're not breathing." He points out, his voice a calm but unyielding command. He forces him to sit on the couch, but Baku tries to stand up again, his body rebelling.

"I have to go, leave me alone, I don't have time for this bullshit!"

"You need to calm down first, breathe!" Baek-Jin insists, and Baku, against his own will, follows the rhythm of his breathing, deep inhalations, slow exhalations, but his eyes are glassy, lost in an imaginary horror: Sieun run over by a truck, blood spreading, the lifeless body on the asphalt...

"I'll take you. Which hospital did they take him to?" Baku hands him his own phone with trembling hands; a notification from Gotak informs them of the hospital where they are, a message that burns on the screen.

Baek-Jin helps him stand, his arm around Baku's waist in an intimate support, and together they leave the office, their steps echoing in the corridor like a countdown.

In the hall, Baek-Jin signals to one of his men, ordering him with a sharp gesture to give him the keys to his motorcycle. The man doesn't hesitate for a moment, handing them over with deference.

Baku drags himself, his mind foggy, unable to rationalize what's happening, the world whizzing around him in a whirlwind. He finds himself on the motorcycle with Baek-Jin, who rides it with mastery, the wind howling in his ears while Baku clings to him to avoid slipping back, his arms around the solid waist, his chest pressed against the back. They race toward the hospital, toward Sieun, the engine roaring like the chaos in Baku's heart.

Sieun didn't attempt suicide... it's impossible. He keeps repeating to himself, a desperate mantra against the terror that consumes him, while the city whizzes by in an indistinct blur.

Chapter Text

Laying down on the floor

From the wounds that you tore

They can't save me no more

Now I'll never leave the door

Draw me in with your lies

Chain me up no I can't fight

Our love can never die

It has never lived

-Dum dum, Jeff Satur

Baek-Jin and Baku reach the hospital beneath a sky that seems to be holding its breath. The entrance lamplight filters over Baku’s damp skin as he dismounts the motorcycle with trembling legs, still shaken from the ride. He fumbles off his helmet, fingers struggling to get a grip, and hands it to Baek-Jin without a word. There’s no time.

Baek-Jin kills the bike, leaves it by the curb, and watches Baku stagger toward the entrance. He doesn’t stop him, doesn’t call him back. He only watches until Baku disappears through the automatic doors.

Inside, the smell of sterile disinfectant is almost sickening. The corridor lights are too harsh, the surfaces too shiny. Baku pauses only briefly at the reception desk, breath broken, and asks in a low voice for Sieun. The woman behind the counter studies him, scans his pale face and rumpled clothes, then types something into the computer.

“First floor, critical care.”

Baku barely manages a thank-you, a quick nod, and bolts for the stairs, ignoring the elevator. Each step is a jolt to his side, to his burning legs and lungs, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even think to check whether Baek-Jin is following: the only thing he can see is the image of Sieun, and the thought that what happened cannot be true.

When he reaches the first-floor corridor, the world narrows into a tunnel of dimmer lights and muffled sounds.

At the end, in front of a door, are Gotak and Juntae. Both have red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Not far from them, sitting, is a woman dressed smartly, hair styled as if she’d just left the salon, her features weary and tight: Sieun’s mother, he’s certain.

Baku’s heart shoots into his throat; his body sways slightly under the weight of fever and adrenaline.

“Baku!” Gotak cries, running to meet him. He grabs his arm; it feels hot, almost burning. “Are you okay? You’re white as a sheet, shit-”

“It doesn’t matter” Baku cuts him off, voice hoarse. “What happened?”

Juntae runs a hand through his hair, visibly shaken. “It happened in an instant. He was leaving night classes, crossing the street… The truck started honking, but he didn’t move. He either didn’t hear it or… maybe he didn’t want to. The truck swerved, but not enough. It clipped him with the rear. He flew back and hit his head on the asphalt.”

Baku stands frozen, his gaze fixed, as if the words slide off him without finding purchase.

The corridor seems to close in around him; every sound becomes an echo, repeated, chilling and distant.

Gotak adds softly, voice breaking, “His mother spoke with the doctors. They say he doesn’t have severe traumatic brain injury or fractures. No hemorrhage but… he’s gone into some kind of deep sleep.”

Baku turns to him, confused. “A deep sleep?”

Juntae nods slowly. “Yes. The doctor said his body was too exhausted, like it shut down to protect itself. It’s a blackout. We have to wait for him to wake up, it’s like he has to decide himself whether to do it or…” his voice chokes and he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Those words thunder in Baku’s mind like both sentence and hope.

Just waiting. But there is nothing simple about that waiting. He runs a hand through his hair, then lets it fall along his side, trembling. His breath comes short and uneven as he tries to tell whether he should feel relieved or terrified.

Then he notices Gotak’s gaze, suddenly hard, aimed past his shoulder. The tone changes, sharp, laced with annoyance.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Baku turns slowly. Baek-Jin has just stepped into the corridor. The doors hiss closed behind him. He walks with a calm but purposeful stride, hands in his pockets, his dark jacket contrasting with the hospital’s sterile light.

There’s no hesitation in any of his movements, as if the thought of him being an intruder or unwanted never even crosses the threshold of his mind in that moment.

Each step seems measured, controlled, confirming that even in this place of pain he knows exactly where to put his feet.

Glances intersect: Baek-Jin’s icy, steady stare; Gotak’s look loaded with anger and confusion; Baku’s febrile, trembling eyes; Juntae’s more hesitant, unsure expression.

Baku doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or even more lost.

Baek-Jin stops a few meters from them, his eyes sweeping over each of them before settling on Baku. He simply watches the only reason he’s there. No words are necessary: a small nod, an almost imperceptible gesture that contains both authority and a shadow of something harder to define, perhaps protection, perhaps concern.

“He’s with me” Baku says, voice hoarse but steady.

The words drop into the corridor like a stone in water. Gotak stares at him, pupils dilating, fists clenching so hard the veins stand out on his hand. He takes a threatening step forward, ready to fight and to reclaim that territory from an interloper.

“Yeah, but why did he come in?” he snaps, taking another step, his tone that of someone warning that he intends to hurt. Anger coils under his skin, ready to explode.

Baku lifts an arm and places it against Gotak’s chest, stopping him. The gesture, small as it is, carries authority: he doesn’t want the argument to turn into a scene, not here, not in front of Sieun’s mother, not outside their friend’s room in a coma.

Now Baek-Jin speaks. His voice is low, controlled, leaving no room for interpretation.

“Baku isn’t well” he says. “I’m here to make sure nothing serious happens to him.”

“We’re in a hospital” Juntae comments, ironically, though his voice trembles.

Baek-Jin shoots him a cold look that is enough to silence him. Then, with the unnatural calm of someone who knows he’s in control, he walks to one of the chairs aligned against the wall and sits, crossing his legs. The posture is almost provocative, as if the corridor belonged to him.

Gotak, however, cannot restrain himself. Rage burns in his eyes and he takes a half step, ready to reach for Baek-Jin’s collar and ram his head into him.

Baku takes a deep breath, and, incredibly, it’s him who calms Gotak with a hoarse whisper: “Ignore him.” He lays a hand on Gotak’s arm to hold back the movement before it becomes a punch.

“Gogo, please” he murmurs. It’s more a plea than an order.

The silence breaks when Sieun’s mother rises from the bench. Her hands are clasped in front of her and her voice is steady.

“Boys… please. It’s late. Go home, you can’t do anything by staying here.”

Baku looks at her, his face streaked with sweat, and shakes his head.

“I’m not leaving.”

His voice cracks, but it doesn’t waver. “Sieun needs to know we’re here.”

Juntae nods slowly, shoulders hunched. Gotak exhales, lowering his gaze, and the woman, seeing their determination, merely tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and sits back down, away from Baek-Jin. She casts him a puzzled, unsettled look, as if she doesn’t know who he is or what he stands for, but feels that his presence carries too much weight.

Baku approaches the door. Inside, the room is bathed in a warm light, marked by the steady sound of machines. Sieun lies motionless, pale as the pillow beneath him. Baku presses his hand to the glass, his gaze fixed on his face.

“He couldn’t have really done it…” he murmurs, as if saying the word suicide aloud would make it true.

“Maybe the fright froze him, and he didn’t have time to move” Juntae says quietly.

Gotak runs a hand over his face. “The driver said he would’ve had time. The police think he was on the phone. Maybe… he was distracted.”

Baku spins around. “He was on the phone?”

Juntae nods. “Do we know who he was talking to?” he asks a moment later, voice full of anxiety.

Gotak shakes his head. “No…”

Juntae, nervous, ventures, “What if… had been threatened him?”

“Threatened? By who?” Gotak’s voice is harsh, almost hysterical, but it’s clear he has thought of it too.

Then, suddenly, an idea explodes in him. He wheels on Baek-Jin and in a few strides reaches him. He grabs the collar of Baek-Jin’s jacket and forces him to stand. At another time he wouldn’t have dared confront the man who ordered his leg broken, the man he had seen bend a dozen men without even a scratch. But now, rage is so blinding and furious that he doesn’t care if it ends badly, as long as Baek-Jin answers in kind.

“What the hell did you do, huh? What did you plan this time to settle your scores?”

Baek-Jin doesn’t react. His hands remain raised, open, as if to show he has no intention of defending himself. His eyes, however, are steady. They don’t look at Gotak but at Baku, beyond his shoulder. A silent contact that speaks louder than a thousand words.

Baku moves at once, grabbing Gotak by the arms. “Enough, come on, not here!”

Sieun’s mother watches them with a stern expression. Gotak turns toward her and finally lets go, but his eyes stay locked on Baek-Jin.

“I’m sorry” he mutters in a growl, but his attention remains sharp on Baek-Jin.

Baku’s chest is pounding, the situation barely defused but still as charged as a powder keg ready to explode. He turns and faces Baek-Jin directly. “Was it you?”

Baek-Jin doesn’t look away. “Why would it be?” he says, curtly.

Gotak, like an animal refusing to accept denial, hisses with venom in his voice: “Because we tried to get into your fucking warehouses!”

For a moment, Baek-Jin stays motionless. Then, with icy calm, he shakes his head.

“I didn’t give any order to hurt your friends.”

Gotak clenches his fists, held back only by Juntae, who grabs his arm.
But Baku doesn’t take his eyes off Baek-Jin. There’s something in them, a flicker he can’t decipher.

“Na Baek-Jin” he says finally, slowly. “Call Seong-Je.”

The two men exchange a brief glance, a silent communication heavy with decision. Baek-Jin exhales slowly, not ruling out the possibility that Seong-Je may have acted on his own. He steps aside, walks a few paces away, and dials a number, his hand steady as ever.

Gotak follows him with his eyes, his body coiled like a spring.
“I swear, if it was them” he mutters through his teeth, “this time they’re done living.”

Baku watches Baek-Jin’s back as he speaks on the phone, his straight posture, his still profile, and feels something that confuses him. It isn’t just frustration that makes him inclined to believe Gotak; it’s also a sliver of trust caught in something newer, hazier.

Despite the hatred, he finds himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, Na Baek-Jin might be telling the truth. He doesn’t know what to hope for.
But the most frustrating thing, the one that burns the most, is that part of him actually believes Baek-Jin.

When Baek-Jin hangs up, he turns toward the group with the calm of someone who has just demanded answers from those who owe him.

“I spoke with Seong-Je” he says. “He has nothing to do with it.”

Baku looks at him, sensing he’s hiding something, but since it’s Seong-Je, he assumes it’s probably some inappropriate comment about Sieun’s critical condition and decides not to dig further, sparing himself yet another outburst that would make him want to smash someone’s face, and not just Baek-Jin’s this time.

The words don’t extinguish Gotak’s suspicion; he mutters a curse under his breath, still unconvinced. Juntae takes a long breath and tries to mediate: “We have to wait until he wakes up. He’ll explain everything then…”

It’s been over an hour since Baek-Jin made the call. The boys have sat down to wait, staying mostly in silence.
Not long after, Na Baek-Jin stood up without a word, with the same calm that always defines him, and walked down the corridor, his figure slowly dissolving into the bluish dimness of the ward. Baku followed him with his eyes until his silhouette disappeared behind the corner, then exhaled, a low, deep sound that seemed to release all the tension he’d been holding in.

Now he turns to his friends: Juntae has fallen asleep with his head resting on Gotak’s shoulder, mouth slightly open, fingers still clutching the edge of his jacket. Gotak, on the other hand, remains awake, but his gaze is tired, lost in the void.

“You should go home” Baku murmurs hoarsely. “Get some sleep. I’ll stay here.”

Gotak lifts his eyes slightly, uncertain. “I don’t know…” he mutters, glancing first at Sieun’s door, then at Baku. There’s a shadow of hesitation, as if leaving would be an act of disrespect.

“It’s fine” Baku insists, more firmly this time, almost as if to close the matter. “There’s no need for all of us to stay. I’ll be here, and you’ve got school tomorrow.”

Gotak inhales softly, then sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. “Let me know if there’s any news. Anything at all.”

Baku nods, and a faint, genuine smile curves his lips.

“Promise.”

Gotak leans forward slightly and gives him a pat on the shoulder, a gesture of silent solidarity.

“You sure you want to stay alone with that bastard?” he asks under his breath, throwing a distrustful glance toward the corridor where Baek-Jin disappeared.

Baku exhales, letting a wry smile spread across his face. “He’s already gone. Probably left.” Then he adds, softer but with a spark in his eyes, “don’t worry. I’ll handle Baek-Jin myself. Soon I’ll be free again, won’t take long.”

Gotak studies him for a moment, trying to see if that confidence is real or just a mask. In the end, he nods slowly.

“All right. But remember what I said. If you need anything, call.”

“Go, before Juntae collapses completely” Baku replies, nodding toward their sleeping friend.

Gotak smiles faintly, tired, and bends down to lift Juntae, hoisting him over his shoulders like a backpack, careful not to wake him fully. Together they head toward the exit of the ward. Their footsteps fade slowly down the polished corridor until the sound of their shoes dissolves into silence.

Baku remains alone. He runs a hand through his hair, then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Only now does he realize how much the wound under his hoodie burns, the heat rolling through him in waves. But he doesn’t pay much attention to it. He stares into the void, motionless, and murmurs under his breath:

“Wake up, little one. You can’t leave us like this.”

His tone is rough, but inside it carries the full weight of affection and fear. He leans back, letting exhaustion win. And as silence wraps around him, a bitter, lingering thought crosses his mind:
Did Baek-Jin really leave without saying anything?

***

The hospital is wrapped in a spectral calm, the kind of silence that doesn’t comfort but presses heavily on the chest. Baku is still there, sitting in the corridor, hands clasped between his knees and his back curved forward. In front of him, a door lets a sliver of light escape: Sieun’s mother has settled into the chair beside her son, trying to get some rest.

A sound of footsteps breaks the quiet. Baku looks up and sees Baek-Jin walking toward him, the same steady, composed stride as always, but something in his face betrays an unusual weariness. He sits down beside him without a word for several seconds.

“Where have you been?” Baku asks at last, his voice low from fever and exhaustion.

Baek-Jin doesn’t answer immediately. He places something in Baku’s hands: a white bottle, cold, condensation wetting his fingers.

“Drink it. You’re completely dehydrated.”

Baku looks at it, then raises an eyebrow.

“You got lost in the hospital looking for a vending machine?” he teases, a tired half-smile tugging at his lips.

Baek-Jin doesn’t reply. Baku unscrews the cap and takes a sip, but immediately grimaces in disgust. He glances at the label and sighs, one of those “functional” drinks full of minerals, vitamins, and a horrible taste he wouldn’t buy even under torture. He hands the bottle back, shaking his head.

“Next time, get something fizzy” he grumbles.

Baek-Jin shoots him a brief sideways glance, sharp but eloquent.

“It’s nutritious. It’ll help. The right vitamins to lower the fever and zinc to strengthen your immune system.”

“…and the flavor to make me throw up” Baku retorts, almost making Baek-Jin smile.

Silence falls again, but it’s a different kind of silence, thicker, heavier, as if both already know the conversation is about to shift. Baek-Jin leans back, folds his arms, and says quietly, “I spoke with a nurse at the entrance.”

Baku straightens a little, sensing there’s more.

“Sieun’s friend, the one in the coma…” Baek-Jin begins, his tone unnaturally calm. “He had a crisis today. They couldn’t reach his grandmother, so they called the second emergency contact listed in the system.”

Baku’s face hardens.

“Sieun…” he whispers, his heart pounding fast in his chest, reaching a conclusion he hadn’t considered at all.
Every fiber of his body tenses, as if sheer effort could shake him free of his fatigue.

Baek-Jin nods slowly. “He was on the phone with the hospital when it happened.”

Silence descends again, dense and heavy. Baku stares at some undefined point in front of him as a mosaic of confused images forms in his mind: Sieun walking down the street, phone to his ear, the sound of a horn, the glare of headlights and then, nothing.

“What are you thinking?” Baek-Jin asks, his voice steady but not without curiosity.

“He didn’t avoid the truck…” Baku murmurs, almost to himself. “Maybe it was the shock. The news about the crisis… it froze him.”

Baek-Jin remains silent for a few seconds, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Then he nods, but not with full conviction. He runs a hand through his hair, as if trying to chase away an unwelcome thought.

He recalls finding Baku in that pool of blood, how absurd it had seemed that someone could still be alive after coming that close to death.
He remembers that strange sense of recognition, seeing something of himself in Sieun from the very first time they met, from the way he had defended Su-Ho, threatening to kill anyone who dared approach the hospital. Even now, Baek-Jin feels connected to the thoughts that must have crossed Sieun’s mind when he got that call about Su-Ho’s crisis.

He sees himself again, on his knees before Baku, trying to stanch a wound that was stealing his life away, promising with the recklessness of someone who would challenge even God not to lose that person and with the madness of someone who would follow him anywhere, even beyond death, if that were fate.

So, he imagines Sieun in the same kind of despair, not paralyzed by shock, but driven by the visceral need not to let go of someone he loves.

“Or maybe” he says softly, almost under his breath, “he was ready to follow him. Wherever his friend was going.”

Baku stiffens. The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He looks at Baek-Jin, searching for a hidden meaning, something that might tell him whether Baek-Jin is simply thinking aloud or has reached that conclusion for another reason.

Baek-Jin turns toward him. Their eyes lock in a long, tense silence. Baku feels his heartbeat quicken and looks away, unable to bear the weight of that too-intimate understanding.

“How’s Su-Ho now?” he asks finally, trying to change the subject.

“Stable” Baek-Jin replies without hesitation. His words are curt, but his tone is strangely reassuring.

Baku exhales deeply, running a hand over his face.

“It’ll be the first thing he asks about” Baek-Jin continues, his voice quiet.

Baku looks at him, still confused, still unable to grasp why Baek-Jin, of all people, is being so understanding toward someone he has threatened more than once.

“If he wakes up, I’ll tell him” he murmurs, his voice breaking slightly.

Baek-Jin turns toward the window, where the city lights shimmer in fractured reflections.

“He will” he says, with a certainty that doesn’t seem to belong to his usual detachment. “His friend’s still here. Some things… can be felt.”

Baku stays silent, starring at him. Baek-Jin can feel the weight of that gaze on him, but doesn’t turn back. Not now.
Because he knows that if he did, Baku would see in his eyes more than he’s willing to reveal.

***

The first light of dawn filters through the hospital’s wide windows, tinting the corridor with a faint rose-gray hue, suspended between night and day.
Baku wakes slowly, his mind wrapped in the fog of too little sleep. He stirs slightly, rubbing his eyes. Then he feels the warmth around him: the scent of clean linen and a trace of cologne unmistakable to his senses.

Only then does he realize his head is resting on someone’s knees. He lifts his gaze toward the ceiling, eyes widening. The warmth surrounding him isn’t from a sterile hospital blanket but from a heavy, dark coat he immediately recognizes, Baek-Jin’s. He feels the rough fabric against his cheek and that all-too-familiar scent rising to his head, muddling his thoughts.

Baek-Jin is asleep sitting up, head leaning against the wall, his hair falling over his forehead, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and a small pout curling his lips.
Even in sleep, he seems alert, rigid, as if incapable of ever truly resting. Baku watches him for a few seconds, overtaken by a feeling he can’t quite define, a mix of gratitude, unease, and a faint sense of peace he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Then, with a small movement, he sits up. The coat slides off his shoulders and falls to the floor. The sound is soft but enough to wake Baek-Jin. The other opens his eyes slowly, looks around the corridor, then at Baku, as if trying to remember where they are.

“You’re awake” he murmurs, voice rough.

Baku stretches, slightly embarrassed, searching for something neutral to say. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep…” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You didn’t fall asleep. You passed out” Baek-Jin replies, raising an eyebrow. His tone is the same as always, but there’s an almost imperceptible note of leniency that softens it.

Baku bites his tongue, then gives a hesitant half-smile. “Sorry… for, um, leaning on you.”

Baek-Jin exhales quietly, running a hand through his messy hair. “Could’ve been worse. I preferred this to hearing you snore in my ear.”

Baku stares at him, unsure whether to take him seriously or not. In the end, he shakes his head and lets out a brief, tired laugh. That small sound, though faint, breaks the tension between them for a moment.

Baek-Jin slips on his coat, adjusting the collar with a habitual gesture.

“I have to go” he says without looking at him directly. His voice is low, controlled, but there’s something restrained in it. “I can’t miss another day of school.”

Baku watches him silently. He senses there’s something Baek-Jin isn’t saying, a hesitation, a shadow of fear. Perhaps the fear that, once he walks through that door, the absolute silence between them will return, the same one that has carved distance too many times before.

“Go” he says finally, crossing his arms. “I’ll let you know as soon as there’s any news.”

Baek-Jin nods faintly but remains still for a moment too long, as if choosing his next words carefully.

“You need to take your medicine.”

“I don’t have it with me” Baku replies.

“I’ll make sure you get it” Baek-Jin promises. Then he picks up the white bottle, the same healthy drink from the night before and hands it to him.

“Finish this in the meantime.”

Baku frowns, turning it over in his hands like an alien object.

“This stuff again? Seriously?”

Baek-Jin looks at him calmly. “There’s a vending machine outside with other drinks. But finish that one first.”

“Fine” Baku says, though his tone suggests the opposite.

Baek-Jin turns to leave. His footsteps echo down the empty corridor, steady and almost solemn. The silence stretches between them again, but this time it isn’t heavy. It’s a suspended silence, made of things unsaid but understood.

“Hey, Na Baek-Jin” Baku calls suddenly.

The other stops, turns slowly.

Baku stands there, the bottle still in his hand.
He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t ask him to stay. He just looks at him, with a faint, sincere smile, warm enough to bridge all that remains unspoken.

Baek-Jin watches him for a long moment, then gives a single nod. His eyes soften, just barely, before becoming unreadable again.

Baku stands motionless, watching him disappear through the door. Only then does he sink back into the chair, running a hand through his hair. He feels lighter, emptied out but in a new way.
He doesn’t know why, but that simple exchange of glances has left him with a strange sense of relief, hard to explain, but real.
As if, in silence, they had finally learned how to speak to each other.

***

Baku enters quietly, trying not to make noise, but the door creaks slightly and the woman sitting beside the bed opens her eyes. She looks exhausted, he can see it in her hollowed face, the dark circles under her eyes, the slow way she rises from the chair. Her hastily tied hair reveals gray strands at her temples.

The monitor beside the bed emits a rhythmic, steady beeping, the only sign that Sieun is still there, still with them, even if trapped somewhere far away.

For a moment, she says nothing. She just looks at him, a mix of surprise and irritation, as if she’d expected to be alone. Then her gaze drifts to her son, to Sieun’s still face, and back to Baku.

“My son never had friends” she says finally, her voice flat, an observation bitterly stated.

Baku stands still, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know what to say, and perhaps there’s no need to. A faint, instinctive smile escapes his lips.

“No” the woman stiffens, her tone sharpening. “There’s nothing to smile about. He used to do well in school, his grades were perfect, he never gave us trouble. Since that boy fell into a coma… and since he started hanging out with you all, he’s not the same anymore.”

The words hit like slaps. The coldness in her voice cuts deep, sharp as ice. Baku lowers his gaze slightly, then lifts it again, his jaw tight.
Adults are all the same, he thinks. They never see the world for what it is, only for what they want it to seem. Stupid. Selfish. Blind.

“Do you know your son has trouble trusting anyone?” he says quietly, his voice unsteady but firm.

“And do you know why? Because someone taught him to. Maybe without even realizing it.”

The woman glances at him sideways, a flicker of disapproval flashing in her eyes, but she doesn’t answer. She only grips her son’s hand tighter, as if to shield him from those words.

Baku takes a step forward, his breath trembling in his chest. “Life isn’t just about doing well in school, getting good grades, and never causing problems” he continues, more fervently now. “Life is also about laughing with someone, doing stupid things, making mistakes together, protecting the people you care about. Do you even know why his friend is in a coma? Have you ever asked?”

The silence that follows is cutting. The woman shakes her head slightly, as if to dismiss his words.

“He’s in a coma” she whispers finally, her voice cracking, “and now my son too…”

Baku inhales slowly, then looks at Sieun. His pale skin, his slightly tousled hair, his calm, too calm, face. Rage and fear blur together in his chest.

“Sieun is an incredible friend” he says softly but with unexpected strength. “He’s willing to do anything for the people he cares about. That’s what a real friend does. And I’d do the same for him. Because I’m his friend.”

The woman stiffens, and for a moment Baku thinks she’s about to scream at him. Instead, her voice breaks. “Can you stop?” she sobs. “All of you… can you please stop being his friends?”

It’s a desperate request, but also a terribly selfish one. Baku looks at her with compassion, yet he feels anger rising in his throat like a knot.

He takes a step toward the bed, bends slightly, and takes Sieun’s hand in his, motionless. “I’m sorry, ma’am” he says finally, with a calm he doesn’t feel. “But that’s not how things are fixed. And I’m truly sorry you think it could ever work that way.”

She doesn’t respond. She wipes her tears with a handkerchief, and then, without another word, leaves the room, closing the door softly behind her.

The faint click of the latch seems to echo.

Baku remains there, motionless, for long seconds. His breath comes short, his chest heavy as if something is pressing from within. His vision blurs, and everything around him loses focus.

His fingers tighten around Sieun’s hand. The warmth of it reminds him his friend is still alive, but that knowledge brings no comfort. His words come out broken, between sobs.

“I’m sorry, Sieun… I’m so sorry.”

He leans further over the bed, tears falling onto the white sheets, dissolving everything he’d been holding back.

Adults suck but us… we’ll never become like them.

“I promise you, my friend.”

Baku stays like that, in silence, his forehead resting against his friend’s fingers.

***

When Baek-Jin crosses the threshold, the door creaks softly. His footsteps echo as he descends the stairs, and that sound alone is enough to make everyone turn. His men lift their eyes toward him, and in that mix of relief and fear, Baek-Jin immediately reads that something has gone wrong. Then he notices Mr. Choi.

He is sitting in the middle of the room, legs crossed, wearing an elegant suit. In front of him, a row of boys kneel or crouch halfway down, faces marked by fresh bruises, their breathing uneven. Behind him stand two men in dark suits, motionless as statues, sharp-eyed, their hands clasped neatly behind their backs.

“Here you are” says Mr. Choi, rising slowly, a thin smile curving his lips but never reaching his eyes. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

His voice is smooth, almost gentle, but drenched in menace. Baek-Jin doesn’t answer. He remains perfectly still, his gaze locked on the man, fists clenched in the pockets of his jacket. Inside, however, something tightens, a tension ready to fracture the moment into something unpredictable.

Mr. Choi takes two steps forward, the sound of his shoes resonating against the polished floor.

“Why is it so hard to get in touch with you, boy?” he asks with feigned warmth. “I was just asking your friends where you were, but none of them could tell me. Have you lost interest in managing this little operation?”

Baek-Jin lifts his chin slightly. His face remains expressionless, but a cold spark flares in his eyes.

“What’s the problem?” he replies, calm and low.

Mr. Choi gives a short, humorless laugh.

“The problem?” he repeats, as if savoring the word. “You promised me three schools. And now I hear you’ve left one hanging, or worse, that you’ve decided to play games behind the Union’s back. You’ve got time to brawl with my men, but not to meet me?”

His tone sharpens, venom seeping through his words. Baek-Jin doesn’t move. He knows exactly what Mr. Choi means: Baku’s school. The only one he chose not to touch, to strike a deal with Baku, seeking only what he truly wanted, far from the Union’s interests or Mr. Choi’s. To do so, he had to rebel against a system he knows all too well.

His gaze slides toward his men. Some keep their heads bowed, others clutch their bruised arms. No one speaks. No one betrayed him. That blind loyalty hits him harder than anything else.

With a slow breath, Baek-Jin breaks the silence. “Let’s talk in the office” he says simply, walking past Mr. Choi with measured, deliberate steps.

Mr. Choi watches him go by. There’s a shadow of irritation in his features, but also a flicker of curiosity. He turns to his men and gestures. “Stay here.”

Their footsteps echo down the corridor leading to the office at the end of the hall. Each step Baek-Jin takes is deliberate, each movement calculated. Inside, he knows this meeting will not end peacefully.

As soon as they enter, Baek-Jin closes the door behind them.
Mr. Choi sits without invitation, straightening his jacket before fixing his eyes on him with an enigmatic smile.

“You know” he begins, “there was a time I thought you were a smart boy. Disciplined. The kind who knew where the limits were and how not to cross them.”

Baek-Jin stays by the door. “Maybe you never understood what kind of limits I’m willing to respect.”

Mr. Choi narrows his eyes. “And maybe you haven’t understood what kind of world you’re trying to challenge.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy as cigarette smoke hanging in the air. The two study each other like predators, alike, yet incompatible.

Then Baek-Jin speaks, his voice steady as a blade. “I told you everything is under control. And it is. That school is off our business.”

Mr. Choi smiles, but danger flickers in his eyes. “Ah, so it’s personal.”

Baek-Jin doesn’t respond. But his silence is a confirmation he never meant to give.

“I see” Mr. Choi says, lighting his cigar. “You’ve found something that interests you more than power. Or someone. But let me give you a bit of advice: people change. And attachments, especially, are the first weakness of those who think they’re untouchable.”

Baek-Jin leans forward slightly, his tone low but icy. “Or the first strength of those who have nothing left to lose.”

Mr. Choi’s smile fades. Their eyes lock, the air vibrating with almost tangible tension.

“Be careful” the man murmurs finally, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “In this game, those who disobey end up replaced.”

Baek-Jin tilts his head, not breaking eye contact. “Then good luck finding someone who can do what I do.”

Mr. Choi remains silent for a long moment, then slowly approaches, each step deliberate, calm in a way that hints at danger. When he’s only inches away, he raises his hand and gives Baek-Jin two light pats on the cheek, almost affectionate, yet so full of contempt they sting more than a slap.

“Someone ready to take over the school you refuse to touch?” he murmurs silkily, tilting his head.

“Oh, that’s easier than you think. I gave you a chance and I’ll admit, you did a fine job.” His smile widens, cold and sure of his advantage. “But I don’t like finding out someone’s been meddling in my business and getting away with it just because you decided to be… weak.”

The word weak lands on Baek-Jin’s heart like a blow, knocking the air out of him.

Mr. Choi leans closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, almost intimate. “And if the police ever get involved… if I have to clean up your mess… then we’re done. You’re done.”

Could someone have told him about Baku’s friends trying to break into the warehouses?

Baek-Jin doesn’t move, but for an instant, his expression cracks. It isn’t fear that crosses his face, but awareness. The man who once offered him power as if it were a gift, a game to be played, is now showing his true nature: the ease with which he could kill him, whispered in a voice almost paternal.

Time seems to freeze.

Then, the office door handle turns.

Baek-Jin’s weakness steps into the room.

Baku enters, hesitant, but resolute. His eyes dart between the two men, and in a second, he understands he’s walked into something he shouldn’t have seen. The air is electric, saturated with tension.

“Oh…” he mutters, glancing first at Baek-Jin, who stiffens, his expression suddenly taut, almost terrified, then at Mr. Choi, who turns toward him slowly.

The man studies him in silence for a few seconds, eyes sweeping from head to toe, weighing, evaluating, dissecting. Then he tilts his head slightly.

“Who you are?” he asks, his voice silky but sharp as a blade hidden beneath silk.

Baek-Jin instinctively takes half a step forward, as if to place himself between them, but Baku looks at him in confusion, searching for an explanation that doesn’t come.

“Ah…” says Mr. Choi, his smile spreading again, slow and poisonous. “I see.” He turns to Baek-Jin, a flicker of malice in his eyes. “So, he is the reason for my disappointment.”

Baku clenches his jaw. He doesn’t understand, but he feels that those words carry something dangerous, something far bigger than him.

Mr. Choi turns back to Baek-Jin, amusement flickering in his expression. “Don’t forget what I told you” he murmurs softly, like a warning. Then he gives him one last, lingering look, loaded with meaning and walks toward the exit.

As he passes Baku, the man pauses. Mr. Choi’s eyes pierce through him, studying every inch of him with disturbing precision, as if trying to memorize him. Then he smiles, a smile that promises nothing good.

Without another word, he leaves the office, closing the door behind him with a sharp click.

The silence that follows is heavy, almost unreal. Baku turns to Baek-Jin, confusion clouding his eyes, searching for answers in the face of someone who, for the first time, looks genuinely vulnerable.

Baek-Jin stays motionless for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the door as if he could still see Mr. Choi beyond it. Then he inhales deeply and runs a hand through his hair.

“You shouldn’t have come in” he murmurs, voice rough.

“Who was that?” Baku asks, not accusatory, but uneasy, almost worried.

Baek-Jin doesn’t answer immediately. He turns toward him slowly, and there’s something different in his eyes, an unfamiliar shadow.

“No one.”

His voice is flat, controlled, almost tired. He turns his back to Baku and walks toward the desk, placing both hands on the wood, as if trying to drain the fire burning inside him.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asks without turning.

Of all the moments he’d wanted to see Baku walk in, this is the only one when he’d wished he’d stayed as far away as possible.

“Na Baek-Jin, that man…” Baku’s voice cuts through the silence, thick with anger and confusion. “Is the guy you’re fucking?”

Baek-Jin freezes. Then he turns slightly, just enough for the light to fall on his face and reveal his surprise. He can’t quite process how Baku came to that conclusion, but then he thinks of what Baku must have seen upon entering: him and Mr. Choi standing too close, tension hanging heavy, no distance left between them.

He lowers his gaze and laughs softly.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” Baku growls, stepping forward, fists tight at his sides. “Do you think what I asked is funny?”

Baek-Jin raises his face slightly, a faint curve at his lips.

Oh, much more than funny, he thinks.

“Yes” he replies with icy calm, “because you’re imagining that someone’s fucking me. And I find that very amusing.”

Baku glares at him as if he could set him on fire. His jaw tightens, eyes blazing, shoulders tense as if he’s holding back something physical.

Baek-Jin watches him, intrigued, as if dissecting the emotion piece by piece.

“What makes you think that?” he asks, his tone hovering between provocation and genuine curiosity.

“You” Baku snaps. “You sat on my lap talking like some kind of expert-”

Baek-Jin tilts his head. “So now, any man who stands too close to me will make you think I’m fucking with him?”

Baku flushes instantly, turning away and running a hand through his hair, agitated. “How the hell should I know” he mutters, “I can only imagine… since you never answer anything.”

Baek-Jin should be focusing on something else, on the man who just threatened to kill him, on the abyss he’s about to fall into, but the thought that Baku might be jealous leaves him with a strangely… vivid feeling. Like a subtle warmth he doesn’t know whether to hate or want more of.

“Any news about your friend?” he asks then, shifting the subject, his voice calmer now.

Baku drops onto the couch, gaze lost.

“No. Nothing.”

Baek-Jin pushes away from the desk and walks toward him. Baku watches him with a mix of confusion and suspicion, as if he isn’t sure what to expect. For an instant, he thinks Baek-Jin might sit on his lap again, and the thought alone makes his heartbeat stutter. But Baek-Jin stops at a safe distance, hands tucked in his pockets.

“Did you take the medicine I had brought to the hospital?” he asks.

Baku nods, lifting his hoodie to show his side.

“I cleaned it and changed the bandage. No fever.” He meets his gaze directly. “Now can you tell me who the hell that guy was?”

Baek-Jin stares at him for a few seconds, then gives a small nod. His hands sink deeper into his pockets.

“Not someone I’ve sex with” he replies coolly.

Baku rolls his eyes, exasperated. Before they can start arguing again, Baek-Jin finally answers the real question.

“He’s the man who gave me all this, Baku.” He gestures faintly around the room, the power, the money, the violence disguised as authority. “And I’d prefer if you never saw him again.”

Baku studies him for a long moment, then stands slowly, every movement taut, controlled. He steps closer, until Baek-Jin is forced to look at him from up close.

“Now that I know he’s the man who turned you into what I hate most” he murmurs, “you think I’ll just let it go? He was threatening you, Baek-Jin. Didn’t you hear him?”

Baek-Jin lifts his eyes, wearing the coldest, most impenetrable mask he can manage. “That’s my problem” he answers.

“Na Baek-Jin…” Baku moves closer still, his voice lower now but more intense. He raises a hand, maybe to touch him, but drops it again when Baek-Jin flinches back, every muscle tense.

“Go to your friend, Baku” Baek-Jin orders, cold, though his gaze trembles for an instant.

Baku looks at him, wounded. His fists clench; the words burn in his throat but never come out. Maybe he wants to yell, maybe just to ask why Baek-Jin insists on being like this. But he says nothing.

He turns, grabs the handle, and slams the door open, the sound reverberating through the office like thunder.

Baek-Jin stays still, staring at the spot where Baku had stood only a moment before. The sound of footsteps fading down the corridor dissolves into an unbearable silence.

Only then does he sink onto the couch, his hands trembling slightly.

He closes his eyes.

The sooner he ends this story with Baku, the sooner the boy will be safe.
From Mr. Choi.
From himself.
From the wreckage he’s become.

But as the silence wraps around him, fear takes hold and for the first time, he finds himself wishing things had turned out differently.

***

Baku reaches the hospital with his head full of noise, a tangle of thoughts devouring him from within. Every step along the white corridor feels heavy, as though he’s dragging invisible chains. He’s angry, but he doesn’t even know at whom. Probably himself. At everything. At the world.

He stops outside Sieun’s room. Doesn’t go in. Stands there, hands shoved into his pockets. The fight with Sieun’s mother comes back to him, her cold, cutting words and the memory leaves a dull ache in his chest, like a punch to the gut.

He replays everything that’s happened. His friends. The trouble he’s dragged them into.

It’s all my fault, he thinks. I messed everything up.

He was wrong to teach Baek-Jin how to fight back, not realizing he was pushing him deeper into the abyss. Wrong not to be there when Baek-Jin truly needed him, when it wasn’t too late to pull him out of the mess he was sinking into.

He feels guilty about Gotak, beaten because of him. About Juntae, who risked himself to help with problems that weren’t even his. And above all, about Sieun.

Sieun, lying on that bed, too weak even to wake, too kind to survive so much pain.

Baku slides down the wall and buries his face in his hands. The tears come before he can stop them.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers, voice breaking. Then louder, trembling, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, all of you…” until the sobs choke the air from his lungs.

The room door opens softly. Sieun’s mother steps out. She looks at him for a moment, silent, then says gently, “Hey…”

Baku wipes his tears quickly with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to pull himself together.

“I’m sorry” he manages to say, voice thin. He turns, ready to leave, convinced she doesn’t want him there. But she stops him.

“No, wait.” Her voice is different now, softer. “I wanted to apologize for what I said yesterday. I’m just… terrified for my son. I want to protect him, but I know I’m doing it wrong.”

She lowers her gaze, then gestures toward the room. “Come. Go in.”

Baku hesitates, then nods and follows her. The room is quiet; only the steady rhythm of the machines fills the air. Sieun lies still, his face pale.

His mother sits beside the bed, tired but calmer now. “My son hasn’t slept in months, you know?” she begins softly. “We tried everything. But there was something in his mind eating him alive, something he couldn’t let go of.”

She takes out a phone and shows it to him. “The police gave me this. I shouldn’t have read it, but… I couldn’t help myself.”

The screen shows the name Su-Ho.

“He writes to him every day” she continues. “My son’s always been quiet. He never talked about how he felt. When his father and I split up, he didn’t show pain, but inside… something drove him to always be perfect, always the model son. He never wanted to cause trouble.”

Her voice trembles. “We asked too much of him. We taught him how to behave, but not how to live. And now I see how deeply we failed him.”

She wipes her eyes with a tissue and looks at Baku. “In those messages to Su-Ho… he talks about you too. About all of you. He says that with you, he feels alive. That for the first time, he’s learned how to laugh and not feel alone.”

She smiles faintly. “Thank you for that. Please… stay his friend. Give him what we couldn’t.”

Baku’s throat tightens; he can’t speak. He only nods, eyes wet. Then he hears her gasp.

“Sieun! Hey, Sieun!”

Baku’s head snaps up. Sieun is moving. Slowly, trembling, he pulls off his oxygen mask. His eyelids flutter open, revealing eyes tired but alive.

Baku freezes, heart pounding violently in his chest.

The woman rushes out into the corridor, calling for doctors through her tears.

Sieun keeps moving, fingers gripping the sheets, his frail body shaking as he tries to sit up.

“Hey, easy!” Baku moves instinctively, his hands on Sieun’s cold, thin arms, feeling the tense muscles under the skin. “You can’t get up yet, wait-"

But Sieun shakes his head, his voice hoarse, frayed to threads. “I have to… I have to go…”

“No, Sieun, listen-”

“I have to see Su-Ho…”

Baku holds him tighter, but the boy struggles weakly, desperation twisting his face.

“Hey… wait, Sieun!”

“Su-Ho… he…”

His lips tremble; his voice dies in his throat. His eyes, wide and terrified, fill with tears.

Baku looks at him and for a second, he doesn’t see Sieun anymore.

He sees Baek-Jin.

Kneeling, covered in blood, his blood. Trembling hands, hollow eyes, terrified but still fixed on Baku.

And that voice echoing in his head: Stay awake. I swear, if you leave me now, I’ll drag you back from hell.

The same look. The same madness born from loving someone enough to follow them into death.

A chill runs down Baku’s spine.

Now he understands.

He understands what Baek-Jin meant when he said, Maybe he was ready to follow him.

He understands that what drives Sieun now, that desperate urge to run from that bed to Su-Ho, isn’t just affection. It’s something deeper, stronger, more painful.

Sieun looks at him, eyes wet, pleading, searching for hope, for an answer.

He wants to know that Su-Ho is alive. That it isn’t too late. That he hasn’t lost everything.

Baku swallows hard, his throat tight.

“Sieun…” he says softly, pressing him gently back against the pillow. He holds him still, but carefully, with respect.

Their eyes meet, and Baku’s voice trembles.

“Your friend… he’s okay.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of their breathing.

Sieun inhales slowly. His shoulders relax; his breathing evens out. Tears roll down his cheeks, but this time they’re not from fear, they’re from relief.

Baku watches him, his heart pounding too fast. Inside, he’s a storm of emotions, tangled into a single knot choking him.

What he just witnessed, that blind, desperate force binding two people, is terrifying. Something he’s seen before, and doesn’t know how to face.

He leans forward, brushes a hand through Sieun’s hair, and gives a faint, shaky smile.

“I’m glad you’re awake, my friend…” he murmurs.

Sieun closes his eyes, exhausted but calm. The beeping of the monitor steadies.

Baku stays seated beside him in silence, staring at the floor.

But inside, his thoughts race, toward Baek-Jin, toward the abyss he’s seen him falling into, and toward that feeling that, like an invisible thread, seems to bind them all beyond fear, anger, and guilt.

Now he can name it without doubt.

It’s love.

***

It’s the middle of the night. Streetlights slice through the darkness, their glow reflecting in puddles of old rain.
Baku walks aimlessly, footsteps echoing on the empty pavement, hands buried in his pockets, clutching his phone as if it were the only lifeline left to him.

After the doctors checked on Sieun, he was allowed to visit Su-Ho, while Baku waited for Gotak and Juntae to arrive. Then, all of them just talked, maybe more honestly than they ever had before, or maybe exactly as they always had, light and careless for once.

Eventually, Baku left the hospital with them, but their paths split when the other two boarded a bus home.
Now he wanders alone.

The air is cold, seeping into his bones. Occasionally, a car glides by in the distance, leaving behind a faint echo that fades too quickly. He doesn’t know where he’s going, maybe he doesn’t want to know. He walks because standing still hurts more, because moving keeps him from listening too closely to the noise of his own thoughts.

Tonight is made of pieces that don’t fit.
He remembers Sieun waking up, that light in his eyes, disarming and full of relief. He remembers the mother, broken and then gentle, admitting her mistakes. He remembers the hospital bed, the steady rhythm of the monitor marking time.
And then, like a blade, Baek-Jin’s words return: “Maybe he was ready to follow him wherever he was going.”

When Baku finally stops under a streetlamp, he pulls out his phone. Baek-Jin’s number is there, frozen. He stares at it for what feels like forever, writes, deletes, writes again. In the end, he sends only a few words:

Sieun woke up. He’s okay.

Moments later, the phone vibrates.

Baek-Jin’s reply is brief: Are you still at the hospital?

Baku doesn’t answer. He’s tempted to turn off the phone altogether, but then it starts vibrating again, insistently. Baek-Jin is calling, impatient.

He doesn’t want Baek-Jin to know where he is, or imagine him wandering like a stray dog, but curiosity and the need for clarity win out. He answers.

Baek-Jin’s voice comes through clear, controlled.

“Where are you?”

Baku exhales, looking up at the starless sky as if it might hold the answer.

“What did you mean” he asks quietly, “when you said Sieun was ready to follow Su-Ho wherever he was going?”

He hears Baek-Jin breathe, slowly, as if choosing his words.

“What I said.” His tone is simple, almost hesitant.

“How did you know? Because I only realized it when he woke up and the only thing he wanted was to go to Su-Ho’s room…”

Baku’s voice breaks, frustration turning to pain. “I couldn’t have imagined it before. Why could you?”

“What do you want me to say, Hu-Min?”

Baek-Jin’s voice hardens, not cruel, but burning in its clarity. He calls him by his childhood name, and the sound hits Baku like a shock.

Baku clenches his fists until his knuckles ache.

Why does it always have to be so hard to talk to him?

He wants to curse him, to shout that everything Baek-Jin has sown has turned into a machine of destruction. But he knows yelling won’t change the truth. So instead, he lets something raw and burning slip out:

“When I was bleeding out, you said you’d come get me, even in hell.”

Baek-Jin sighs. Maybe he didn’t expect Baku to press this far, or maybe he wasn’t ready for such unguarded honesty.

“Because you’re not supposed to die” he says softly, almost a whisper, a truth he’s never dared to speak aloud before.

Baku’s anger flares. “Then why the hell did you make that offer right after?”

His voice cuts sharp, full of accusations he can’t contain.

“Baku…” Baek-Jin exhales again, and the sound carries years of regret. “I made a mistake bringing you into the Union. I don’t want you risking your life because of me.”

“That didn’t occur to you when you hurt my friends? When you ruined my father’s life? When you threatened everyone who got near me?”

Each when is a wound reopening, each word laced with fury.

“No” Baek-Jin admits, calm and unflinching. “No. Only when I saw you lying in that pool of blood.”

“God, you’re such a selfish bastard.”

“Yes.”

The word lands cold and short, without excuses.

“Well, I don’t want you dying for the mess you got yourself into, either.”

Baku’s tone softens, tired, but tinged with something bitterly tender.

Baek-Jin doesn’t respond. Baku sighs. Then, quietly:

“Na Baek-Jin?”

He has to answer. Silence can’t keep doing their dirty work.

“It’s my problem” Baek-Jin says at last, clipped and forced, still holding on to distance.

But there’s something in his tone Baku can’t ignore: a fierce, solitary will to protect. And Baku feels the same. It’s a cruel contradiction, wanting to save the man who’s already too far gone.

“You’re such an asshole” he mutters, a faint, bitter smile curling his lips.

Baek-Jin gives a dry, joyless laugh, the kind you make to keep from breaking. Silence stretches again, softening what words can’t.

“Where are you?” Baek-Jin asks finally, practical now, grounding the moment.

“I don’t know” Baku answers, still staring at the sky as if it might draw him a map.

“I’m home” says Baek-Jin. The words are simple, almost comforting.

An invitation?

Baku breathes out. “Alright.”

“Go home too” Baek-Jin adds and it’s unclear which home he means. There’s a shadow of pleading in his voice, a request he doesn’t dare make directly.

“Yeah” Baku replies, not thinking too much about it. Maybe it’s the closest thing to a promise he can give.

Then they hang up. The soft click of the call ending leaves behind a quiet that feels almost sacred.

Baku stands motionless under the streetlight, the city breathing around him. He slips the phone back into his pocket, runs a hand down his face, and starts walking again.

***

Baku arrives at the building where Baek-Jin lives, a tall and anonymous palace that stands out against the night sky like an indifferent monolith. He looks up at the scattered illuminated windows here and there, and rubs his hair with a frustrated gesture, the black strands falling messily over his sweaty forehead.

"Oh damn, why the fuck am I here?" he murmurs to himself, his voice a low growl that gets lost in the cold night wind.

But he prefers not to answer himself, not now, not when his body is still a whirlwind of contrasting emotions: anger, confusion, and that damned residual heat that he doesn't want to admit. He heads toward the entrance with decisive steps, his hands shoved in his pockets to hide the tremor. A few minutes and someone exits the door, a distracted tenant, Baku takes advantage to slip inside, a furtive shadow that sneaks into the artificial warmth of the atrium. He takes the elevator, the metal walls reflecting his tense figure, his dark eyes staring into the void while the floor numbers scroll slowly, too slowly.

He arrives in front of Na Baek-Jin's apartment door and stops, his heart pounding in his chest. He wonders if that house was given to him by that man he met in the office that afternoon, that bastard with the air of owning the world. He stiffens instantly, the muscles in his shoulders tensing like strings ready to snap, thinking that Baek-Jin might have lied to him just to not worry him or anger him more than he already was. And if Baek-Jin really hadn't limited himself to offering his life in service to that man? And if he had offered his body too, that smooth and warm skin that Baku has touched only once, but that his fingertips remember as if they had already grown fond of it, and that he couldn't get out of his mind? The idea annoys him, an acidic wave rising from his stomach, a mix of irritation and disgust for himself.

Why should it matter to him? Yet, the thought of Baek-Jin touched by someone else makes him clench his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

He enters the code on the door, trying with Baek-Jin's birthdate, a logical, obvious attempt, but it gives an error, a sharp beep that echoes in the deserted corridor. He doesn't want to ring, it's late, deep night, and maybe Baek-Jin is already sleeping, wrapped in the sheets, his body relaxed in a way that Baku imagines all too vividly.

So why is he there? Why doesn't he go home to his place, to his empty bed, to bury everything under a blanket of indifference? The question buzzes in his head like a trapped bee, but he has no answers, only that irrational need to see him, to vent that repressed energy.

He tries entering his own birthday, his fingers pressing the keys with hesitation. The door opens with a soft click, like a whispered invitation.

"Damned bastard” he says through gritted teeth, a bitter smile curving his lips as he enters the house, the warm air enveloping him like a treacherous embrace. He closes the door quietly, the noise muffled by the carpet.

The apartment is silent and shrouded in dim light.

Baek-Jin emerges from his room, in a loose tracksuit that slips over his slender hips, his hair tousled in rebellious locks that frame his sleepy face, the air of someone who was already ready to fight against whoever had sneaked into his house, the muscles tense under the thin fabric, his eyes shining with alertness.

Baku turns on the light with a snap, the sudden glow illuminating the room, and sees Baek-Jin relax his shoulders, his body slumping in a mix of relief and irritation.

"What the fuck, Baku... how- what are you doing here?" Baek-Jin blurts out, running a hand through his hair, a gesture that makes him seem even more vulnerable, more human, with that tracksuit that clings just to the contours of his chest, letting the collarbones peek through.

"Seriously, Jin-ah? My birthdate?" Baku retorts, his voice low and laced with a veiled accusation, a step forward that reduces the distance between them, the air charging with that familiar, electric tension, while their gazes lock in a silent duel.

"You only ask stupid questions” Baek-Jin comments in a low tone, veiled with irony, heading toward the kitchen with slow steps, his body moving with a grace under the loose tracksuit, the fabric rustling softly against his skin. Baku takes off his coat and shoes with brusque movements, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum, he doesn't know what he's doing there, he doesn't even ask himself, and he joins him, the kitchen air charging with a palpable tension.

Without asking anything, Baek-Jin offers him water from the same glass, an intimate gesture done without implications, his fingers barely brushing Baku's in the handoff, sending a jolt down both their spines.

When Baku places his lips on the same spot where Baek-Jin's had rested, their eyes don't stop looking at each other, locked in a silent duel, the dilated pupils absorbing every detail: the famished gleam in Baku's eyes, the veiled hesitation in Baek-Jin's. Time stretches, the sip of water going down Baku's throat like liquid fire, amplifying the heat rising from his lower abdomen. Baek-Jin looks away first when Baku finishes drinking, an imperceptible blush coloring his cheeks. Baku sets the glass in the sink with a tinkling that breaks the silence, his hands slightly damp, but he doesn't know if from sweat or from the condensation of the slightly cold water.

"My birthdate prevents intruders from entering and it's a stupid thing?" Baku prods him, his voice slightly sarcastic, a step forward that reduces the distance, his scent invading the space between them.

Baek-Jin sighs, a deep sound that vibrates in the air, and Baku sees him roll his eyes, an exasperated gesture that hides a veil of amusement, or perhaps of inability to sustain that proximity without doing something stupid.

"Not exactly all intruders, apparently” Baek-Jin mutters, his voice a velvety whisper, trying to pass him to reach the living room or put distance between them, his body brushing against Baku's in a fleeting contact, that ignites sparks on the skin, a warm friction that makes the muscles contract and makes them ready to snap and do whatever their instinct tells them. Maybe not Baek-Jin's, but Baku's for sure.

Baku, in fact, grabs him by the wrist with a sudden gesture, to claim that proximity and prevent distance from doing more damage; Baek-Jin's warm skin under the fingers that grip like chains, and he pulls him toward himself with controlled, brutal force, a magnetic attraction that fuses them. Then he grabs his hips, his hands sinking into the fleshy curves under the thin tracksuit, holding him anchored and close, their bodies aligning in a burning, devastating intimacy: Baek-Jin's chest pressing against his, the heat filtering like lava, their members brushing in a torturous, sudden contact. Baek-Jin is caught off guard, looks down where their hips brush, then looks at Baku's face, clenching his jaw hard, the muscles tensing in a futile, agonizing resistance, his breath accelerating, short and irregular.

"What are you doing now?" Baek-Jin murmurs, his voice a broken, hoarse whisper, his eyes burning with a mix of fiery challenge and naked vulnerability, his lips parting slightly, moist and inviting.

"Now you're the one asking stupid questions” Baku replies, tilting his head slightly, his lips a breath away from Baek-Jin's: an abyss of temptation, the warm breath mingling, loaded with promise, with sin, caressing the skin like ghost fingers.

Baek-Jin tries to create distance, pushing gently against Baku's chest, his hands brushing the chest muscles, but the other holds him tight by the hips, his fingers digging deeper, branding the flesh with a touch that is a tormenting claim.

"Baku... stop it” he says, but his voice comes out trembling, broken, betrayed by the body that arches slightly against that contact, the hips clashing involuntarily in a friction, the member hardening, pressing against Baku's which instead seems asleep.

"Isn't this what you want? What you've always wanted?" Baku retorts, his voice low, a growl that vibrates between them like a seismic wave, penetrating every cell. Baek-Jin feels Baku's breath crashing into him, insistent like an invisible slap, or no... maybe it's a bold caress, that strokes his lips, unleashing shivers upon shivers: the fear that everything will end polluting every sensation he feels, because if they kissed, they wouldn't be able to stop anymore; a precipice of raw, unstoppable desire that calls them, consumes them from the guts, a vortex of lips, tongues, bodies fusing in an irreversible ecstasy. And Baek-Jin doesn't want everything to end. Not yet, not in that crude way, that would leave him with all his desire consumed and his heart stripped bare.

"So you came for this? To keep your word and close this story once and for all?" Baek-Jin asks, icy, but under that coldness there's a deep tremor, a gleam of panic in his eyes that mixes with flames of repressed desire, the dilated pupils betraying the inner chaos.

Baku looks him in the eyes, digging deep with a gaze that burns, he thought he would find the desire for that contact, for that proximity, flames of craving, of savage possession, an urgency that screams to consume itself, finally.

Loving someone, desiring them physically... means this, right? Being eager in the moment before everything is about to happen, the body screaming to give in, pulsing with need... but in Baek-Jin there's... fear. Hesitation. A desire to escape, a veil of raw vulnerability that disarms him, makes him hesitate in turn, his heart beating an irregular rhythm, synchronized with Baek-Jin's in a tormented duet.

"You said you would teach me to love another man's body because a physical and banal thing isn't what you want, right? Have you already changed your mind?" Baku provokes, but his voice comes out less sure, his body trembling slightly, betrayed by the force he puts into staying still and not doing what his body is screaming.

Baek-Jin moves his own hands to Baku's shoulders, which he looks at, as if attracted by a sensation he feels only from feeling them move on his body; a devastating shudder that runs along his arms, the heat of Baek-Jin's fingers penetrating through the shirt, igniting every exposed nerve, a wave of pleasure that takes his breath away.

Baek-Jin looks at him, studies him with intensity, trying to grasp something he can't understand from Baku's words or his intentions, an enigma wrapped in a game, a provocation, the umpteenth challenge, his hands gripping the shoulders lightly, sinking into the tense muscles as if to anchor himself, to not drown in that ocean of sensations.

"After everything that's happened? At this hour?" Baek-Jin asks, his voice a hoarse, enveloping whisper, his lips trembling slightly, moist with repressed anticipation.

"The wound is healing, I don't have much time to learn and I don't want to give you a way to consider yourself unsatisfied” Baku replies, his eyes sliding over Baek-Jin's body, then over his own side, alluding to his own wound, a reminder of urgency that amplifies the tension between them, transforming it into a private inferno of brushes and breaths upon them.

Baek-Jin lowers his gaze to the side, then raises it, mirroring himself in Baku's eyes: there's a reflection of deep tiredness, of total surrender, a gleam of submission that ignites sparks in those irises.

He nods slowly: he's tired, exhausted from that eternal dance of temptation and reticence, his body craving capitulation.

"Alright, but let me go” he asks, his voice low.

Baku releases his grip on the hips with reluctance, his fingers brushing the skin one last time, tracing lines that leave an invisible mark.

Baek-Jin takes a step back, the air cooling between them like a painful void, but the tension remains, an invisible thread, taut like a violin string, that binds them in a tightly embrace.

"Follow me” Baek-Jin orders, turning toward the living room with a fluid, sensual movement, his body moving away but inviting with every curve, every sway of the hips, the promise of what is about to happen lingering like a veil of sensual smoke, dense with eroticism and overwhelming intensity.

Baek-Jin gestures for him to sit on the couch with an elegant, authoritative motion, his open palm inviting like a command.

Baku complies, his body sinking into the soft cushions, his heart beating an irregular rhythm, a mix of anticipation and resistance that makes him like a wild animal facing someone trying to train him.

"You've probably noticed, I'm already hard but you're not” Baek-Jin explains in a low, enveloping voice, looking around the environment with eyes that scan the space, as if trying not to load those words with embarrassment.

Baku's eyes inevitably fall to Baek-Jin's lower abdomen, the gray tracksuit highlighting his member, a rigid bulge that strains the fabric in an indecent invitation.

Baku swallows excess saliva, a bitter lump tightening his throat, and thinks that he's not only because he's straining with every fiber of his being to think of all the ugliest things he can come up with just to keep credible the idea that he needs Baek-Jin's help to make him horny.

In reality, Baku desires him, a need he hasn't yet become aware of, that if he rationalized it would throw him into pure panic, making his head spin in a vortex of confusion. For the moment, thinking of an abandoned dog on the street or any other tragedy as long as his member doesn't get hard, is all he can sustain, a fragile barrier against the mounting wave of his most indecent thoughts.

"What are you looking for?" Baku asks, his voice hoarse, noticing how Baek-Jin is still looking around, his eyes darting with intent, searching who knows what in that environment, illuminated by a soft light that caresses his curves.

Baek-Jin approaches the liquor table with slow, deliberate steps, his body moving like a sinuous wave, and takes what seems to be whiskey. He fills two glasses with precise movements and approaches Baku, offering him one with an oblique smile.

"It'll help” he explains, his voice a whisper.

Baku doesn't retort, grabs the glass and drinks it all in one gulp, the burn of the alcohol inflaming his throat, spreading like lava in his chest, melting a bit of that stubborn resistance.

Baek-Jin sips his with elegant slowness, smiling a little, a curving of his moist lips that quickens Baku's pulse, then takes Baku's empty glass and his own, setting them on the table with a tinkling that echoes like a countdown.

When he returns to the couch, Baku sees him sigh and then remove his shirt with a fluid, sensual movement, the fabric sliding over his smooth skin revealing his broad and defined abdomen, alive, his firm chest rising with every breath, his nipples turgid, perhaps from the sudden cold or perhaps from something else.

Baku starts mentally intoning a jingle from a commercial he's seen over and over on TV, just to not focus on that abdomen inviting touch, that chest screaming to be explored, the nipples that seem to beg for a caress, a bite. Baek-Jin told him that men's nipples can be very sensitive, a memory that flashes like lightning, igniting sparks throughout his body and a hunger that doesn't come from his stomach. No, that thought doesn't help, it's erotic poison; Baku returns to the commercial jingle with desperation, while the muscles in his legs stiffen, tense like violin strings, his member threatening to betray him with an initial shudder.

"I'll blindfold you, is that okay?" Baek-Jin asks as he starts approaching, his voice a command disguised as a sweet tone, while his eyes burn with dark intentions.

"Wait, what?" Baku is already in panic, his heart exploding in his chest like thunder, but Baek-Jin approaches further, places a knee between Baku's legs, a warm, possessive invasion that makes their thighs brush, Baku squeezes them slightly as if he couldn't avoid that movement. Baek-Jin leans slightly with the shirt ready to be used as a blindfold, his scent invading Baku's senses, making his head spin.

Baek-Jin lowers his chin and seeks Baku's gaze, while he raises his face and meets his eyes. They're very close. It would be enough for Baku to grab him from behind the neck and stop that charade, but he's paralyzed by Baek-Jin's sharp gaze and struggles immensely to keep his hands in check, because instinct is screaming to touch him, grab him, pull him against himself...

"Answer: is it okay or not? Then I'll explain why” Baek-Jin insists, his voice low, a hiss that caresses Baku, who squints his eyes slightly and clenches his fists.

Resist, resist dammit. Breathe.He opens his eyes and looks at him with a slight animosity for his authoritarian ways, his eyes sending sparks of challenge, but in the end he nods, his throat dry: "Go ahead."

He's getting hungrier. And he has no idea what's about to happen and he won't even see it happen.

So, he's blindfolded, the soft fabric wrapping his eyes in absolute darkness, a veil of obscurity that amplifies every sensation.

Baku loses his sight and every other sense sharpens in a devastating way: he hears the sound of Baek-Jin's knee between his legs, a proximity that makes him feel exposed, accessible. The clothes rustling with movements, a silky sound that evokes forbidden images, that naked abdomen he would want to claim with his mouth, tongue, and teeth... and now the taste of the alcohol lingers in his mouth, burning and intoxicating, a warm memory on his tongue.

"So? You promised an explanation” Baku exclaims, torturing his fingers by interlacing them forcefully, his knuckles whitening, a desperate attempt to anchor himself to reality.

Baek-Jin grabs them gently, separates them slowly but firmly, and places them near Baku's hips.

Baku shifts slightly in place when Baek-Jin starts unbuttoning his pants, his skilled fingers undoing the button with torturous slowness, and then the zipper...

"If you don't see, for now you can imagine anyone to get yourself hard” Baek-Jin explains. "While I'll take you in my mouth” he continues, the words being the triggering force capable of activating every nerve, every reaction in Baku's body that struggles more and more to maintain glacial calm.

Baku jerks his head, tries to point his ear toward the voice, the darkness amplifying the sound, he doesn't know if he heard right: a wave of panic and desire that takes his breath away, his ears ringing.

"How will that make me like it if I have to use my imagination to think of someone else?" Baku blurts out, annoyed, ready to push him away with a brusque gesture, while Baek-Jin slides his pants down his thighs, forcing him to lift his hips a bit, a movement that exposes his skin to the air, a shiver running down his spine. He's naked; along with the pants, he pulled down the underwear too.

"Because I'm very good at what I do, in the future you won't need to imagine anyone” Baek-Jin breathes directly onto Baku's member: his breath is warm, moist, and caresses the sensitive skin, a ghost touch that makes his muscles contract and feel jolts of pleasure that he can't hide.

He's still visibly not aroused, but Baku is on the verge of giving in.

Maybe the little songs and sad thoughts will still work, but they're like a fragile dam against the flood of a tidal wave. But not for much longer. And Baku knows it, he feels it deep down, a treacherous heat rising inexorably, ready to overwhelm him.

Baek-Jin doesn't wait any longer, his fingers lightly brush Baku's inner thighs, tracing invisible lines of fire that make the skin quiver, a deliberate prelude that amplifies the anticipation. With a fluid, possessive movement, he wraps the base of Baku's member with his hand, the warm palm gripping lightly, massaging with torturous slowness, up and down in a hypnotic rhythm. He feels something wet dripping along his member and understands from Baek-Jin's movements that it's saliva.

Baku clenches his jaw, hums but the images in his mind are sharp and violent, seductive like the best of sins.

The darkness of the blindfold heightens every sensation: the heat of Baek-Jin's hand spreading like lava, the thumb brushing the skin, teasing veins that start to pulse, betraying the resistance.

Baku inhales sharply, his chest rising in a broken gasp, while he desperately tries to cling to that commercial jingle.

His body reacts despite everything: the member hardens slowly, swelling under that expert massage, an erection that grows inexorably, hot and painful in its repressed need.

"Fuck..." Baku murmurs, his voice hoarse, a low growl that echoes in the darkness, his hands gripping the couch cushions until his knuckles whiten, fighting not to give in completely.

Baek-Jin is smiling, Baku feels it in a amused puff that crashes onto his already ultrasensitive skin.

He's not using his mouth yet, and he's already screwed.

Baek-Jin lowers his head, his lips first brushing the tip, a moist kiss, light as a feather. His tongue darts out, warm and silky, licking slowly the sensitive slit, savoring the salty taste of the pre-seminal fluid.

It's over. And he's not imagining a damn thing; in fact, he's feeling everything, anchored to that reality with all the senses he has available.

Baek-Jin continues with a slow movement that makes Baku's abdominal muscles contract in involuntary spasms.

"Don't fight, enjoy it” Baek-Jin murmurs against the warm flesh, the vibration of the words reverberating like a wave of pleasure, before taking him in his mouth with a fluid movement, swallowing him slowly, centimeter by centimeter, the warm and wet mouth enveloping him in a tight, possessive embrace.

Baku was about to curse or tell him to go to hell but remains breathless and moans, curling all his toes.

I don’t give in, I don't give in, I mustn't give in.

But he is, and it's beautiful.

Fuck!

The sensations overwhelm Baku like a wave: the enveloping heat of Baek-Jin's mouth, the tongue that presses and swirls around the glans, teasing every exposed nerve with cruel, expert precision; the light suction that draws him deeper, a pulsing void that takes his breath away, making him arch his back against the couch. The darkness amplifies everything: every wet sound, every moist smack of Baek-Jin's lips sliding up and down, a pressing rhythm that accelerates gradually, alternating depth and lightness, sinking all the way to the throat with a muffled moan, then withdrawing to lick the length with the tip of the tongue, tracing swollen veins through which the blood flows that he magically seems to master.

Baku feels the heat rising, a fire that inflames every cell of his body, his member fully hardening now, rigid between the hand and in Baek-Jin's mouth, every movement sending waves of pure pleasure that spread like an epidemic.

"Fucking hell” Baku gasps, his voice cracked, his hands instinctively rising toward Baek-Jin's head, intertwining in his hair, gripping tightly as the pleasure consumes him, shakes him.

He no longer thinks about the little songs, he thinks of nothing except that moist heat, that rhythmic suction that brings him to the edge, his body tensing like a call, his hips arching involuntarily, thrusting deeper into that welcoming mouth.

It's intense, overwhelming, a mix of domination and submission that disarms him: Baek-Jin's control over him, the mastery with which he brings him to the limit, alternating speeds, fast and frantic, then slow and torturous, the hand gripping the base to prolong the agony, making him lose every barrier, every denial.

The pleasure rises in ever higher crests, a deluge that breaks the dam, leaving Baku panting, lost in that sensual darkness, his body screaming for more.

More from Na Baek-Jin. And from no one else.

Baek-Jin slows for an instant, his mouth withdrawing slightly, leaving Baku's member exposed to the cool air in an agonizing contrast with the moist heat that had enveloped it.

"Whatever you're imagining, it's working” he murmurs in a low, caressing voice, the words vibrating against the skin, a warm breath that caresses the member, making it contract. He feels that absence like a deprivation. Baku would want to scream for him not to stop and bites his tongue just to avoid it.

The idea that he doesn't want him to stop is torture, especially when Baku feels his member hardening further, treacherous, the pleasure screaming from the deprivation, but rage overwhelms him like a wave.

"Fuck you” Baku growls, his voice hoarse, broken by panting, his hands gripping Baek-Jin's hair harder, a mix of possession and frustration that makes his fingers tremble. He doesn't want to admit that he's not imagining anyone, just that heat, that mouth, that touch that's disintegrating him.

Just Baek-Jin.

Baek-Jin laughs, a low, guttural laugh that echoes directly on his member, the vibrations reverberating like jolts of pure pleasure, making him arch his back again in a tense arc, his lower abdomen contracting in involuntary spasms.

That sound is an erotic poison that dissolves every residual resistance, amplifying the sensations to the limit of the bearable. Baku decides to move his hands to bring Baek-Jin back to what he was doing, taking that moment of dominance. And Baek-Jin resumes sucking him without denying himself, now more voracious, famished, as if he wanted to drive him mad, devour him in a whirlwind of brutal intensity.

The mouth closes around him with renewed force, the tongue swirling and pressing with ferocity, the deep and rhythmic suction drawing him all the way to the back of the throat, a frantic rhythm alternating violent thrusts and rapid withdrawals, the hand gripping the base with a possessive hold, massaging in sync to push Baku over the precipice without too much ceremony, without mercy.

Baku pants without holding back, his eyes squeezed shut despite the blindfold and his body trembling like a leaf in a storm, the pleasure assaulting him in ever higher crests, a devastating fire.

"Fuck, I'm about to... Jin, stop-" he tries to warn him, his voice a broken moan, his hands pulling Baek-Jin's hair in a desperate attempt to slow him down, but Baek-Jin doesn't listen, with one hand he pushes away one of Baku's hands, to make him understand who has command in that moment, intensifying the rhythm, the mouth swallowing him completely, the throat contracting around him in a tight, moist embrace that makes him explode.

Baku comes with a hoarse shout, his body arching in an overwhelming orgasm, waves of pure pleasure shaking him from his guts, his seed spilling into Baek-Jin's mouth in hot spurts, while he swallows it all greedily, his tongue continuing to lick, prolonging the ecstasy until it makes him tremble, emptied and overwhelmed.

Baku tries to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling in irregular gasps, the world spinning in the darkness of the blindfold, but he's beside himself: he came with a violence that leaves him dazed, and not for a moment did he think of anything else, only Baek-Jin, his warm and expert mouth, his tongue that enveloped him like fiery silk around his member, every movement imprinted in the flesh like a tattoo.

The desire wasn't imagined: it was real, raw, violent, passionate, mad, and that realization hits him like a punch, igniting a possessive fury that boils in his blood.

He removes the blindfold with a brusque gesture, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, he sits up abruptly from the couch, his side aching from the sudden movement, a lancinating pain that draws a grimace from him, but he ignores it, his body still quivering from post-orgasm.

He grabs Baek-Jin by the shoulders with force, his fingers digging into the firm flesh, shaking him while looking at him furiously, his eyes sending sparks of jealousy and rage.

 "Who taught you how to do it? Uh? Who the fuck taught you, Jin?"

I used to cry but the tear is dry

Used to be blind but I see the light

I start to smile and I don't know why

Please cut me deep

I'll live to just enjoy the bleed

Chapter Text

I know you're thinkin I'm heartless

I know you're thinkin I'm cold

I'm just protectin' my innocence

I'm just protectin my soul

I'm never gonna let you close to me

Even though you mean the most to me

Cause every time I open up, it hurts

So, I'm never gonna get too close to you

Even when I mean the most to you

In case you go and leave me in the dirt

-Too good at goodbyes, Sam Smith

Baek-Jin wipes his mouth by impudently running the palm of one hand over it, the slow gesture sliding the salty and warm taste of Baku onto his skin, an intimate mark that sends devastating shocks of excitement through him.

But he can't tear his eyes away from Baku's, from that scorching expression of rage... no, not just that, also liquid, uncontrollable jealousy, an emotion so alive, visceral that it ignites his chest as if it had become the exact point where hell exists, flames licking every exposed nerve.

Baku is so marvelous in that moment.

Baek-Jin finds him so fucking attractive, like never before, in an almost sadistic, painful way: his hair disheveled from the blindfold removed abruptly, black strands damp with sweat falling over his forehead in a wild chaos that makes him so vulnerable to whatever he intends to confess to him. His eyes glossy, dilated, staring at him as if he wanted to forcibly rip the truth out of him, devour him with his gaze before even with his hands, with his teeth, with his entire body; his breath broken, agitated, overwhelmed by all the emotions that he himself has made him feel: guttural moans, that name whispered between one curse and another, seduced by an agonizing ecstasy that Baek-Jin has procured for him with his voracious mouth, insistent tongue, every movement calculated to shatter his defenses, to make him yield in a whirlwind of forbidden pleasure that still echoes between those walls.

The very strong grip on his forearms made him jolt, Baku's fingers sinking into the flesh with a brutal, possessive force that could leave bruises tomorrow, purple and blue marks, warm to the touch, that Baek-Jin would wear like secret trophies, tangible memories of that moment, brands of desire that would excite him just by brushing them. Besides sadistic, also masochistic. Pain is a distorted pleasure, he's always liked it, but never like in that moment that feels like electricity coursing through his blood, making him almost superhuman, and mixing everything in his crazed heart; never like now has he felt so alive.

A knot in his stomach grips him, a mix of exhilarating triumph and repressed desire that clamps his guts like a vise: he has done something he perhaps had always craved to do with an obsessive intensity, feeling Baku moan with pleasure because of him is a type of satisfaction that renews him from the depths, makes him feel powerful, unique in the world, unique for those eyes that can't separate from him and that look at him with a disarming desperation; in that moment Baek-Jin desires him in a way that goes beyond the physical, a carnal bond that consumes him, makes him yearn for more, for everything.

"I want to break you” he thinks, while his fingers tremble imperceptibly under Baku's grip, "but only to rebuild you around me, to make you mine in every breath, every sigh."

Baku's jealousy excites him beyond measure, it's like adrenaline. His member throbs with painful violence against the fabric of his tracksuit, neglected and pleading, swollen with a raw, unstoppable need.

If the boy weren't so angry, so furious and possessive, with that predatory gleam in his eyes promising revenge, Baek-Jin would push him against the couch, to tear off his clothes with famished hands and mark his skin with deep bites, red like the repressed, tormented desire, whispering in his ear: "Do you see how much I want you? How much you're mine?" without hesitation, he would crush him beneath himself with the weight of his hot, sweaty body, to keep hearing him pant, call his name in pleading moans, still mad, still with real jealousy while he does all the most perverse things he keeps well guarded in his mind.

But beneath that vortex of perversions, position after position, up to a culminating ecstasy, there's a shadow that torments him: what if Baku discovered that he loves him with a dark, possessive devotion that consumes him from within, making him vulnerable like never with anyone else?

"I can't lose you” he thinks, "not after having you like this."

So, with those eyes still piercing him, Baek-Jin is shaken by a shiver, suddenly frightened by how much he wants him, terrified by how ready he is to yield for that moment, to offer himself completely, to let himself be consumed by desire and the illusion of belonging to him.

"Who the fuck taught you that?" Baku asked him, shaking him forcefully, and Baek-Jin hasn't answered yet, his lips damp, swollen from the recent contact, red like a forbidden invitation, which initially curved into a slanted, provocative, mischievous smile, now already faded.

That moment was almost like experiencing an orgasm. It overwhelmed him, he lived it in silence, just looking at him, and it's already over... disturbed by all the fears that even someone like Baek-Jin knows how to feel.

"It's a natural talent, I told you, I'm very good” Baek-Jin finally replies, an attempt to deflect with irony, but his eyes betray a challenge to believe it, to swallow that lie sweet like a poisoned apple.

Baku lets him go as if he'd been electrocuted, an electric shiver running down his arms, and looks at his lower belly with a mix of shame, immediately pulling up his underwear and pants to cover himself, his trembling hands brushing the sensitive skin, still warm from the recent pleasure, an erection faded but not forgotten.

"Are you fucking with me?" he exclaims, ruffling his hair violently, frustrated, his body leaning back against the couch in an attempt to regain control, perhaps distance.

Baek-Jin stays on his knees, his tense thighs rubbing against the floor, he gives a slow, predatory smile, and looks at Baku who is trying to assume a semblance of dignity: his face flushed, his eyes avoiding his gaze for an instant, his chest rising in irregular waves. He's trying to calm down, not to alter even that moment into yet another violence, but Baek-Jin senses that emotion caught him by surprise; an unexpected desire, that came like lightning and that now he's trying to chase away because he doesn't want to recognize it, that jealousy, he doesn't want to give it a name even in his thoughts. He doesn't want to admit that, just as the orgasm was real, and not a blindfolded illusion, the vehemence to rip the truth off him is equally true, equally real.

Baek-Jin gets to his feet with a fluid, sensual movement, the muscles of his bare abdomen contracting under the dim light, he adjusts his member, swollen, bothersome between his legs, a painful erection begging for attention, the fabric of his tracksuit stretching it in an indecent invitation; he barely turns his back to Baku to walk away, his body moving slowly, elegantly. However, Baku, drawn to his movements, especially when Baek-Jin's hand touched his member, grabs him by the wrist with brutal force and throws him onto the couch, forcing him to stay there, the weight of his presence close again crushing him against the cushions.

"You have to answer me” Baku orders him, face to face, no more escapes.

"Why do you want to know?" he continues to challenge him, indifferent to what he might unleash with his bravado or his attempts to always be vague, always unreachable in his thoughts.

"SHIBAL, ANSWER ME!" Baku yells.

Baek-Jin takes a deep breath, tries to get up by pushing Baku away with one arm, but a hand on his chest pushes him back against the couch.

They look at each other, this time even Baek-Jin has a slightly nervous expression, but Baku's rage is unreachable.

"Baku, if you keep going with these tones, you know how we'll end up..." Baek-Jin warns him.

Baku clenches the fist still firm on the other's chest, his knuckles whitening, Baek-Jin's skin burning at the contact like yet another offense.

Baek-Jin looks at him still enraptured by all that beauty and feels like a madman for wanting him in that state, for craving that fatal anger.

He holds back a smile because he knows that with just one bastard reaction, now he could receive a punch in the face, an impact he already imagines, violent, that would make him bleed but also excite him in an unhealthy way.

He would deserve it.

"Why do you want to know?" Baek-Jin insists, his eyes digging into Baku's.

"Because I don't understand you” Baku admits, the frustration cracking his voice, a veil of confusion that makes him even more vulnerable, more desirable.

"What's there to understand?" Baek-Jin retorts.

Baku pushes him against the couch even more, while his clenched fist opens, sinking into the flesh. A single finger brushes one of Baek-Jin's nipples, making his whole body quiver at that casual contact.

Aish, what would happen if Baku decided to touch him voluntarily and not to physically hurt him?

"I know how to take it in my mouth, do you really need to know about my past to enjoy the service?"

But Baek-Jin is truly a masochist. He really wants that pain on him. He imagines it perfectly already, how Baku desires to grip his neck to strangle him, the powerful fingers pressing on his throat, a possessive touch... or maybe he's having hallucinations, erotic visions of violence and submission that make his member throb with renewed urgency.

Baku finally moves away from him, Baek-Jin immediately feels cold, the memory of the hand on his chest is like the heartbreaking scream for a sudden, uncalculated loss; Baku turns his back to him, his arms resting on his knees, his body hunched: he's thinking or meditating, anything to not react with violence, to not yield to that impulse boiling in his veins.

Baek-Jin tries to get up, his muscles tensing in a fluid movement, but Baku's voice comes impetuous, a command: "Just- sit down, for fuck’s sake."

"It's late” says Baek-Jin, but his body betrays every word, the desire consuming him. He stays seated as he's been ordered.

Baku turns around, lowers his gaze to Baek-Jin's still hard member.

"Sleeping is the last thing your body wants to do” he replies resolutely, a velvety growl.

He pushes him back against the couch with controlled force, his hands brushing the bare skin, inconsolable until a second before and already active with new shocks of pleasure as soon as the contact occurs.

Baku looks at him, he's angry, confused, shaken but a light flares in his eyes: curiosity.

What Baek-Jin did to him... it didn't disgust him, on the contrary, it ignited him in an unexpected way, a raw pleasure that left him... with too many questions. And not just about Baek-Jin's past.

Baek-Jin understands that it's curiosity, just as he intuited that Baku had been seized by an immature fit of jealousy.

Now it's his turn to feel a bit of it. Because while Baku looks at his erection with an expression that doesn't announce a desire to touch it, he wonders who he thought about, while blindfolded, who he imagined to get so hard, to reach the peak of orgasm so violently, with moans that still echo in his mind.

His stomach tightens in a poisonous grip, an acidity that burns his guts, perhaps a beautiful woman, with soft curves and thunderous lips, an image that torments him, makes him vengeful.

Baku has raised his eyes to his face and is trying to study his expression but doesn't seem to recognize the jealousy or the annoyance he's feeling, that veil of vulnerability that Baek-Jin hides behind a mocking smile.

"So, what do you want to do? Take care of it yourself?" he provokes him.

He expected anything, except for Baku to respond in kind.

"Otherwise how the fuck do I learn?" those few words come out effortlessly, but his voice is cracked, dry, an admission that costs him. Baek-Jin sees it from how he furrows his brow and his eyes grow even darker: again a violent thought must spring to mind "who the fuck taught him, who touched Baek-Jin, who he fucked to become so good" but Baek-Jin also sees him reject it, sees him struggle against that jealousy, and win by feigning indifference.

For Baku it would seem important now, that his first times be with Baek-Jin, that to free himself from him he must learn well and quickly.

"I won't do the same to you” Baku proposes, the words coming out censored, compared to everything he must have in mind; his eyes burn with a dark curiosity, while one of his hands reaches out again toward Baek-Jin.

Baek-Jin feels the world shrink to that couch, to that body pressed against his, when Baku's fingers begin to brush his abdomen – a hesitant but deliberate touch, the fingertips tracing invisible lines on every contracted muscle, exploring the taut surface as if he wanted to memorize it, imprint it on his skin.

Baku avoids his gaze, his eyes fixed on that path, and Baek-Jin holds his breath, his heart pounding in his ears like distant thunder, while those fingers tickle the fine hair just below his navel, an electric shiver that contracts his belly, making the blood pulse lower down, where desire already boils, inexorable. He doesn't stop, Baku – oh no, he continues beyond the elastic of the tracksuit, descending with agonizing slowness, the palm finally wrapping around his member over the fabric, a full, claiming contact that makes him stiffen instantly, the heat filtering through the thin cotton, amplifying every swollen vein, every treacherous pulsation.

Baku sketches a nervous smile, his lips curving into an uncertain, almost shy expression, and finally raises his eyes to him, seeking a reaction – a gleam of challenge mixed with vulnerability that Baek-Jin didn't expect, that leaves him paralyzed, his body rigid in acute surprise, unable to process that real touch, that palm gripping him with an inexperienced but instinctive firmness, as if Baku were claiming something of his own.

"I might already be good at this” murmurs Baku, his voice a hoarse whisper vibrating in the thick air, and Baek-Jin rolls his eyes with effort, feigning bored indifference, his eyelids heavy to mask the inner turmoil.

"I told you, it doesn't have to be simply a physical act, you have to make me believe you're enjoying it” retorts Baek-Jin, the words coming out low, a command veiled in provocation, but Baku doesn't hesitate: he still grips his member over the tracksuit, a decisive hold that makes him jolt, a deep tremor that shakes his thighs.

"I've just started, don't start complaining right away” Baku replies, tilting his head onto his chest with a fluid movement, his lips reaching a turgid nipple, biting it gently but firmly, a bite that sends shocks of fire straight to his member, making it contract under that insistent palm.

Baek-Jin jolts again, a muffled moan escaping his lips, a hand darting into Baku's hair, grabbing it forcefully, pulling to push him away – not in refusal, but to regain a shred of control, his heart exploding in his chest in a chaos of contrasting emotions: voracious desire, surprise that disarms him, a mutual possessiveness that consumes him, makes him tremble from within.

Baku raises his eyes to him, their gazes locking in a silent duel, and he gives a crooked, slanted smile, an expression mixing triumph and uncertainty.

"What's wrong? Sensitive spot?" he murmurs, still rubbing his hand on Baek-Jin's member, a dominant movement that makes him pant softly, goosebumps rising on his arms, his neck, an uncontrollable shiver from the emotion too strong, too raw, that leaves him exposed, his body reacting imploringly.

Baek-Jin doesn't respond, he huffs allmost defeated, and lets go of his hair reluctantly, his fingers brushing a fleeting caress before withdrawing, allowing him to continue, his body surrendering to that touch.

Baku returns to the nipple, bites it again with deliberate pressure, his teeth sinking just into the sensitive flesh, sending shocks of fire straight to Baek-Jin's lower belly, who moans "ahh" no longer able to hold back, betraying every barrier of control.

He feels Baku's lips stretch into a satisfied smile against his skin, a humid warmth marking him, then his tongue darts out, licking the reddened spot slowly before biting it again, sucking it between his lips with a slow suction, making Baek-Jin's chest muscles contract in involuntary spasms. Baku's hand proceeds to grip and rub over the tracksuit fabric, the palm wrapping the member with growing firmness, the wrist slightly accelerating the movement, a hypnotic rhythm that amplifies every pulsation, every swollen vein responding to the touch.

But it's not that which truly shakes Baek-Jin – no, it's when Baku starts kissing his abdomen with disarming calm, as if he had all the time in the world ahead, his lips brushing each abdominal with wet, slow kisses, his tongue tracing lines of warm saliva, licking and biting with cruel, exploratory precision, making his muscles stiffen, his body arching slightly against that contact.

Baek-Jin can do nothing but try to control his breathing, deep inhalations filling his lungs with air charged with desire, while he watches him, admires him in silence: his hair tickling the taut skin as he moves over his chest, dark strands caressing him; Baku's eyes sometimes closed in concentration, sometimes open casting penetrating glances, scrutinizing every minimal reaction. It's a war of who provokes more, who exaggerates more and who is ready to yield, a duel of touches and gazes that regenerates them both.

Baek-Jin can't let him win, even if he's like clay in his hands, moldable, ready to let him do anything because it's everything he's always desired – that inexperienced but famished touch, that possession that makes him feel alive, desired in an obsessive way.

Yet, he tells him: "You won't make me come so easily, if you don't even have the courage to slip your hand inside my pants” his voice a low, provocative hiss that vibrates against his own chest, challenging him to push further.

Baku huffs on his skin, a warm puff that tickles him, hot breath that contracts his muscles, but Baek-Jin tenses up, dissimulates with a slanted smile and watches him, his eyes following every movement. Like how Baku gives all his attention to his hand, which immediately pushes under the elastic of the tracksuit and inside Baek-Jin's underwear, the fingers wrapping around the bare member with a direct, warm grip, two initial pumps that make him pant, excite him even more – but Baku must not be satisfied, he pulls out his hand, spits on it with a crude gesture, the saliva glistening under the dim light, and slips it back in, rubbing almost violently, the palm sliding up and down in a brutal rhythm, squeezing the length with a force that tears other moans from him.

Baek-Jin clenches his teeth, the muscles in his legs tense and sore, a pain mixed with pleasure that inflames his veins.

Ahhh... no matter what he says out loud, it won't take long to come, his body screaming in a whirlwind of sensations. And not because Baku is so shameless, so dirty, so fucking attractive while gripping his cock, no, simply because it's Baku. Finally, it's Baku, that touch he's dreamed of in sleepless nights, that possession that makes him feel like he belongs to him. A lie he wants to cling to in that moment to feel everything amplified.

While pumping, teasing the sensitive glans with his thumb, tracing wet circles on the exposed point that makes him contract in spasms, Baku returns to devouring his chest, his lips closing on a pectoral, biting and sucking with renewed ferocity. He never goes beyond, doesn't go up, and Baek-Jin doesn't invite him, his heart pounding at the idea of a real kiss, lips against lips – he's dying like this, a sweet torment that consumes him, if they brushed lips he would go mad and would just need to be locked up in a mental health center.

He feels the veins of his member pulsing under Baku's fingers, the pleasure arriving at an absurd speed, his breath completely fucked, moans filling the room like a broken mantra.

Baek-Jin no longer holds back and starts moaning and calling him "Baku... ahh..." touching his hair, gripping it a bit with trembling fingers, his body arching against that touch.

"Ahhh"

Baek-Jin is about to come, the orgasm rising like an unstoppable tide.

But Baku stops suddenly, presses on the tip with his thumb, covering the slit with a firm, cruel grip, blocking the flow, a gesture that leaves him suspended on the edge, the pleasure retreating in frustrated agony. Baek-Jin widens his eyes, clenches his jaw, his body trembling with repressed need.

"What the hell-" he growls, his voice a broken moan, infuriated. He can't even finish speaking.

Baku grins, a mischievous smile that lights up his face, his eyes shining with triumph. He's in control of the situation. He dominates him. He bends him. He wants him to succumb to his control.

It's all so sudden that Baek-Jin feels dizzy, while his whole body is reacting to that submission.

"Did you really think I'd make it that easy for you?" he provokes him, his hand maintaining the grip, without mercy, Baek-Jin's body silently screaming for the denied release.

Baek-Jin is out of breath, looks at him frowning, sweat beading on his forehead, his chest rising and falling in irregular waves. His body is screaming violently and selfishly to have what it was about to reach, but Baku has no intention of finishing, on the contrary, he interrupted him and forced him with that grip to remain unsatisfied, until he benefits from it, his eyes challenging him to beg.

"What do you want?" Baek-Jin asks, irritated, his voice a low hiss, tense like a string.

Baku runs his tongue over his lips with deliberate slowness, wetting them in a gesture that ignites Baek-Jin with impetuous madness, Baku is mentally praising himself for having that awareness on how to slow down the orgasm or even prevent it and Baek-Jin can read it in his gaze, and along with that also the rage, again flashing, never truly subdued, a fire burning under the surface.

"For you to answer my questions” Baku explains.

Fuck, how much of an asshole he is. Baek-Jin could even congratulate him, if he didn't just feel like telling him to fuck off.

Baek-Jin huffs, a frustrated sound escaping his lips. He tries to push him away with one arm, his muscles tensing in an attempt at rebellion, but with his free hand Baku holds him firm against the couch, and with the one gripping his cock he applies pressure, making him pant again, a moan betraying his need, the denied pleasure tormenting him like a suspended wave.

"Na Baek-Jin, do you want to come?" Baku challenges him, his eyes shining with cruel dominance, a slanted smile that makes him quiver.

Oh yes... he wants it so badly, a release that would shatter him in pure ecstasy. Perhaps, for the first time, ready to overwhelm even his soul.

Submit? A bit less, a veil of pride resisting, but his body screams the opposite.

"If you make me answer now, there won't be any need for me to come... you'll just ruin the moment” Baek-Jin explains to him, his voice a hoarse whisper, an attempt to negotiate, to regain control in that whirlwind.

Baku frowns, thinks about it, his eyes narrowing in reflection, his body still pressed against his. He seems to agree with Baek-Jin, a gleam of frustration crossing his gaze.

"You're a man of your word, promise you'll answer me, then” Baku demands, his voice low, a command veiled in plea.

Baek-Jin runs a hand over his face, covering his eyes for a moment, his breathing irregular. He could try again to push him away, with more force, his muscles quivering for action. Lock himself in his room and end this story, extinguish that fire consuming him.

In the end, he sighs and sketches a slanted smile, his eyes fixing on Baku's.

"Alright."

"Say it” Baku insists, his grip loosening just a bit, but his body remaining close, possessive.

"I'll answer your questions” Baek-Jin concedes, his voice a hoarse whisper, a pact sealed in the heat between them.

Baku doesn't wait any longer. It's the first time he's touching another man like this, exploring a male body with his hands and mouth, yet he knows exactly what to do, as if the countless times he's masturbated alone, imagining sensations that now materialize under his fingers, had taught him every secret, every sensitive point to tease to turn the world upside down for the person he's dedicating himself to so animatedly, so altruistically.

He resumes pumping with urgency, his hand sliding up and down, alternating fast and slow rhythms in a deliberate torment that disarms him, his thumb brushing the glans in wet, cruel circles, pressing just enough to make Baek-Jin's muscles contract in involuntary spasms, in moans the other can't hold back and that reach his eardrums directly, like praise, like encouragement.

There's also selfishness in that dedication: Baku feels his own body reacting, a treacherous heat rising from his lower belly, an erection awakening despite the recent orgasm, betraying him, making him quiver with an unexpected, raw desire, hungry again.

It's not just to make Baek-Jin yield, no, Baku finds himself involved in an unexpected way, overwhelmed by a desire that makes him pant softly while biting and licking a nipple, his tongue darting over the hot, salty skin, savoring it because he's discovered it intoxicates him; Baek-Jin's is a scent of sweat and masculinity that invades his senses, makes him addicted, a blind need to kiss that broad chest, to trace with his lips every sculpted curve, every abdominal that contracts under his touch, and it's in that way that he feels like the master, invincible, strong, a sensation that not even a brawl has ever given him. The heat burns on his tongue like salt and lemon before tequila, he feels like an animal acting on pure instinct, because if he really thought about what he's doing and to whom, he would probably shudder to the tips of his fingers. But perhaps he's more blindfolded now than he was moments before, and this excites him beyond any denial, while he continues to give Baek-Jin no peace in any way, with his free hand he's even started teasing the farther nipple that he can't reach with his mouth, while Baek-Jin's breathing quickens into increasingly explicit moans and his body trembles, as if shaken by an internal earthquake.

There must be a revolution inside Baek-Jin and Baku is its leader.

So the orgasm arrives that surprisingly overwhelms them both, an explosion of pulsing white heat, leaving Baek-Jin panting, emptied, the seed spilling in hot spurts onto Baku's hand, who lifts his head just a bit, admires him, fills his eyes as if they were the images he'll use when it's his turn to pleasure himself, his hand continuing to move ever slower, Baek-Jin's body contracting in final spasms, and Baku absorbing every tremor, every moan, involved in a way that scares and excites him at the same time.

An orgasm like a tsunami, to which he immediately gives the name Baku, because no one before him has managed to make him feel like this, no one has ever left him so shaken, trembling in an ecstasy that rebuilds and destroys him at the same time.

Baek-Jin pushes him away roughly, the sticky discomfort in his underwear, a warm, damp residue reminding him of every betraying pulse of his body, makes him grimace in a mix of disgust and anger, his heart pounding in his chest like a broken drum, a blend of vanished ecstasy and exposed vulnerability that makes him tremble imperceptibly.
He runs his fingers through his hair, untangling it quickly, fingertips brushing his scalp as if to anchor himself to reality, struggling to catch his breath, short, burning inhalations that sting his lungs, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves, betraying his inner chaos.
Never before has he recognized this for what it is: a love so twisted and complicated it consumes him from within, makes him feel naked, broken. Unprepared.

Baku gets up abruptly, heading to the kitchen to grab something to wipe his hand, the same hand that had dominated him, brought him to the edge and beyond, his seed still clinging to those fingers like an indelible mark, a carnal bond that he already knows will haunt him in the days to come.
Baek-Jin rises too, his muscles aching from the sudden movement, and meets Baku at the kitchen doorway. Their bodies brush in a fleeting, electric contact, the residual warmth between them binding them like invisible, irritating chains. Baku’s breath grazes the nape of his neck, a ghost of heat that sends a shiver down his spine. So he turns abruptly, acting on instinct, on rage, for once without thinking.

He faces him coldly, a wall erected to hide the storm inside.

“We’re done” he says, his voice a low hiss, sharp as a blade, heavy with veiled accusation, his heart twisting painfully in his chest.
He doesn’t want to treat him like this, but he feels so exposed he has to defend himself. No one ever taught him any other way when he feels cornered.

Attack, defend, never let yourself be hit.

Baku smirks, crooked and mocking, his moist lips curving into a smile that provokes, that taunts, but underneath it there’s a flicker of uncertainty, of regret, something Baek-Jin catches but refuses to acknowledge before it can make him feel even more vulnerable.

“Wasn’t I convincing enough?”

Baek-Jin clenches his jaw, his muscles tensing into a hard line. His body reacts despite everything, a shiver running down his spine, a treacherous heat rising from his belly, like a call: he would already be ready to start all over again, to touch him and be touched. And yet, at the same time, he’s building a wall that he knows will inevitably drive the other away. A tearing conflict rages inside him: self-loathing for having yielded, for exposing that deep, possessive desire. He despises himself for still wanting him, so much, always.

“Don’t ever do that again” he orders, a command that hides a plea, his eyes betraying pain for just an instant, that cruel interruption, that control that left him hanging, pleading, a denied pleasure that consumed him, made him feel weak, exposed, in love in a way that terrifies him.
Baek-Jin turns away, heading for the hallway, his steps quick, his body moving with feline grace yet taut, every muscle screaming for that interrupted contact, his heart tightening in a vice of loneliness, of regret.

“Na Baek-Jin, you owe me an answer” Baku growls, his voice a command that pins him in place, as if his body now responds to him without question. Baku’s gaze burns on his bare back, tracing every curve, every bead of sweat shining on his skin, a look that suffocates him.
Baek-Jin stops, doesn’t turn, his breath quickening slightly, his heart pounding like a drum of repressed desire, of buried pain resurfacing, his eyes blurring for an instant with unshed tears.

“You won’t like it” he murmurs, beneath it a deep terror, the fear of shattering that fragile balance, of revealing the scars that define him.

He doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t want Baku to change, not if that means shifting from hate to guilt for the cruel fate life dealt him.
Perhaps, Baek-Jin doesn’t even want love from him. Because love should be protected, not bitten; love should nourish the soul and the body and he has only poison beneath his teeth.

“When have I ever liked your fucking choices?” Baku retorts, his voice trembling with frustration and sorrow.

Baek-Jin looks up at the ceiling, a deep sigh escaping his lips, eyes closing for an instant, absorbing the weight of the moment, his heart twisting with bitter memories, with sleepless nights spent craving the very possession that now terrifies him.

“Did you ever wonder why I was always picked on at school?”

He hears Baku’s breath hitch, a sharp, restrained sound that splits the silence like a sudden fracture. He doesn’t need to look to imagine it: the arrogant smirk fading, his jaw tightening, eyes widening with shock and guilt. He can almost feel the physical pain of that moment, as if the words had struck them both. There’s an invisible bond, a shared echo of shame and rage, coursing through him until it makes him falter.
He turns slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him. Baku is frozen, motionless. His shoulders are stiff, his gaze clouded by a torment that stretches like a shadow across his face. His hands tremble faintly, clenched into fists with nowhere to release.

There it is, the guilt. Palpable, almost tangible. Baek-Jin recognizes it instantly, he hates it, despises it with every fiber of his being, and yet he can do nothing to stop it from being born. Because he knows that now Baku will start to change: he will no longer hate him, and that fierce rage he always held for him will slowly turn into pity.
And that, Baek-Jin cannot bear.
He would rather have the hate a thousand times over.
Because when pity arrives, it will be his turn to hate him, for feeling it so easily.

There won’t be a moment when he won’t remember all the terrible things Baek-Jin’s done to Baku, so maybe then, he’ll learn to hate him again.

“It was never just because of my second-hand clothes or because I was an orphan” Baek-Jin continues, his voice low, a whisper trembling with bitter memories, a buried pain rising like a hot tide, his heart twisting again in shame.

“What the fuck are you trying to tell me?” Baku growls, fists tightening until his knuckles whiten, his whole body trembling with uncontrollable fury, protective, instinctive, the kind reserved for someone you see as too fragile to defend themselves. To Baek-Jin, it feels like a slap.

“Some of them asked me to do things for them, and if I said no, they beat me. Then they took what they wanted anyway” Baek-Jin says.

The words hang in the air, heavy, merciless. Baek-Jin’s body tenses at the memory: skin still burning, the recollection of forced breaths, of touches he didn’t want. It’s a pain that never stopped living inside him, now tightening around his throat, drowning his voice. His eyes blur, but the tears don’t fall, they hover there, suspended, like the rest of his life.

Baku closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again, full of fury. His arm muscles tense, his jaw vibrates under clenched teeth. He’s consumed by a raw, primal rage, the instinct to avenge, to destroy whoever hurt him. But beneath that fury lies something deeper: a reflected pain, a torment that Baek-Jin feels echoing inside himself.
And that’s exactly why he knows he has to push him away.
He doesn’t want his pity. Nor his borrowed rage.

That pain is his, and his alone. And Baek-Jin’s duty now is to remind him that he has no right to take it away.

“Most of them stopped when you stepped in. They were scared I’d talk to you, so they threatened me. And while you were teaching me how to fight back, I started fighting them” Baek-Jin goes on.
His shoulders tremble, but he doesn’t turn. He keeps his back to him deliberately, as if meeting Baku’s gaze would make him crumble completely. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, hot, bitter, held back by sheer will. He doesn’t want to remember, neither what happened, nor how it felt, nor the thoughts that kept him awake at night.

Because yes, those bullies eventually stopped the assaults, stopped demanding what he wouldn’t give. But they left a mark instead, a silent poison that seeped deep inside.
From that moment, something worse began: that twisted desire, that unspeakable impulse to want it to be Baku, his savior, doing those same things.
Not by force, not out of cruelty.
But by choice.

A voluntary touch, warm, decisive, that would make him give in without feeling violated. A subtle obsession that stayed with him for years, like an invisible brand.

Baek-Jin closes his eyes. His breath catches in his throat, short, fractured. Tears slide down his cheeks, slow, silent, and he doesn’t even try to stop them. Every word weighs like a stone.

“What I’d learned to do to them… I started looking for elsewhere. Didn’t never matter who” he finishes, his voice breaking, a confession that rips through his soul, a deep pain that makes him tremble, his body shaking with emotion repressed for far too long.

A few seconds of silence, heavy as lead, the air thick with raw electricity, Baek-Jin’s heart pounding wildly, a mix of relief and terror at having revealed that buried secret.

“I kept my word. Satisfied?” he asks, voice low, laced with defiance masking a broken sob, tears blurring his vision.

“Jin…” Baku murmurs, a guttural sound escaping his lips.

“No” Baek-Jin cuts him off, erecting an invisible wall, high and cold, his body tensing defensively, rejecting the emotional contact that disarms him, tears still falling, his heart shattering under the refusal he forces himself to speak.

“There are blankets in the wardrobe in my room. Stay here for the night, it’s too late” he orders, his voice steady but trembling beneath the surface, a command hiding a plea: stay, don’t leave me alone with this pain even if I push you away.

Then, he walks off without listening to anything Baku might have said, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, his body aching for the denied warmth, for the embrace refused, his heart throbbing with an unspoken crave that destroys him in the dark.

***

Baku remains frozen in the emptiness of that living room, his body drained of all energy, time moving relentlessly around him while he stays trapped, fixed to the echo of Baek-Jin’s voice and what he just heard.
When the sound of water reaches him from the bathroom, a distant, steady hiss, he understands that Baek-Jin is taking a shower. That sound anchors him for a moment, like a fragile truce. At least for a few minutes, he can allow himself to fall apart.

He collapses onto the couch, his hands sinking into his hair, fingers pulling at the strands with unconscious force. His breathing is uneven, ragged. Every word Baek-Jin uttered keeps echoing in his head, fragments too vast, too dark to hold. He tore them out of Baek-Jin with anger, with deceit, and now that they’re here, clinging to him, they weigh like boulders pressing down on his chest.

His stomach twists as too many images force their way into his mind: a young Baek-Jin, scared, alone, unknown hands grabbing him, pushing him, hurting him, forcing him to do things no child should even hear of.
And then, the present crashes in: his Baek-Jin, the grown man, kneeling before him, sharp gaze, wet mouth: a mask built to hide all that unbearable pain. The two images merge, blend into one until they’re indistinguishable, hitting him like a punch to the gut.

Nausea rises in his throat: he feels complicit in that violence.

Baku bends forward, his hands trembling. A gag builds up, he stumbles toward the kitchen, collapsing against the sink. The cold steel burns under his fingers. He leans over, tries to vomit, but nothing comes out. Only air. Only pain. He splashes water on his face, the icy drops running down his cheeks, mixing with the tears he can no longer hold back. In the metallic reflection, his face looks pale, hollow, his eyes red and glistening.

He wants to scream. Break everything. Disappear. He cannot bear the thought of what Baek-Jin has lived through. And above all, he cannot bear himself for what he has done.

Every gesture from earlier now feels like an echo of the same kind of violation Baek-Jin once endured. It’s as if he, too, became one of those boys, marking him, just in a different way, but with the same brutality.

“God, Jin… what have I done to you…” he whispers, voice shattered.

Tears scorch his cheeks, hot, relentless. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, but they keep falling. His breathing grows shallow, uneven, a strangled rasp. He’s afraid. Not of Baek-Jin, but of himself. Of what he becomes when anger takes over.

For a moment, he thinks of leaving. Walking out and never coming back, closing that door and forgetting everything. But the thought freezes him.

He can’t.
He can’t leave him alone, not after what Baek-Jin said. Not after what he made him relive.

He wipes his face, forces himself to move, each step heavy, as if he were shedding pieces of himself along the way. He walks to Baek-Jin’s room.

The scent of him is everywhere: the soap he uses for his laundry, the faint perfume of his shampoo, and something more intimate, more personal, something Baku has known only recently, and it hits him like guilt. Clothes on the chair, a jacket thrown aside, the unmistakable order that belongs to him, those small details of Baek-Jin’s life that now look like relics of a fragility Baku never cared to understand.

Guilt tightens around his throat, nearly choking him.

The images return, violent, and he feels as if his own body were punishing him: his heart pounding too fast, his chest aching, his legs giving out. He doubles over, struggling for air, but the nausea doesn’t fade. It’s like he’s swallowed poison, the kind that doesn’t kill instantly, but seeps slowly, drop by drop, hollowing him from within.

He grabs the blankets from the wardrobe with trembling hands, clutches them to his chest like an anchor, and returns to the living room.

The lights are still on. He turns them off, one by one, leaving only the dark to cover him. He lies on the couch, the rough fabric against his back, the familiar scent of leather and sweat seeping into his skin.
He closes his eyes. Each breath feels like a sacrifice, the body resisting the wish to fade away. Each thought a wound, bleeding endlessly inside.

That couch still carries their sounds, their raw movements, their mingled scents and he feels like a man tainted, undeserving of forgiveness or peace.

He wishes he could go back. To when he knew nothing. To when he could still think of himself as a friend, a brother, someone who saves instead of harms.
No. It’s not enough.
He wishes he could go back to when Baek-Jin’s innocence could still be saved. Before it was too late.

Baku lies on the couch for a long time, body still, eyes fixed on the ceiling he can no longer distinguish from the dark. The silence of the house is unreal, broken only by the distant dripping of the shower still running. That sound becomes a steady rhythm, almost hypnotic, and he clings to it like a lifeline.

He turns on his side, hands still wet with tears, and closes his eyes. He wants everything to disappear, but as soon as his mind tries to shut down, a vortex of images reignites it.
Sleep comes as an escape, but not as peace. It’s a rotten refuge, full of shadows and memories.

Baku sleeps, but stays alert, trapped in a suspended state where thoughts never stop talking to him. It’s as if part of him keeps watch over the pain, to make sure he doesn’t forget it, not even for a moment.

At first, there’s only exhaustion, then the darkness takes shape.
He finds himself in the courtyard of the old school, the sun high, the laughter of children bouncing through the air. The asphalt is warm, the smell of chalk and sweat familiar. And among those voices, he recognizes his own and Baek-Jin’s. Younger, lighter. He sees him running, face open in a pure smile, hair falling into his eyes, two boys pushing each other, laughing, tossing pebbles toward the sky. Baek-Jin’s laughter is bright as he shouts, chasing after him: “Wait for me, Hu-Min!”

For a brief moment, the memory warms his chest: two boys running free, as if nothing could ever break them.

Then the scene changes, as if life itself decided they’d been happy for too long.
The laughter turns to screams. The sky darkens, cold seeps in, their breath visible in the chill air.
Now Baek-Jin is on the ground, surrounded by larger shadows,  hands yanking, feet kicking, his small frame curling up, arms over his head. The voices become insults, a humming storm of cruelty.
Baku sees himself running toward them, grabbing one by the collar, shouting for them to stop. But it’s too late. It’s always been too late.

“Baku” Baek-Jin calls him, as if he were the savior, as if it were never too late.

He dreams it like a scratched film, jerky and fragmented, and in every frame the guilt grows heavier. He sees himself offering a hand to Baek-Jin, helping him up, bruised face, bleeding mouth.

“Why do they do this to you?” he asks, in the dream, with the same confused, angry voice he had back then.
But Baek-Jin doesn’t answer. He just looks at him, eyes wide and glassy, screaming something silent that Baku, then, never knew how to hear.

The images shift again.
Now Baek-Jin is the one hitting, fists flying at other boys, furious, desperate. The same boys screaming, trying to defend themselves. Baku watches, horrified, shouting his name, but Baek-Jin can’t hear him. Too late again.
When he finally grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him, yelling,

“Why are you doing this?!” the words wedge in his throat, like time itself had come to return them with all the weight they lacked back then.

Inside him, guilt lands like a stone: I’m the one who taught him to fight.

And now… now he understands that Baek-Jin used that strength to survive. And instead of understanding, he had judged him.

The two of them again, together. But they’re not children anymore. They’re who they are now, yet the dream traps them in a time that doesn’t exist. The sun is low, the air still. Their skin glistens with sweat, dirt clinging to their clothes. Baek-Jin’s breath comes short, his gaze uncertain.
Baku holds his chin between his fingers, with that affectionate firmness of someone trying to teach and protect at once.

“Hey, Na Baek-Jin” he says softly, a tired smile on his lips. “Clench your fists tight. Never look away. Look at me.”

Baek-Jin really looks at him and for an instant, he’s that fragile boy again, searching for somewhere safe. His eyes waver between wanting to be held and fearing to trust. It’s a fragile balance: the instinct to protect himself and the yearning to surrender.

Baek-Jin stares at him, pupils trembling, shimmering with tears that refuse to fall.
There’s that stubbornness, the kind born in those who’ve learned not to trust, who know every outstretched hand might turn into a weapon.

Baku wants to embrace him, but even in the dream he stays still. And the moment shatters, dissolves.

The images blur, melting into flashes of light, sweat, breath. Baek-Jin’s face drifts away, swallowed by an encroaching shadow.

“Don’t look away…” echoes his voice, though Baku no longer knows if it’s his or Baek-Jin’s. The sound of water returns from somewhere distant, transforming into the beat of his own heart.

Baku wakes up with a start.

A jolt runs through him, as if he’s fallen from some invisible height. He’s drenched in sweat, heart pounding wildly, mouth dry. The air in the living room is dense, still, like he’s been breathing fear for hours. He sits up, eyes lost in the dark.

For a few seconds, he doesn’t know where he is.
Then he recognizes the outline of the table, the familiar shadows of the room, the scent of the blankets he brought with him.

He runs a trembling hand over his face. The dream fades, but doesn’t release him. Inside, the slick, suffocating sensation of the past remains, the kind that never truly dies, that keeps breathing even when everything else falls asleep.

He stays there, sitting, breath slowly calming. And in the silence that follows, he realizes that none of what he saw was just a dream. It was everything he had ignored, everything he chose not to understand.
And now, awake, he can no longer unsee it.

***

It’s still dark when Baku gives up on the idea of sleeping and resting. His body feels heavy, his mind sluggish, but sleep can no longer keep him pinned to the couch. His heartbeat is erratic, annoying, as if his heart no longer belongs to him. He sits up slowly, a hand sliding through his hair, cold sweat dampening his forehead. The silence of the apartment feels almost unreal, broken only by the faint hum of nighttime traffic outside the window.

He decides to go to the kitchen. Maybe having something to drink will help him calm down. He opens the fridge, but the water bottle is empty: only the cold, slightly fogged glass stares back at him like a mockery. He sighs, turns, and switches on the light over the sink. The metal gleams under the yellow bulb, and as soon as he turns on the tap, the sound of running water instantly cuts through his thoughts. He could listen to it for hours, hypnotized, if it didn’t mean wasting water.

Luckily, the distinctive sound of intermittent dripping catches his attention. There’s a leak.

The dripping repeats, rhythmic, insistent, and he bends down to check. He slowly opens the cupboard beneath the sink: a thin trickle of water slides along the pipe, pooling into a small puddle that reflects the light.
Baku sighs, but doesn’t overthink it. Better to do something, anything, rather than stand still. When his mind is idle, it starts to spiral, and he can’t afford that without feeling like he’s going insane, trying to reason with himself and find some impossible way to make peace with his heart.
And rather than make another mess, maybe fixing that leak is the only right thing to do in that moment.

He looks around. A guy like Baek-Jin, meticulous to the point of obsession, must have a toolbox somewhere. But where? He moves into the living room; the lights are still off, but the kitchen’s glow helps him orient himself: the furniture stands like shadows. He stops in the middle of the room, scanning the space as if he could read Baek-Jin’s thoughts, where would he keep something useful, but not essential?

The storage closet, maybe.

He opens the door beside the entrance, but inside are only neatly hung coats, a row of umbrellas, a vacuum cleaner, bottles of detergent. Everything spotless, methodical. No tools.
Baku exhales quietly and goes back toward the kitchen. His footsteps barely sound against the floor. He opens drawers, one after another. Nothing. Then he thinks that maybe, on the small terrace, he might find something, so he heads toward the living room: the light curtains sway gently, brushed by a cool breeze that slips through the half-open window.

He opens the glass door and steps outside. The night air hits him with a shiver; the sky is still dark, but to the east, a pale line begins to appear, like the first breath of dawn. On the balcony, next to a few neglected pots, stands a metal cabinet. Baku approaches and opens it carefully.
Inside, among garden tools, pruning shears, and a glove stained with dry earth, he finally finds a heavy black bag with a zipper closed tight. He picks it up and opens it right there: a small wrench, some electrical tape, a screwdriver, a pair of pliers.
He smiles faintly, a tired but genuine smile.

A leaking sink is nothing, but right now, it’s exactly what he needs: a simple, mechanical task to anchor him to the present, to pull him away from the images that have been tormenting him for hours.
He goes back inside and kneels by the sink, placing the bag beside him. The metal creaks; the drops hit rhythmically against a bowl he found in the drawers to catch the water. The soft clinking, the sound of doing something with his hands in the quiet night, almost soothes him.

He works in silence, trying not to make too much noise. Each small gesture, unscrewing, checking, removing the gasket, drying, keeps him distant from everything else: from the words spoken, from the truths unearthed, from memories that now hurt because they reveal new, uncontrollable meanings.
Every moment he realizes he’s doing something right feels like a small victory, a way to regain control, to fix at least one thing while everything else remains irreparably broken.

***

Baek-Jin opens his eyes slowly, as if sleep still held him by the arm. A pulsating pain strikes his temples; he massages them with two fingers, trying to chase away the throbbing that matches the beat of his heart. The light filtering through the curtains is dim, just enough to outline the familiar shapes of the room. He sighs and, with a faint groan, rolls onto his side.

As he breathes, he can still smell the body wash on his skin, fresh, clean, almost too clean. In his mouth lingers the aftertaste of mint toothpaste, clashing with the bitterness rising from his stomach.
There’s no visible trace of Baku, nor of what they did the night before, and yet Baek-Jin feels him everywhere: on his skin, in his tensed muscles, his scent, the warm taste of saliva on his abdomen. As if no soap could ever really wash away what happened.

It’s like a blanket that wraps around him, warm, suffocating. He wishes he could feel cold again, return to that sensation that’s always been his: solitude, chill, the absence of human warmth. Instead, it’s as though his body burns with an alien warmth. With a soft huff, he pushes the blanket off, seeking relief in the cooler air.

A distant noise seeps into the silence. At first, he ignores it, thinking it’s just a ringing in his ears, a trick of his headache. He runs a hand over his face, tries to take a deep breath. But he can’t shake the unease tightening in his chest.
He doesn’t want to leave the room. He knows Baku is there, in the living room. He doesn’t want to face him. Not yet. Not after what he said.

He wishes he could go back. To that night when he was terrified of losing him forever, after seeing him nearly die, after believing there would be no tomorrow for either of them. Then it had seemed logical, desperately logical, to ask for that gesture, a way to feel alive again, to hold onto something tangible of him, to have a piece of him before letting go.
And yet look what happened. Everything had warped, like a flame given too much oxygen. He’d expected that reaction, that anger, that blind, violent fury that had swallowed them both. And he’d expected the tension, but not that loss of control.

Nor that intensity. That force. That assertiveness. From Baku.
It didn’t even occur to him to wonder whether Baku had enjoyed it, because it had seemed that way. Not what Baek-Jin had given, but what Baku had done with his body.
He had enjoyed it. He could still feel the passion of his hands and mouth, the way he had worshipped every inch of his skin. Either he was an incredible actor, or… But no.

It couldn’t be.

Baku is straight.

He exhales sharply, closes his eyes, sees him again, above him, dominant, resolute, that burning gaze, that rough voice scraping against his skin, those firm hands. And his body, traitorous, responding, as if it had been waiting for that moment all along. Baek-Jin shivers. It’s involuntary, a reflex that betrays him, that reveals how his body still reacts to that presence, that voice, that force that had taken his breath and, at the same time, given it back.

He hears another sound. This time, distinct. Metallic, sharp, like a tap against metal. Baek-Jin freezes, ears straining. Then another sound, duller. He sits up, his feet brushing the cold floor. The noise is coming from inside his apartment; he’s sure of it.

“What the hell is he doing?” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

He stands, slips into a light robe. Every step toward the hallway seems to echo. The living room is bathed in bluish dimness; the first light of dawn barely filters through the curtains. There’s an unnatural stillness, suspended.
But from the kitchen comes a warm glow and the rhythmic sound of something being moved, tightened, maybe fixed. Baek-Jin walks slowly, drawn by a mix of curiosity and irritation.

And then he sees him.

Baku, lying on his back beneath the sink, his legs sticking out, his T-shirt slightly lifted and stained, a patch of water on the floor beside him. The toolbox lies open, tools scattered haphazardly. Baku’s hands move precisely, silently; his face is focused, brows furrowed.
Baek-Jin stops in the doorway. He watches him for a moment, silently. That small detail, the dedication with which he’s trying to fix something that doesn’t even belong to him, sends an inexplicable ache through his chest. A tenderness he doesn’t want to feel.
He inhales, folds his arms across his chest, and raises an eyebrow.

His voice, when he speaks, is low but steady.

“What are you doing?”

Baku startles at the sound of Baek-Jin’s voice, bangs his head against something under the sink, and lets out a muffled curse.

“Shit!” he groans, bringing a hand to his forehead. Then he leans out slightly, his face lit by the yellow light spilling from under the cabinet. His gaze meets Baek-Jin’s.

Baek-Jin stands there, leaning against the doorframe, the cotton robe hanging loosely from his shoulders, his hair still tousled, his face marked by a headache that needs no explanation. His crossed arms look like a barrier, but there’s no real hostility in the way he watches him, only quiet curiosity, as if trying to decipher a gesture he can’t quite understand.

“There was a leak” Baku replies, ducking back under the sink. “I noticed it while I was filling the water bottle and thought I’d fix it.”
Baek-Jin looks away from the scene. It disorients him,  there’s something deeply familiar, intimate even, in seeing that man he knows so well lying in his kitchen, in his domestic space, dealing with something so trivial.

“At five in the morning?” Baek-Jin asks flatly, without the slightest intention of accusing or scolding him. He rubs a hand over his face, watching him move beneath the sink as if unsure whether to send him to hell or make him breakfast to thank him.

Baku stays silent for a while, focused on his work. Every small gesture, unscrewing, tightening, wiping, is a way not to speak, not to face the mountain of things unsaid and unthought until the moment Baek-Jin interrupted him.

He finally sits up, wiping his hands on his T-shirt. His forehead is damp with sweat, his eyes shadowed with fatigue; he wipes his face again with the hem of his shirt. Baek-Jin watches him, slightly irritated by the disorder that man manages to express even through his movements.
Baku looks at him as if he were a stranger he no longer knows how to approach.

“I couldn’t sleep” he says at last, quietly.

The tone is simple, disarming,  and in that confession lies much more than the words suggest: confusion, guilt, the fear of standing still long enough to think.

Baek-Jin lowers his gaze. For an instant, he feels the urge to say something, something kind, or honest, or even just human, but the words get stuck in his throat, as always.
He leans his back against the door, masking how deeply those few words unsettle him, knowing exactly why the night has been sleepless for both of them.

“So you decided to play plumber?”

Baku gives half a smile, faint, but genuine. “Better than staring at the ceiling.”

The silence stretches, but it’s different from the one of the previous night: almost fragile. Dawn filters through the window, painting the kitchen in cold light. Baek-Jin steps closer, his eyes gliding from the fixed pipe to Baku.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” he asks. When he realizes he’s standing too close,  close enough that they’re looking at each other from just inches apart,  Baek-Jin straightens and steps back. Baku takes a slow breath.
It must bother him too, how keen their senses of smell always are.

“Not always” Baku murmurs, “but trying doesn’t cost anything…”

Are they still talking about plumbing?

Baek-Jin has no idea what to say, or if he should say anything at all. Every word risks breaking the fragile truce forming between them, a balance made of distance and daily gestures pretending at normalcy.

“Where’d you find it?” he asks after a moment, nodding toward the toolbox.

“On the balcony” Baku answers without looking up, returning to work. “In the cabinet. You’ve got quite a mess in there, by the way.”

Baek-Jin studies him again. It’s incredible how, even after everything, he can still speak to him with that rough, almost familiar ease.

He leans against the kitchen counter beside him, trying to keep his distance. The floor is cold under his feet, and yet his body feels too warm, as if the heat from that night had never left, and Baku, with his movements and presence, keeps feeding it.
He hates it.

“You shouldn’t have” he says at last, almost under his breath.

“Why not?” Baku replies, this time meeting his eyes. “I promise not to charge you…”

They both smile faintly, but when they realize it, they stop looking at each other, Baek-Jin turning his back, Baku ducking under the sink again.

“Try opening the tap” Baku calls out. “Let’s see if the seal I replaced holds…”
Baek-Jin doesn’t hesitate. He turns, steps closer, stands beside Baku’s stretched-out body, and opens the faucet.

“Does it work?” he asks.
The water flows clear, steady, without drips, without hesitation, only the soft, continuous sound filling the space between them.

“I’d say it does” Baku replies, sitting up carefully, making sure not to bump his head. He kneels and starts gathering the tools, placing them back into the toolbox.

Baek-Jin turns, opens a cupboard, and takes out two cups. He prepares some hot tea while Baku moves around, tidying up and putting things back in place. When he returns from the balcony, Baek-Jin glances at him: he’s a disaster. He shakes his head slightly while dipping the tea bags into the cups.

“Did you get any sleep?” Baku asks softly.

Baek-Jin nods without looking at him. “Enough.”
It’s not true, but there’s no need to say it. When he turns toward him and offers the cup, Baku smiles faintly, holding it with both hands before sitting at the table. Baek-Jin stays by the counter.

“Thanks for fixing the pipe.”
“No problem. Thanks for the tea” Baku murmurs, looking down at his cup.

“You’re welcome” Baek-Jin replies, blowing on his tea before taking a sip.

They remain like that, suspended in an almost unreal calm that feels like a silent agreement: no questions, no apologies. Just two men with a cup of hot tea and the first sunlight spilling through the window, drawing long shadows across the tiles.

And for a brief, sincere moment, it feels as if all that pain can finally breathe.

***

When they finish drinking, the silence left between them is delicate, as if a single word might shatter it. Baku takes the empty cups and sets them in the sink. The sound of water running over ceramic, small but clear, fills the space.

Baek-Jin rises from the table, stretching his stiff back, his hands brushing down the sides of his robe. He looks at Baku from head to toe. His gaze lingers on the damp pants, the wet shirt clinging to his chest, outlining the muscles beneath. He exhales softly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to chase the image away, focusing instead on the concern he feels.

“Change your clothes, or you’ll catch a cold. You’re soaked-” he says, then adds in a quieter tone, “the wound?”

Baku follows his gaze, looking down at himself: the wet, slightly dirty shirt glued to his skin. He gives a sheepish, almost boyish smile, scratching the back of his neck. Then, with a resigned sigh, he lifts the shirt to let Baek-Jin check the bandage.

Baek-Jin bends slightly, tilting his head, eyes focused on the dressing. He reaches out with two fingers, they tremble, almost imperceptibly, and Baku, noticing, has the decency and respect to look away. The touch is light, barely there, but Baku holds his breath, and Baek-Jin can tell from the faint tightening of his stomach, the tension of his muscles.

“Come with me. We’ll change it.” The words are dry, practical.

In the bathroom, Baek-Jin opens the cabinet above the sink and retrieves what he needs with methodical precision: disinfectant, ointment, gauze, new bandages.
Meanwhile, Baku leans against the sink, shirt lifted to his chest. He carefully removes the old bandage, damp and sticky, and takes a quick look at the scar. He’s about to run a finger over it, curious, when Baek-Jin stops him sharply: “Don’t touch it with those fingers.”

“I washed them!” Baku protests with a half-smile.

Baek-Jin sighs, frowning at him, and with a firm gesture pushes his hand away. Then he focuses on the task: moistening the gauze, cleaning carefully, disinfecting, dabbing. Each movement is precise, almost ritual, but the contact of fingers on skin is a silent torment for both: too close, too intimate, for either of them to comment on.

“It doesn’t hurt” Baku murmurs, more to break the silence than to reassure him.

“Good. In a few days we can remove the stitches” Baek-Jin replies, applying the ointment and then the fresh bandage. He pauses for a moment, his fingers still resting on Baku’s skin. The circular motion triggers a memory, Baku’s fingers on him, and his body reacts instantly, as if saying, I want it to happen again!, he pulls away quickly.

When he’s done, Baku lowers his gaze, grabbing the hem of his shirt to pull it down, but Baek-Jin catches his wrists in a quick, decisive gesture. He straightens, standing right in front of him, a hand’s breadth apart. Baku’s eyes rise to meet his, confused, wide, and for a moment the world seems to stop in that narrow space between their bodies.

“Take everything off” Baek-Jin says. His voice is calm, flat, but beneath the surface there’s a vibration, control stretched to its limit.

“W-What?” Baku stammers, his mind suddenly emptied of logic, torn between surprise and an irrational flicker of hope he instantly despises himself for feeling.

Baek-Jin holds his gaze, and in that reflection he sees everything: the confusion, the fear, the guilt. And something deeper, a subtle warmth he doesn’t dare name. Because it’s impossible, isn’t it? Baku doesn’t want it to happen again, not after what he confessed.

His heart beats unevenly, but he forces himself to stay composed, to wear a mask of detachment.

“I’ll leave you the bathroom” he says finally, voice steadier.

“Take a shower. Put your clothes in the laundry bag… I’ll get you a change of clothes in the bedroom. I need to get dressed and go to school.”

He steps back, the soft sound of bare feet on tiles, and moves toward the door without waiting for an answer.

Baku opens his mouth, he wants to say something, thank you, wait, anything, but all that comes out is a faint: “Alright… thanks.”

Baek-Jin doesn’t respond. He quietly closes the door behind him, leaving Baku alone.
Baku looks at himself in the mirror, unsure which of the two, he or his reflection, is truly trying to understand the other.

Then his eyes drift back to the closed door, as if they could still hold Baek-Jin’s shape beyond the wood, like that small gesture - I’ll leave you the bathroom - were the gentlest form of distance he could offer.

Only when he realizes he’s been holding his breath does he finally exhale, slowly.

He looks at the mirror again. The image staring back at him is disheveled, tired: skin marked by sleeplessness and a restlessness he can’t calm. The wound at his side, now neatly bandaged, throbs faintly. The new dressing feels cold and soothing, like Baek-Jin’s fingers had left behind a warmth he’s now trying to chase away.

He takes off his shirt completely, wrings it out a little over the sink, then lets it drop into the basket beside him. The dull sound of the wet fabric hitting the bottom brings him back to a sense of normality.
He turns on the shower, then the water, and steam begins to fill the bathroom, clouding the mirror. The sound of water striking the tiles becomes a rhythm that fills his mind.

As he undresses the rest, he tries to empty himself inside as well. He runs a hand over his face, as if he could wipe away the thoughts that keep returning, insistently, to Baek-Jin’s expression while tending to him: focused, precise, yet crossed by a subtle tension, like a wire stretched so tightly it could snap at the slightest touch.
He remembers the way those fingers brushed against his skin, steady, but trembling and how he had averted his gaze, out of respect or perhaps out of fear of seeing something he wouldn’t know how to handle.

When he steps under the shower, the first jet of water catches him off guard.
He inhales sharply, almost a sob, then lets the temperature wash over him completely. The heat relaxes him, but it doesn’t soothe him. He closes his eyes, and for a moment he thinks he can still hear Baek-Jin’s voice: that calm, authoritative tone of someone trying to keep control of a situation that’s slipping away from every side.

Outside, the floor creaks: light footsteps, perhaps Baek-Jin moving around the house, opening a drawer, maybe really preparing some clothes.
Baku breathes in the scent of soap, rubs his face, forces himself to stay in the present.

And yet, everything speaks of him, it’s impossible to distance himself in thought, unless he starts fixing everything in this house that doesn’t work.
When he turns off the shower, he stays still for a few seconds, palms against the wall, breath uneven. Then he dries himself, slowly, with the care of someone who doesn’t want to hurry back to reality.

He finds Baek-Jin’s bathrobe, still slightly damp, and wraps himself in it. Its scent embraces him.
He thinks back to the desire he had to hold him close, and how Baek-Jin had stopped him. And how now, even if they’re pretending nothing happened, the distance between them feels enormous, insurmountable.
He should talk to him, face it gently, but the memory of those confessions still makes him angry, turns his stomach… He has no idea how to face Baek-Jin without his blunt words causing yet another mess.

He wouldn’t attack him, but that doesn’t mean any attempt wouldn’t hurt. Baku knows it too well.

Outside, he hears the sound of a drawer closing, footsteps moving away, a door opening and shutting.

When he steps out of the bathroom, he finds on the bed a sweatshirt, soft pants, and a folded note.

There’s something to eat in the fridge, if you want.

The handwriting is neat, essential, almost impersonal. But Baku recognizes the slight hesitation at the beginning of the line, as if Baek-Jin didn’t quite know what to write but didn’t want to leave without at least trying, in his own way, to tell him to stay.
He smiles faintly.
Then he sits on the edge of the bed, the note between his fingers, and stays there for a while, listening to the silence Baek-Jin left behind.

***

Once dry and dressed, Baku stands still for a long time in the middle of the living room. He doesn’t know what to do, where to put his hands, how to behave in this space that isn’t his yet feels unsettlingly familiar. The echo of their breathing from the previous night seems still suspended in the air, like an uncomfortable ghost, and every time his eyes fall on the sofa, his skin tingles, his throat tightens, as if the furniture itself had found a voice to remind him of what happened.
He moves away abruptly, as though he’d touched something burning, and hums under his breath, a tuneless, meaningless melody: a clumsy way to drown out the sound of memory, that voice, that moan that keeps haunting him.

He opens the living-room window and steps onto the balcony. The air is crisp, biting, scratching at his lungs as he inhales, but it feels good. His eyes drift over the row of potted herbs: dry stems, hardened soil, pots cracked by frost. He crouches, reaches out to touch a dead leaf, which crumbles at the slightest brush of his fingers.

“You’re not much of a gardener, Jin?” he murmurs, half-smiling, a smile that doesn’t last.

He opens the cabinet nearby and finds a plastic bag, a pair of work gloves, and a few old clay pots. Without thinking too much, he gets to work. He throws away the plants beyond saving, lines up the still-usable pots, dusts the shelves. His hands move automatically, as if this simple, practical task could anchor him to the present and stop his thoughts from spinning.

As he works, the world around him seems to calm: the rustle of the plastic bag, the soft thud of soil falling inside, the breeze shifting the balcony curtain. All of it blends into a fragile kind of peace, a silence that no longer feels heavy.

When he’s done, he steps back and looks at the tidy cabinet. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and lets a faint smile touch his lips. It’s nothing, really, but it makes him feel a little less useless.

He grabs the bag full of scraps and goes back inside, closing the balcony door behind him. The living room welcomes him again with its emptiness, orderly, clean, but devoid of warmth. There’s no music, no open book left on a table, no crooked frame or misplaced rug. Everything is too neat. Too quiet. And Baku feels, by reflection, empty too.

He leaves the trash bag by the entrance and, not really knowing why, heads to the kitchen. He opens the fridge: yogurt, vegetables, bottles of water, a few neatly labeled containers of prepped meals. He grimaces.

“Of course” he mutters. “Not a single snack, no beer, no bag of chips…”

He checks the cupboards, but it’s no better there: everything is healthy, functional, almost impersonal: the perfect order of someone who never allows himself a vice.
He stands there for a moment, staring at a box of tea as if it might offer him an answer. Only then does he realize what he’s actually looking for, not food, not curiosity. Just a way to stay, to fill the time, to avoid admitting that he could simply leave.

He exhales deeply, closes the cupboards, and walks back to the entryway. He opens the closet and grabs the first coat he sees. When he slips it on, the fabric wraps his shoulders with unexpected warmth: Baek-Jin’s scent, clean, subtle, hits him straight in the chest, sharp as nostalgia.
He stands still for a few seconds, breathing it in, as if he could imprint it onto himself. Then, with a small shake of his head, he bends to put on his shoes, grabs the trash bag, and opens the door.

Baku pushes open the glass door of the grocery store; it creaks in the familiar way. The smell of spices and fresh bread wraps around him, bringing him for a moment back to a normality that feels like it belongs to another life. At the counter, as always, is old Mr. Han, with his beige padded jacket and his wide, gap-toothed smile.

“Oh, Hu-Min! Good morning, boy!” the man calls, his voice hoarse but kind.

“Good morning, ajusshi!” Baku replies, his tone lively, almost exaggerated. He has to force himself to smile, to seem like his usual carefree self. The man has seen him grow up, running through these aisles with scraped knees and a red nose in winter. If he looked downcast, the old man would notice right away and start asking those uncomfortable questions Baku neither knows nor wants to answer.

He grabs a basket and walks down the aisles. The scent of warm bread, detergent, and spices surrounds him, familiar, reassuring. He moves slowly, almost absent-mindedly, brushing his fingers over the items on the shelves as if to feel their texture.
At first, he restrains himself from tossing into the basket anything that catches his eye, sweets, snacks, sugary drinks, but temptation wins over restraint. One beer, then two, then four. A couple of bags of chips in different flavors. Ice cream, colorful candies, packets of hot chocolate, and a jar of honey jam.
After a few minutes, the basket is already full, and Baku looks down at it: there’s nothing inside that could be called healthy. And that’s exactly why he feels satisfied. It’s a small, childish act of rebellion, but a necessary one, against Baek-Jin’s world of perfect order and wholesome foods.

He walks to the instant-noodle section, near the meat counter, and bends down to pick a pack when a voice behind him freezes him in place.

“Hu-Min!”

Baku stiffens. His heart leaps in his chest like a punch. He turns slowly, and when his eyes meet his father’s, the world seems to shrink to a single point.

“I knew you weren’t going to school!” the man scolds, his voice sharp and cutting. “What on earth are you doing? You don’t even come home anymore!”

People turn to look. The hum of conversation fades. Baku feels the weight of their stares like thorns on his skin. He forces a smile, embarrassed, nodding faintly to a couple of familiar faces watching him.

“I haven’t been feeling well these days” he says quietly. “I stayed at… a friend’s place.”

The father furrows his brow, hands on his hips. “But you’re fine now, aren’t you? Then why aren’t you in school?”

Baku swallows hard. The words tangle in his throat.

“Park Hu-Min, you… troublemaking son” the father presses on, his voice growing more heated. “You’re such a disgrace.”

The harsh tone, the blind anger, the contempt he doesn’t even try to hide, it all makes Baku hesitate. Every time his father calls him by his full name, Park Hu-Min, something cracks inside him, as if an old fracture were spreading wider. He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, a gesture born from exasperation but tasting faintly of defiance.

“Don’t make that face!” his father snaps, raising his arm.

Baku flinches back instantly. It’s pure reflex. The basket nearly slips from his hands. For a moment, he’s no longer in the supermarket but in the narrow hallway of his home. He’s not a one-meter-ninety guy, strong enough to have knocked out plenty of people, sometimes with a single punch.

No, he’s the little boy holding his breath, fists clenched, lips pressed shut to keep from crying. His breath catches in his throat.

“I’m… I’m taking care of my friend” he finally manages, trying to steady his voice. “He’s the one who’s sick now, and he doesn’t have anyone.”

His father stares at him, suspicious, then his grimace of disapproval twists into a short, dry laugh.

“Who? That little orphan you used to play with? I always said he was a bad influence. Look at you now, skipping school, wasting time running around! Ha! If I see him, I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”

He turns back toward the meat counter, as if the conversation were over.

Baku watches him walk away, his knuckles white around the handle of the basket. Anger burns in his chest, mixed with shame, mixed with a pain he can no longer tell apart. He’s tired, tired of hearing the same voice, the same judgments, the same absence of empathy. He isn’t surprised anymore, he stopped being surprised a long time ago.

He turns to leave, saying nothing.

“Are you coming home?” his father shouts after him.

Baku doesn’t answer. He slips into the narrower aisles, pushing the basket forward with a sharp motion. The air feels heavy on his skin. Then, out of anger, out of the need not to think, he starts throwing into the basket whatever comes to hand, snacks, sweets, bright-colored sodas, cookies.

He walks to the register with a determined stride, his heart pounding. Mr. Han cracks another cheerful joke, but Baku only smiles out of politeness. The man’s voice becomes a distant, muffled hum. Every now and then, Baku glances over his shoulder, half-expecting his father to appear out of nowhere, but no one’s there.

He pays quickly, murmurs a quiet thank-you, and grabs the bag.

Outside, the air feels different. He walks slowly toward the main road, the plastic bag rustling in his hand. Beneath his breath, a bitter, clear thought begins to surface: now he has one more reason not to go home.

As he crosses the street, walking a little faster, he thinks that maybe, though he’d never admit it, that “bad influence” named Baek-Jin, was never really the villain in his story.

***

Baku stops in front of the small nursery at the corner, the one with faded signs and the smell of damp soil that drifts out into the street.
Inside, the shop is a small paradise of green and fragrance. A dusty fan hums in the corner, and the shopkeeper, an elderly man with gray hair tied back in a tail, looks up from his newspaper.

“Good morning, kid.”

“Good morning…” Baku replies, uncertain, as he bends over the rows of plants.

It’s an impulsive gesture, but as soon as he sees them, lush, in all shades of green, he feels a little lighter.

He leans closer, brushing the leaves with his fingers, rubbing one or two between his fingertips to breathe in their scent. The fresh aroma of rosemary fills him and brings back distant memories, his grandmother’s kitchen, hot summers, shared meals.

Baek-Jin is in all of those memories.

The thought that his balcony, so bare and desolate, might breathe a little green again makes him smile faintly. He can already picture that corner filled with life, with scents, with something that doesn’t reek of abandonment.

When he approaches the counter to pay, a touch of color catches his eye. A lush plant, its petals a vivid red, almost glowing in the sunlight filtering through the green awning. The color draws him immediately, it’s his favorite shade, the one that’s always calmed and stirred him at the same time. He steps closer, curious, bending down to take a better look.

“It’s an indoor plant” the shopkeeper explains. “Very delicate, fragile. Needs care… doesn’t like too much sun, but it does need a bit of company. You have to talk to it, remind it's loved, or it’ll wither.”

Baku lets out a soft, slightly embarrassed laugh. “Talk to a plant?”

“Works better than you’d think” the man replies with a chuckle.

Baku studies the plant again, then reaches out to touch it. The bright red petals remind him of warmth, of life. The color of his world, the one he keeps chasing, even when everything collapses around him.

“I’ll take it” he says firmly.

When he leaves the shop, the plants held tight in his arms, the smile comes naturally. The cold air brushes his face, but inside, he feels a small spark of warmth.

With the bags in hand, he heads back toward Baek-Jin’s place, his mind emptying. The thoughts that had been buzzing in his head drift away, leaving only the sound of his steps on the asphalt and the scent of herbs tickling his nose.

When he arrives, he takes off his shoes and starts unpacking the groceries in the kitchen, looking for space among the neatly arranged shelves.

Every jar and container is perfectly in place, each shelf aligned with military precision. Baku sighs, scratches his neck, and starts pushing things aside to make room for the beers, chips, sweets, all the things Baek-Jin would call “junk food.”

“He’ll complain anyway” he mutters under his breath, but the thought makes him smile.

Then he grabs the herbs and heads to the balcony. The morning air is cool, crisp, and the sun is just starting to warm.

He kneels beside the empty pots, touches the dry soil with his fingers, then begins to work in silence. He cleans the containers, fills them with fresh earth, and carefully replants the herbs.

Every now and then he stops to look at them, adjust them, move them a bit to the right, a bit to the left. The motions are almost meditative, they calm him.

When he’s done, he stands, wipes his forehead, and looks at the result: the balcony really does look different now, a small garden suspended between concrete and sky.

He goes back inside and immediately takes the delicate plant, the one that needs care like a pet. He removes the plastic wrapping gently and sets it on the living room table, right in the center, where soft light filters through the curtains. The petals catch the sun and seem to glow.

“You’re really pretty” he whispers, brushing a leaf with his fingertip.

He feels a little foolish, but for a moment, the apartment doesn’t seem so cold anymore.
Then he sighs and heads to the bathroom. He opens the washing machine, separates Baek-Jin’s clothes from his own, and starts loading it.

The sound of running water fills his ears as he thinks that maybe this is how you survive the silence: by doing things, by taking care of what’s left.

When he returns to the kitchen, hunger hits him suddenly, sharp and fierce.

He opens the fridge, leaning into the bright white light, and smiles at everything he bought.

For once, he doesn’t care if Baek-Jin will scold him for the beers or the sweets, he’s starving, and finally, this place smells like something alive.

He grabs the containers of food Baek-Jin had prepared and starts heating them up, humming softly to himself.

***

Baek-Jin returns home long after the sun has set. He types in Baku’s birth date to unlock the door, and his fingers tremble slightly: the memory of the previous night rushing back to him, how Baku’s discovery had cracked everything open, forcing him to lift the lid off his own Pandora’s box.

The darkness of the living room greets him as usual, his only companion waiting for him. He switches on the light, and the room fills with a warm, domestic glow that almost hurts, as if it no longer belongs to him. He’s bending down to take off his shoes when a voice, thick with sleep, makes him jump.

“You’re back” murmurs Baku, his head poking up from the couch, hair messy, eyes half-closed.

Baek-Jin stiffens, startled to find him still there. His mind floods with questions, with answers he doesn’t want to face, but his body reacts by habit: he hides it, moves calmly, as if everything were normal.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, removing his coat. “I didn’t think you’d still be here. Sorry.”

His voice is flat, but inside there’s a subtle whirl, irritation, confusion, and a strange, unspoken peace. Knowing that, for once, he hasn’t come home to an empty apartment, that someone was waiting for him, brings a relief that unsettles him. But his body responds as it always does: with a shiver of tension, an automatic defense against anything that feels like warmth. So, to avoid yielding to it, he clings to his nervousness.

“It’s fine, don’t worry” Baku replies with a sleepy smile, rising slowly from the couch. He stretches, yawns, ruffles his hair even more and that simple gesture makes Baek-Jin’s chest tighten. He looks like someone who hasn’t truly slept but tried to rest out of obligation. His movements are slow, clumsy, familiar.

Baek-Jin is about to say something when his gaze catches on a new detail on the table: a plant, vivid red, glowing almost as if lit from within by the lamp above. Red impossible to ignore. Red like life, like mistakes, like anger and desire tangled together.

Red has never been his color, but that shade instantly reminds him of Baku: his laughter, his flushed cheeks, whether from anger or amusement, his clothes, his hair when he dyed it to look like Hanamichi. Every memory of Baku, if it had a color, would be red.

He recalls a line from a novel: “Red indicates a semantic error in the computer code.”

He steps closer, curious, as if afraid the plant might vanish if he moves too suddenly. The plant forces him to look. He exhales softly, then raises an eyebrow at Baku, pointing at it.

Baku follows the direction of his finger, then smiles, suddenly full of energy, as if proud of himself.

“You noticed it already! Do you like it?”

Baek-Jin doesn’t answer right away; he looks again, listening as Baku begins to explain, how he’d been drawn to the color that morning.

“I bought it today” Baku continues, with the enthusiasm of a child. “The florist said you have to talk sometimes, to let know it’s loved. Otherwise, it gets sad.”

Baek-Jin suppresses a smile, clears his throat to compose himself. “Plants die because of me.”

Baku laughs: that full, light laugh that seems to fill every empty space.

“Yeah, I noticed” he says, brushing past him toward the balcony. “Come, look!”

Baek-Jin follows, though hesitantly. When he steps outside, he freezes for a moment. His balcony, once a small graveyard of withered pots, now overflows with green. Basil, mint, thyme: all alive, fresh, their scent rising into the cold air and flooding his senses.

“Do you like it?” Baku asks, turning to him.

Baek-Jin looks at him. They’re so close their breaths almost touch.
Baku’s eyes shine with naïve, almost childlike hope, and in that instant, Baek-Jin feels he could say anything - thank you, yes, I like it, stay - but his tongue takes the harsher route.

“Why are you still here, Baku?”

The other’s smile falters, slowly, like a crack opening inside him. But Baku doesn’t give up; he takes the hit, smiles faintly, and steps half a pace back to hide the wound.

Baek-Jin turns away, a pang of guilt cutting through him, one he refuses to face. He’s exhausted and too drained to find the right words.
At school, he must be flawless, cold, disciplined. At the bowling alley, he’s the boss, the one to fear. There’s no room left in him for uncertainty, for fragility, for the kind of warmth Baku carries like a contagion.

“Do you want me to leave?” Baku asks, his voice betraying a delicate fragility masked by fake indifference.

Baek-Jin shakes his head, calmly closes the balcony door, buying himself a few more seconds.

“I didn’t say that.”

He walks toward the kitchen. Baku follows, arms crossed, face tense.

“No, right. But you asked the question like you didn’t want to find me here.”

Baek-Jin opens a cupboard to grab a tea packet and freezes. Before him, among the perfectly arranged shelves, there’s an explosion of color: chips, cookies, candy bars, sweets. Junk food.
A bag slips out and lands on him; he catches it instinctively, staring at it in disbelief. He turns to Baku, who meets his look with an innocent grin.

Semantic error: Baku, impossible to fix, impossible to delete. Just like in that novel he’d read, where the protagonist hated red because it marked the system’s errors.
Now Baek-Jin understands that character better than he’d ever wanted to. Baku is an error in his perfect system, a variable that crashes every logic, every barrier.

“What?” Baku says, raising his hands in mock innocence. “Don’t look at me like that. If we ever want to have a movie night, we need something to snack on!”

Baek-Jin sighs, puts the bag back. He takes a cup, then pauses and takes a second one.

“Do you want some tea?”

Baku, still a little tense, nods. “Yeah.”

Baek-Jin gives a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He fills the kettle, turns on the burner, and the sound of water heating fills the silence. Neither speaks.

Baku leans against the doorframe, watching him from behind, that straight back, those taut shoulders, the distance that’s always been there and that, despite everything, he doesn’t know how to cross.
As the steam rises from the teapot, they stay still, two presences too close, too far, both trying to figure out how to share the same space without hurting each other.

“I was just surprised to find you still here” Baek-Jin says after a while, his voice calm but tight as a wire, handing Baku a steaming cup. The tea’s vapor drifts slowly between them, tracing patterns in the air.

Baku takes it and sits down, without thinking, in the chair that has somehow become his. Funny how certain gestures repeat themselves, almost unconsciously, until they become habit.
Baek-Jin remains standing, one hand in his pocket, his mind uneasy as it replays all the small changes in the house: the plants, the messy pantry, the new smells, a home no longer bare or memoryless. Everything speaks of Baku. Everything unsettles him, and yet roots him to a warmth he doesn’t know how to handle.

A knot tightens in his stomach. It’s almost physical, that silent warning that when Baku leaves, because sooner or later he will, this house will be emptier than ever.

“Na Baek-Jin, let’s talk.”

Baku’s voice brings him back. It’s not a request, it’s a declaration. Baek-Jin tenses. He’d imagined this, dreaded it, all day long. He knew that if, when he came home, Baku was still there, after spending a whole day alone with his thoughts, this moment would come. He’d almost hoped Baku would get tired of waiting and leave. But he’s still there. Alive, determined, impossible to ignore.

He nods slightly, a barely perceptible gesture. He can’t deny him this. Not this time. He’s built too many walls; he can’t raise another, and he definitely can’t run.

“If you thought I could just leave after what… what happened yesterday” Baku begins, his tone serious, his voice breaking at times, “no, after what you told me yesterday, then the person you think you know better than anyone, you’ve never really understood.” He looks Baek-Jin straight in the eyes as he says it.

Baek-Jin gives a faint, crooked smile. Inside, something cracks again. He brings the cup to his lips and drinks slowly.
Oh, he knows that person well. He knows Baku would never have left, driven by that uncontrollable need to fix what’s broken, to heal others so he doesn’t have to look at his own wounds, even when no one asked him to.

And… for fuck’s sake… how he hates being looked at that way, like someone broken who needs to be saved.

“So, you want to stay to fix… what exactly?” Baek-Jin asks, his tone calm, almost neutral, as if they were discussing a business agreement.

Baku grips the cup tighter, his fingers trembling slightly. He forces himself not to react. His jaw clenches, then loosens, as if fighting with himself.

“Why didn’t you report them?” he finally asks, tearing out the question that’s been echoing in his head ever since the images of a violated, humiliated Baek-Jin began haunting him.

Baek-Jin exhales. His shoulders tense, but a bitter smile curves his lips.

“Why did you teach me to fight?”

Baku’s eyes widen.

“So, it’s my fault now?”

Baek-Jin shakes his head.

“No, Baku. It’s not your fault. But you’ve already convinced yourself that it was” He leans against the sink, the cup suspended halfway. “No one ever told me how to react, no one ever explained that some things… require justice. And you… you taught me to fight.”

“Not to see you plotting revenge!” Baku snaps, his voice cracking with anger and pain.

Baek-Jin nods, almost gently.

“I know. But that’s what I did.” He pauses, then adds softly, “Answer me this: do you really think that if I’d told the teachers what they did to me, they would’ve believed me?”

Baku lowers his gaze. He can’t lie. “No” he finally admits. “They were all sons of powerful men.”

Baek-Jin smiles bitterly. “And I was just an orphan. No one would’ve believed me.”

“I would've done” Baku blurts out, but his voice trembles.

Baek-Jin lifts his gaze toward him, with a calm that hurts to look at.

“You would’ve killed them, and I didn’t want that. If I could handle it myself, there was no need for you to take the blame in my place.”

“What the fuck kind of logic is that?” Baku explodes, his voice echoing against the walls. “You could’ve talked to me! Even just so you wouldn’t have to face it all alone!”

“But I am alone” Baek-Jin whispers, almost to himself. Then he takes a sip of tea, as if to hide the confession behind the rim of the cup.

Baku looks at him, eyes glossy, fingers clutching his own cup like it could anchor him.

“I don’t get you. I’m here.”

Baek-Jin nods slowly, his expression heavy with sadness.

“Yeah. You’re here. And that brings us back to the real question: why are you still here? Would you have stayed before knowing what I told you yesterday?”

Baku opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

Baek-Jin studies him, then smiles again, a smile that looks like a wound.

“I’ll answer for you: no. You would’ve left. Because you hate me.” He pauses, his voice lowering into something rawer. “Now, instead, you feel pity. And I have no use for your pity, Baku.”

“You talk like you’re fine with me hating you” Baku fires back, his voice rising, trembling with frustration. “But the second I start to feel something… else, that’s suddenly a problem, isn’t it?”

Baek-Jin looks at him with that cold, dissecting stare, meant to dig, to sink, to bury every other emotion underneath.

“What I asked from you doesn’t involve other kinds of feelings. I don’t want them. I don’t know what to do with them.”

Baku stands up abruptly. The cup tips into the sink, still half full of tea. The crash echoes through the kitchen.

“I don’t give a damn what you want!” he shouts, chest heaving. “If you want what you asked for, then I’m going to give it to you my way! You were the one who said it ‘not just sex,’ remember? Did it ever cross your mind that for me, too, this could be a way to close something? That I need to make sense of it, that I also want something that helps me find peace after everything we’ve been?”

Baek-Jin stares at him for a long time. Studies him. Looks for lies in his eyes, for the savior who wants to fix him, for the boy who wants to understand.
But what he finds instead is only desperation, bare, raw, painfully sincere.

Maybe, he has to believe him.

“All right” he murmurs at last, his calm voice extinguishing every sound in the room. He sets his cup down beside the other in the sink, carefully.

“But don’t fall for me, Park Hu-Min”, his gaze goes distant, opaque, everything buried deep again, “it’s too late for that.”

You must think that I'm stupid

You must think that I'm a fool

You must think that I'm new to this

But I have seen this all before

I'm never gonna let you close to me

Even though you mean the most to me

'Cause every time I open up, it hurts

So I'm never gonna get too close to you

Even when I mean the most to you

In case you go and leave me in the dirt

But every time you hurt me, the less that I cry

And every time you leave me, the quicker these tears dry

And every time you walk out, the less I love you

Baby, we don't stand a chance, it's sad but it's true

I'm way too good at goodbyes

Chapter Text

It doesn't hurt me

Do you wanna feel how it feels?

Do you wanna know, know that it doesn't hurt me?

Do you wanna hear about the deal that I'm making?

You...

It's you and me...

And if I only could

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get him to swap our places

Be runnin' up that road

Be runnin' up that hill

Be runnin' up that building

Say, if I only could...

Baku freezes for a moment, as if Baek-Jin’s words had hit him square in the chest, an abrupt, sharp slap that knocks the air out of him. For an instant he can’t even speak; he hears only the rush of blood pounding in his ears, his throat going dry, his mind emptying completely. Then the words spill out of his mouth like a reflex, before he even thinks them through:

“What the fuck does falling in love have to do with anything?” he snaps, his voice cracking, not from anger, but from the confusion crashing over him. It’s a rough tone, defensive, too loud for the sudden silence settling over the kitchen.

“You always have to say something just to piss me off, huh?” he adds right after, as if trying to regain control, as if that anger could hide the jolt still coursing through him.

Baek-Jin watches him without flinching, with that icy, irritating calm Baku has always hated, and yet recognizes as a mechanism, a way to protect himself. Arms crossed, shoulders relaxed, eyes fixed on him as if seeing straight through him and handing him back a reflection of himself. He has a faint, smug, provocative smile, one of those smiles that need no words to get under your skin. The kind of smile that says “I know exactly where to strike” and Baek-Jin knows, oh he knows, how to use it with surgical precision.

And yet, Baku knows him too well to fall completely into the trap. As kids, Baek-Jin did the same, he smiled like that when he didn’t want to cry, when he felt hurt or exposed. That smile is his armor, thin but indestructible. It’s the line he draws between himself and the world, between what he feels and what he lets others see.

But knowing that doesn’t help. It never does.

Because in that moment, instead of defusing the tension, that awareness only frustrates him further.

“Move, come on” he mutters at last, his voice lower, rougher, and at the same time more fragile. He gives him a small push on the chest, more symbolic than forceful, but enough to break that frozen distance between them. It’s a brief gesture, but loaded with everything: irritation, embarrassment, a thread of desperation he can’t even name.

“Let me through, I need to hang the laundry.”

Baek-Jin shifts just enough, his smile still glued to his lips but less certain now, cracked by a faint hesitation. As if, for a moment, he’s the one taken by surprise.

His eyes follow Baku as he walks past, watching in silence, as though unsure whether to laugh or say something. The thought that Baku had the time, and the mind, to do a load of laundry throws him off more than he’s willing to admit. That image, so ordinary, him washing clothes, taking care of the house as if he belonged in that space, clashes with everything Baek-Jin thought he knew about him.

He looks at him with an uncertain expression, almost a frown, his eyebrows slightly drawn in restrained surprise. Maybe he’s wondering when, exactly, Baku started staying instead of merely passing through.

Meanwhile, Baku slips into the hallway without turning back. His ears burn, red, hot, visibly betraying the chaos inside him, and he clenches his hands into fists, as if trying to keep the tremor from reaching his shoulders.

Each step outside that kitchen sounds louder than it should, as if even the floor wants to remind him he’s lost control, that something has cracked.

And as Baek-Jin follows him with his gaze, the smile disappears completely. What’s left is only that suspended silence, dense with unspoken words and an intimacy both of them pretend not to see.

The bathroom greets him with the familiar smell of detergent. It’s a clean, enveloping scent slipping into his lungs like a memory, the scent he now associates with Baek-Jin.

He closes the door behind him, leaving their conversation outside, or so he wishes. Distraction. It’s what he’s best at. But he has no strength for it now, and for a moment he leans with his back against the wood, as if needing support to keep from collapsing.

In front of him, the light shines over the washing machine still full of clothes, the blue basin sitting on top, the cabinet. Everything is so familiar. Everything already feels like routine, as if this were also his home.

No.

He takes the basin and sets it on the floor, slowly, mechanically, and only then realizes that, for the first time in hours, he’s truly alone with his thoughts. He can’t avoid them.

He’s kept them at bay until now, swallowed by noise, by movement, by anger, by that thin tension Baek-Jin always knows how to pull out of him. But now Baek-Jin’s advice is forcing them back to the surface.

He looks around as if searching for a distraction, anything to keep him from thinking. The damp clothes still trapped in the machine, the now-empty basket for dirty laundry, the cabinet Baek-Jin opens every time he has to patch him up, the shower with drops still clinging to the glass, the sink… that damn sink where they’ve found themselves too many times, too close, a breath apart, silence broken only by the rush of their hearts.

Everything in that room speaks of Baek-Jin. Every surface seems to hold an invisible trace of him, a gesture, a shadow, a breath.

The house is already full of memories demanding to be understood. Because they happened. Because of what they caused. Because of how much they changed him while he simply lived them, without processing any of it.

He stands still for a moment, short of breath.

He never planned any of this: washing, tidying up, filling that house with life, with plants, with little things that don’t belong to him. He did it without thinking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Like breathing. Like staying.

He drags a hand over his face and then through his hair, movements sharp, almost angry, as if he could shove away the awareness spreading inside him. But the thoughts return, insistent, pounding.

Everything he’s done since walking into that house revolves around Baek-Jin.

Fixing the leaking pipe, buying the herbs, choosing that red indoor plant just because it reminded him of something, and now this laundry, the clothes he’ll hang up because they already belong to both of them.

Everything, every gesture, has become a way of doing something for him, as if his mind had found a way to atone for a sin never committed, to mend an invisible guilt: not having been able to protect him, not having understood soon enough, not having arrived in time.

His eyes widen, his heartbeat exploding in his chest. God, what frustration.

Why is he doing this? It’s not just pity, he’s sure of that.

When Baek-Jin told him about his past, he didn’t feel compassion. He felt anger. Blind, acidic, visceral anger that burned his stomach. Anger at not having been able to do anything, at not having been there when he should’ve been. But also anger at the way Baek-Jin talks about himself, as if he’s already condemned, as if there’s nothing worth saving.

And yet, it’s not just that. There’s something slipping through his fingers, something he can’t bring into focus.

He braces his hands against the washing machine and inhales sharply. The images crash back into him like a wave he can’t hold back.

The couch. Baek-Jin’s warm body beneath his fingers, beneath his hands. The moans he dragged from that mouth… Baek-Jin’s skin against his. Their mouths, Baek-Jin taking him in with a hunger that unsettles him even in memory. And his own tongue on Baek-Jin’s abdomen, tongue and teeth, along with that low, ravenous, unrecognizable sound that had escaped him while thinking he had him under his dominance, that tight ache in his chest when he thought I don’t want this to end.

The memory is so vivid his body responds again for a moment, a jolt through his veins, his cock not entirely relaxed in his pants.

Shibal!

He stiffens, hands gripping the plastic edge until it nearly creaks.

He liked it.

For fuck’s sake, he liked it.

He can’t deny it. Can’t pretend it didn’t happen.

His body would do it again instantly, without a second thought. It screams inside him: don’t think, don’t think, or you’ll stop wanting.

Don’t think, because if you think, you’ll realize it’s not just arousal, not just need.

But the thought is already there, burning through his mind.

He’s rationalizing. Trying to figure out why. Why his heart beats so hard, why every time Baek-Jin speaks in that low voice he feels a twist in his stomach, why Baek-Jin’s gaze, even when it irritates him, keeps him hooked like a magnet.

“Don’t fall in love with me, Park Hu-Min.” Baek-Jin’s words echo back to him, cold and precise. “Because it’s too late for that.”

He shivers.

Too late.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean “too late”?

Too late for whom?

The thought rises in him like physical irritation. Wasn’t Baek-Jin the one who was in love? He, the one who used Baku’s birthdate as the code to enter the house. The one who talked about love as something worth ruining yourself for or who pushed himself to the limit just to save him, as if his life only had meaning in relation to someone else.

And now? Now he tells him “don’t fall in love with me”?

Baku shakes his head, incredulous, his face twisted in a grimace of annoyance.

“And the request for one night stand? Isn’t that the move of a crazy man in love?” he mutters through clenched teeth, bitter, ironic. “Too late, he says.”

He lets out an empty, almost hysterical laugh. “Try saying that to yourself, asshole” he whispers at last, voice low, before pushing the basin away with his foot, his heart still hammering in his chest.

He yanks the clothes out of the washing machine with abrupt, tense, almost violent movements. Each gesture is a way not to think, to silence the mind replaying images he doesn’t want to see. The damp clothes slip through his fingers and fall heavily into the basin, the dull sound of dripping water breaking the suffocating silence of the bathroom.

He grabs the basin too hard, knuckles turning white, as if he could unload all the tension gnawing at him. But when he straightens up, the world suddenly tilts. The floor slips out from under him, the ceiling spins, dizziness hits him full force, tightening around his temples, and he has to close his eyes to keep from losing balance.

He stays still, clutching the basin to his chest, breath short.

Right, of course, he tells himself, it’s just that.

He liked it because he was turned on, because it was new, different. An intense experience, sure, but nothing more.

A game, an impulse, a moment of confusion.

He liked it the way he would’ve liked it with anyone else, he repeats to himself.

As if his inner voice, stubborn and honest, could be silenced by sheer reasoning.

“Love has nothing to fucking do with me, Na Baek-Jin” he murmurs, barely above a whisper, as if afraid even the wall might betray him.

The words hang on his lips, harsh and fragile at once. He feels ridiculous saying them, but he can’t help himself, he needs to hear them leave his body, as if speaking them could give him back even a shred of control over what’s slipping through his fingers.

“Love has nothing to do with it. I hate that bastard, for everything he did to my life! I’m in this mess because of him. Park Hu-Min, don’t you forget it: your life is fucked because of him. Yes.” He repeats it again, more firmly, each word a blow, a desperate attempt to rebuild a dam against the chaos rising inside him.

He takes a deep breath, but the air leaves him in pieces. He shakes his head, as if that could put his thoughts back in order, and forces himself to look at the present, to focus on simple, practical, concrete actions.

He adjusts the clothes in the basin, wrings them a little. The sound of dripping water, the scent of soap, the rough texture of the fabrics, all of it becomes a way to piece himself together again, to pretend everything is still under control.

He doesn’t look in the mirror. He knows that if he did, he would see in his eyes the truth he’s trying to deny: the confusion, the fear, that desire he doesn’t know where to put.

He’s terrified of recognizing himself as different.

With a long breath, he opens the bathroom door. The hallway light hits him. He walks straight, rigid, as if every muscle were pulled by an invisible string.

When he walks past Baek-Jin, sitting, absorbed, or maybe just listening, he says nothing. Doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t dare to.

He feels the weight of that gaze on him, even though Baek-Jin doesn’t lift it, and that silence, heavy with everything they don’t know how to say, scrapes his skin like a thin blade.

He steps out onto the balcony, and the cold air slaps his face. He inhales slowly, letting the chill fill his lungs and clear his head.

In front of him, the sky is dark, uniform, starless, just a vast grey stillness above the rooftops. He rests against the railing, eyes fixed on nothing.

Every breath he takes is an attempt to put distance between himself and the name still burning on his lips.

Between himself and Baek-Jin’s image. Between himself and that damned too late he can’t get out of his mind.

When he lifts the first clothes to hang them, he snaps them too hard, as if the folds of the fabric could absorb some of the tension inside him. Water drips off the edges and splatters the glass railing, leaving marks on the clean window. The dull thud of wet fabric and the drops hitting the glass break the silence of the living room.

Baek-Jin, sitting on the sofa with a book, turns slightly toward him, his eyebrows knitting in an expression halfway between irritated and curious. He doesn’t say anything, but looks at him for a few seconds, as if trying to figure out just how far Baku intends to go in being obnoxious and, apparently, chaotic in the simple act of hanging laundry.

Baku, feeling caught red-handed, widens his eyes, cheeks warm, hands damp. He deliberately turns his back, rotating the basin so that when he shakes out the clothes, the water splashes outward and no longer onto the windows. He does it with a stubborn silence, the kind he usually reserves for battles he refuses to lose. He keeps hanging clothes, using a clothespin after another, until the silence is filled only with the graceless sound of fabric being slapped into place.

Baek-Jin watches him a little longer, then sighs, shakes his head, and lets it go. No words, no corrections: he doesn’t want to trigger yet another argument over something trivial.

Time passes in a fragile balance, until a sharp curse cuts through it like a whip.

“Fuck!”

Baek-Jin rolls his eyes, but curiosity pushes him to stand. He walks to the balcony door and leans against the frame, hands in his pockets. He had wondered, after all: does he actually know how to do laundry? Baku lives alone with his father, a man more absent than present, and Baek-Jin vaguely remembers a neighbor who sometimes helped them with the house chores. One look at the clothes, every color mixed together, dripping, no spin cycle, gives him the answer: no, he has absolutely no idea.

“What happened?” he asks, with a calmness that sounds almost like provocation.

Baku stiffens. He turns slightly, hiding something behind him, his head tilted.

“What? Nothing, what do you think happened? I’m hanging laundry!”

Baek-Jin tilts his head, eyes narrowing with fake patience. “You cursed like you made a mess.”

“A mess? Me?” Baku widens his eyes, then bursts into an exaggerated, theatrical laugh, raising his hands as if denying any accusation. “What are you, the laundry police? I know how to do it, okay?”

Baek-Jin stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing to slits. Then he shrugs and steps back inside, leaving behind a shadow of skepticism.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Baku spins around, his heart pounding in panic. He looks at the sweatshirt in his hands, it’s Baek-Jin’s, white, or at least it used to be. Now it’s a bright, pastel pink. Ridiculous.

“Fu-” he mutters, cutting off the curse before it escapes.

But he doesn’t even have time to finish the thought: Baek-Jin is behind him again.

Quiet, close, too close. His gaze falls on the pink sweatshirt with an expression halfway between disbelief and amusement.

Baku jumps, nearly dropping it. “Shibal! You scared the hell out of me! What do you want?”

“You knew you’re not supposed to mix colors, unless you wash on cold?” Baek-Jin says in a flat voice, though there’s a faint glint of irony in his eyes.

Baku clenches his jaw, frustrated. He rolls his eyes like a scolded teenager. Inside, guilt rises, he knows that sweatshirt is expensive and has seen Baek-Jin wear it often, but his tongue chooses the defensive route.

“I’ll buy you a new one, don’t worry” he mutters, trying to sound indifferent. Then he lifts his chin and adds, with a crooked smile, “Anyway, it doesn’t even look bad in pink…”

Baek-Jin raises an eyebrow, silent, watching him for a long moment before scoffing and turning away.

“Do what you want. You can wear it, then.”

Baku watches him go, then sighs and keeps hanging clothes. But fate seems to be having fun behind his back.

When he lifts another sweatshirt, one of his own, he discovers that it too, once a deep red, is now a washed-out pink, almost salmon-colored.

“Oh what the…” he murmurs, trying not to scream.

Baek-Jin, already halfway back to the sofa, stops and slowly turns. “I told you, you shouldn’t have mixed colors. You didn’t wash wool too, did you? Because…”

He doesn’t finish: Baku pulls out a grey turtleneck, now two sizes smaller, practically child-sized. He holds it up by the shoulders, his face a portrait of despair.

For a moment, silence reigns. Then Baek-Jin brings a hand to his lips, trying to stifle the laughter bubbling up, but fails: a slow, genuine, amused smile escapes him anyway.

Baku sighs, defeated. “I’ll buy you a new one of this too” he says quietly, more resigned than annoyed.

Baek-Jin nods, eyes still bright with laughter.

“Don’t do laundry anymore.”

“Never again” Baku promises, as serious as if he were swearing a sacred oath.

When Baku closes the balcony door, the night air lingers behind him, sharp and cool, as if trying to keep him outside. He turns toward the living room, unsure whether to say something, but he doesn’t even have time to open his mouth before his stomach speaks for him.

A loud, embarrassing rumble in the silence.

Baek-Jin, sitting on the sofa, slowly lifts his gaze from the tablet he was pretending to read. His lips curl into a faint, restrained smile.

“Hungry?” he asks in a neutral tone, though the raised eyebrow betrays subtle amusement.

Baku grimaces, crossing his arms and pretending nothing happened.

“No, I’m a ventriloquist and I just told you to go to hell.”

Baek-Jin sighs, rolling his eyes, then stands with an irritating elegance, every movement measured, controlled, as if even walking were a stylistic choice.

“I don’t need a babysitter” Baku goes on, raising his voice to mask his embarrassment, “I can cook if you’re not hungry yet.”

“Then, blow up the kitchen too?” Baek-Jin shoots back, walking past him without looking, hands in his pockets. His shirt slightly unbuttoned, his smooth movements, his distracted gaze, everything about him seems designed to annoy Baku.

Baku watches him, and for a second he’s distracted. That way of walking, that elegant, indifferent posture, makes something twist in his stomach, and it’s not just hunger. He quickly closes his eyes and shakes his head, as if to chase the thought away.

“Even if I blew it up” he mutters, “I’d fix everything after!”

Baek-Jin turns toward him, offering a sardonic smile. “Like you did with the laundry?”

Baku clenches his fists, then mimics him, crossing his arms in a caricature of defiance. “Like the pipe I fixed in the kitchen.”

Baek-Jin’s smile widens, almost pleased. “So, what would you cook?”

The question throws him. Baku wrinkles his nose, thinks for a moment, then lowers his gaze. The truth is that he can barely cook anything. The only dish he ever learned properly, out of necessity, was fried chicken and fries, omnipresent at his father’s restaurant, where he grew up more as a bored diner than an apprentice chef.

“Do you… have chicken?” he asks, not very convinced.

Baek-Jin lets out a short, sarcastic laugh, a low, controlled sound full of irony.

“Forget it. We’re not eating fried food.”

Baku shoots him a dirty look and throws his hands in the air, exasperated.

“Do you ever have fun in your life?”

“Eating heavy at night is bad” Baek-Jin replies calmly, heading back toward the kitchen. “Do you want nightmares tonight?”

Baku is about to snap back with a venomous remark: my nightmare is already standing right in front of me, but the sentence dies on his tongue. He remembers that no one is forcing him to stay. He’s the one who chose to remain here. And no matter how much Baek-Jin drives him insane, he can’t find a good reason to leave.

So, he just huffs. “So…what would you cook?”

“A salad, maybe.”

Baku looks at him as if he had just blasphemed. “A salad?”

He makes a face of pure disgust.

“I’m getting a bag of chips” he declares, striding toward the kitchen like someone who just lost a battle he didn’t want to fight.

Baek-Jin follows without comment. He approaches the fridge, opens it with a fluid motion, and takes out a bag of mixed greens, then some tomatoes, tuna, and corn. He sets everything on the counter as if arranging a painting.

Baku, chips in hand, watches him in silence, his expression unreadable. Then he lifts an eyebrow.

“Didn’t you say ‘salad’?”

“You can put many things in it” Baek-Jin replies without even looking at him, rinsing the vegetables under the water. His tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of amusement he can’t quite hide.

Baku observes him a moment longer, then lets out a long sigh and dramatically returns the chips to the cupboard.

“Can I help with anything?” he asks, not without a hint of challenge.

Baek-Jin shakes his head as he cuts a tomato with precision.

“Just… wait, without causing any more disasters.”

“Oh, go to hell!” Baku bursts out, waving a hand dismissively, and stomps off to the living room.

Baek-Jin watches him disappear behind the corner, and a slow smile draws itself on his lips. He’s not just amused, it’s a deeper smile, almost affectionate, one that lasts barely a heartbeat before dissolving.

Then he returns to his cutting board, the knife sinking silently into the tomato.

“Idiot” he murmurs softly, but the tone is gentle, as if the word were a caress rather than an insult.

In the living room, Baku drops onto the couch, hands intertwined behind his head, listening from afar to the sound of dishes, running water, the knife tapping on the cutting board. He doesn’t say anything. But, without admitting it even to himself, he likes that sound.

It’s the sound of someone preparing something for him.

Baek-Jin calls him after ten minutes, his voice firm but not trying to sound authoritative, as if he didn’t really want to break the fragile balance that has formed between them.

“It’s ready.”

From the living room comes the immediate reply, with the brisk tone of someone already plotting his next move: “Bring everything here!”

Baek-Jin appears in the kitchen doorway, one eyebrow raised. Baku is already half sprawled on the couch, remote in hand, pointing with his head toward the low table in front of him.

“Let’s watch something while we eat.”

It’s a simple sentence, almost banal, but Baek-Jin feels it like a small earthquake. Eating in the living room, in front of the TV, is something he never does. It’s a silent rule, part of his meticulous routine, the same routine that makes him feel like everything is under control. The kind of habit that keeps him from thinking too much. And Baku, unaware or perhaps not, keeps cracking those habits one by one.

Inside him, a flicker of irritation tightens his stomach, not for the proposal itself, but for the way Baku crosses his boundaries without even realizing it, with the ease of someone opening a window in a room closed for years.

For an instant, Baek-Jin stays still, his gaze fixed on him. He wants to say no, that meals are eaten at the table, that order must be maintained, but then he exhales softly. He’s already won the salad battle: he doesn’t feel like opening another front.

“All right” he says at last, almost to himself.

He takes the two bowls and the cutlery, walks down the hallway with slow steps, as if each gesture were a partial surrender. When he reaches the table, he sets the bowls down and is about to return to the kitchen for the rest, but Baku jumps to his feet before he can move.

“I’ll take care of it!” he says with a firm tone, as if the most important task in the world were carrying two glasses and a bottle of water. “You choose what to watch.”

Baek-Jin stands there, hands behind his back, watching Baku disappear into the kitchen. He hears the clinking of glasses, the water running, then the soft sound of steps returning toward him. When Baku reappears, he carries everything in a precarious balance: two napkins, two glasses, and a bottle of water almost full.

“So, did you choose?” he asks, placing everything on the table and searching his face for a reaction.

But Baek-Jin doesn’t answer right away. He pours the water calmly, avoiding his gaze. “I’m not used to having dinner with the television on” he finally replies, without sarcasm but with that calmness Baku finds unbearable.

“What?” Baku stares at him, then huffs. “When we were kids, we always did that at my place!”

Baek-Jin lifts his eyes, and for a moment something softens in them. There’s a memory, perhaps, a distant image of a time when he also laughed at dinner. He glances at the television as if it were an enemy he cannot fight, then inhales slowly.

Everything is changing too fast, he thinks. Every little gesture from Baku becomes an opening, a crack in the wall he has built so carefully. But he doesn’t have the strength to push him away.

“Baku” he murmurs at last, his voice almost a breath, “do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

Baku glances at him sideways, then turns on the TV and starts fiddling with the remote, complaining that he can’t find the right channel. Baek-Jin gets up without a word and returns to the kitchen. When he comes back, he’s carrying salt, oil, vinegar, and several sauces, arranging them neatly on the table.

Meanwhile Baku seems to have found something: the preview of a drama is on the screen, warm colors, flashy lettering. He’s already immersed in his little distraction ritual, but when he looks down at his bowl, he frowns. Then he notices the difference between the two salads.

“Wait…” he says, pointing to his.

Baek-Jin, sitting next to him but slightly apart, doesn’t look at him directly. “I added some of those nachos you bought” he explains while calmly seasoning his own bowl, pouring the oil as if it were a sacred gesture. “It seemed… more your style.”

Baku stares at him for a second, then smiles, a smile that lights up his whole face. He hums softly in thanks and bends forward to mix the salad. The humming, low and rhythmic, fills the room like a living presence.

Baek-Jin hears that note and freezes for an instant. He doesn’t look at him, he can’t. He focuses on the sauces, on the fork, on anything that isn’t the way Baku manages to make even that moment feel like home.

“I put on this drama” Baku says, while on the screen the two protagonists looking at each other. “That looks like a basketball court, doesn’t it? I wonder if they play, I love sports dramas.”

Baek-Jin raises his gaze slightly, watching the TV with suspicion, then nods quietly.

Baku presses play, satisfied. He sits beside him, crosses his legs, and begins eating, commenting on almost every scene: the music, the actors, the dialogue, even the clothes. He chuckles, shakes his head, complains loudly about how naïve or stupid the characters are.

Baek-Jin doesn’t comment, but his gaze isn’t drifting into emptiness like usual.

He follows the scenes, occasionally sips water, occasionally stirs his salad. And even if he doesn’t laugh, even if he doesn’t speak, there’s a barely visible relaxation in his shoulders, a slower breath.

***

The bowls are empty now, abandoned on the table among crossed cutlery and half-full glasses. The drama keeps playing.

Baek-Jin moves first. He stands naturally, picks up both bowls and the cutlery, and heads to the kitchen. His movements are measured, almost elegant, but they betray a certain urgency: he needs to step away, to breathe.

Baku pauses the video. The sudden silence feels louder than before.

“You can keep watching” Baek-Jin says without turning, as he steps into the kitchen.

But Baku is already on his feet, gathering what remains on the table, glasses, napkins, the half-empty bottle.

“We’ll continue later” he says calmly but decisively, as if it were a commitment for the evening, an appointment he doesn’t want to postpone, a small ritual he refuses to break.

Baek-Jin doesn’t answer, but a shiver runs down his spine, as if that sentence had struck a place in him he didn’t know was exposed. He simply turns on the faucet and lets the water run, cold, clear, almost hypnotic. His hands move over the bowls, the familiar, orderly gesture of someone who finds calm in simple things.

Beside him, Baku grabs a cloth and begins drying the dishes. Their motions synchronize naturally: one washes, the other dries, without needing to coordinate. The sound of water, the clink of glass, the soft rustle of fabric form a quiet harmony, a domestic music that fills the silence.

Baek-Jin breaks the quiet with a low, almost distracted voice: “You know you chose a BL, right?”

Baku freezes mid-gesture, a glass still in his hand. He turns toward him, confused, partly because the abbreviation told him nothing, partly because it’s rare for Baek-Jin to speak spontaneously, and hearing him do so throws him off.

“A… what?”

Baek-Jin sighs, just a little. A shadow of a smile passes over his lips. “A love story between two boys.”

Baku looks at him with a mix of surprise and disbelief. “Oh…” he mutters, as if he had just discovered that water is wet.

Then he shakes his head, searching for an excuse. “Come on, no way. It’s about that guy who plays basketball and the other who quit gymnastics… It’s a story about friendship.”

Baek-Jin turns slowly toward him, one eyebrow raised, his hands still in the water.

“Are you really that naïve, Baku?”

Baku grumbles something unintelligible, his face slightly red.

“It would’ve been written in the description, right? I would’ve noticed. And anyway… I like it. I’m curious how it’ll end.”

Baek-Jin closes the faucet and hands him a damp glass.

“It’ll end with one of them putting his mouth on the other’s” he says, tone neutral but sharp.

Baku’s eyes fly open, and the glass almost slips from his hands. He catches it at the last second, but water splashes onto the counter. He huffs and shoots him a sideways glare.

Baek-Jin smirks, pleased, then dries his hands and, without another word, returns to the living room.

Baku lingers in the kitchen for a few seconds, trying to steady his racing heartbeat. He’s not sure if it’s irritation, embarrassment, or something else he refuses to examine. Eventually, he shakes his head and follows him, wiping his hands on his jeans.

In the living room, Baek-Jin is already back on the couch. He keeps the usual distance, his posture straight, elegant even in the simplest position, legs crossed. Baku turns off all the lights before dropping beside him, not too close but not too far, messy, legs spread. Always the opposite of Baek-Jin in everything.

For a moment, he hesitates, he looks at Baek-Jin, then at the blanket, then back at him.

He’d like to ask if he wants to share it, but the words die in his throat. He simply spreads the blanket a little wider, as if to make space, a mute gesture that hangs between them.

He presses play.

The drama resumes exactly where it stopped, with that soft, suspended music that seems crafted to fill silences. On the screen, the two protagonists talk in low voices, too close, for too long, their looks brushing and retreating like a dangerous game of balance and held breath.

Baku clears his throat, a dry, awkward sound that breaks the spell for a moment. He tries to comment, a light joke about how slow or predictable everything is, but his voice comes out more uncertain than usual, less loud, as if he feared breaking something. Even he notices, and he falls silent at once, eyes fixed on the screen, hands gripping the edge of the blanket.

Baek-Jin remains still beside him, rigid on the outside, but inside he is anything but calm. His eyes aren’t as distant as before: from time to time they slide sideways, drawn to that profile, to the relaxed but tense curve of Baku’s shoulders, to the way he leans forward, engrossed in the scene. He watches him bite his lower lip absentmindedly, then wet it with his tongue, a simple, automatic gesture, yet so full of life that Baek-Jin has to tear his gaze away immediately not to get caught in it.

The light from the TV casts flickering reflections across their faces, shifting between warm glows and bluish shadows. With every scene change, the distance between them seems to shrink imperceptibly. A fold of the blanket slipping a little farther, a knee brushing the other’s without meaning to, a breath growing deeper, almost synchronized.

There’s a subtle tension in the air, like an invisible thread vibrating, stretched tight between the two of them. Neither of them dares to pull it, but both feel it, present, alive, like a shared secret.

On the TV, one of the characters laughs softly, nervously, and the other meets his eyes. Their fingers graze for an instant, a closeness that feels like a promise.

Baku swallows, barely perceptible, and Baek-Jin feels a reflection of that movement run down his own throat.

They don’t speak. No one comments anymore.

Only the soft music swelling gently, the protagonists’ voices dropping lower, and that suspended silence between them, dense, full of something neither of them has the courage to name yet.

Then Baku shifts slightly, moves the blanket, and the fabric brushes Baek-Jin’s hand. A minimal touch, almost nonexistent, but enough to stop both their breaths.

Baek-Jin doesn’t pull back.

Baku doesn’t apologize. In fact, he offers it to him: “If you’re cold, cover yourself too.”

Baek-Jin only nods, pretending to be completely absorbed in the episode.

Then they keep watching, unmoving, while the scene on screen ends with a hesitant embrace between the two leads.

And in that fiction, in that image reflected in their eyes, they both recognize something that scares them, because even if they don’t say it, they know that the same tension doesn’t belong only to the drama.

The basketball player and the former gymnast are alone in the gym, a ball bouncing softly on the polished floor, and the music becomes lighter, more intimate.

The basketball player shows him how to score, takes his hands, adjusts his fingers on the ball. They laugh, tease each other, shove one another gently, and the air is charged with that suspended electricity of two people who are getting closer without fully realizing it.

Baku comments with a sudden smile, his voice tinged with nostalgia: “You used to be so bad at do it, remember? It took all my patience.”

Baek-Jin rolls his eyes, but can’t suppress a hint of a smile.

“Only because you wanted me to do from half-court, like I was some prodigy like you.”

Baku looks at him, his eyes lighting up at that hidden admission, that veiled compliment that slipped out. Without thinking, he bumps his shoulder, and the movement makes the blanket ripple, now covering them both. The closeness is almost imperceptible, but real: their shoulders brush, their knees touch lightly beneath the warm fabric.

“In the end you got a lot better, though” Baku replies softly, turning back to the screen.

On the TV, the two protagonists are now challenging each other one-on-one, dribbling between laughter and tension.

Baku smiles again. “Look, that’s us… back then.”

Baek-Jin holds back a smile that feels more like mockery than anything else, but his eyes still gleam.

“What?” Baku asks, noticing the expression.

“Baku” Baek-Jin sighs in a velvety voice, “I think your intentions back then were only to teach me how to score a basket, not to flirt with me.”

Baku’s eyes widen, offended. “He’s not flirting with him, they’re friends!” he protests, pointing at the screen. But Baek-Jin glances sideways at him, one eyebrow elegantly raised.

“The wet dream, did you forget that?” he counters, almost bored, but the curve of his lips is anything but innocent.

Baku stammers: “He was feverish and confused, it can happen!”

“It can happen?” Baek-Jin needles him, tilting his head slightly, his voice slicing like a thin blade. “Why do you sound like you’re talking from… experience? Did it happen to you too? Recently, maybe…”

Baku shoulders him again, harder this time, blushing to the tips of his ears. “Oh, shut up!”

He turns back to the screen, just in time to see the scene where the basketball player grabs the former gymnast’s hand, pulling him down with him, both ending up on the floor.

They stare at each other, breaths mingling. And finally, the basketball player kisses him.

Baku holds his breath. His body stiffens as if he were the one lying there on that gym floor, inches from a line he’s never truly dared to cross.

“There” Baek-Jin comments, calm voice but a smile betraying his amusement, “don’t say I didn’t tell you.”

But Baku doesn’t answer. He can’t.

He watches the two protagonists kiss as if they’d been waiting their whole lives for that moment, as if every hesitation had finally found its meaning.

His eyes stay fixed, hypnotized, and Baek-Jin watches him in silence.

There’s something vulnerable in that profile lit by the bluish light of the screen.

Without realizing it, Baek-Jin moistens his lips, distracted, as if for a moment he were wondering… what would happen if he were in the basketball player’s place, if he were the one to close that distance between them…
But the thought hits him like a pang, and he immediately tries to smother it.

The episode ends with the credits. Baku switches off the screen abruptly, as if the air had become too thick to breathe.

Baek-Jin looks at him sideways, then breaks the silence with a mocking tone: “Aren’t we continuing?”

Baku coughs, clears his throat, avoids his gaze.

“It’s really late… shall we sleep?”

Baek-Jin sighs, slides the blanket off himself and stands up with calm grace.

“Alright.”

He walks toward the hallway, elegant as always, his steps silent but sure, and the faint sound of his feet on the floor fades gradually, like an echo disappearing.

Baku stays still, still wrapped in the blanket holding a bit of the other’s warmth, and the scent, that clean smell that is unmistakably Baek-Jin’s by now.

“Good night, Baku.”

Baek-Jin’s voice arrives suddenly, like a soft summer breeze, almost gentle, and Baku lifts his head slightly, throat dry.

“Eh? Ah, yeah… good night…”

The TV is off, but on the dark screen remains a blurred reflection: his own. Baku runs a hand over his face, then drops back onto the sofa, a sigh escaping him as if he’d been holding his breath for too long. His heart beats unevenly, and he can’t tell if he wants to run or stop completely.

He shifts, the blanket sliding a little, and when he lifts it to pull it over himself again, he glances down and curses silently. There, beneath the fabric of his pants, is an unmistakable hint of hardness.

“Aiish…” he mutters through clenched teeth, snapping his gaze to the ceiling and covering himself more, frustrated.

He screwed himself over with his own hands, literally.

Why did he have to open his mouth, compare the protagonists to him and Baek-Jin as kids? Now his mind is a mess, a knot where reality and fiction have fused together, and that on-screen kiss, that damn kiss he wasn’t expecting at all, he felt it as if it were his own.

As if the ones kissing had been the two of them.

Having Baek-Jin next to him, so close, sharing that blanket, that warmth… was the final blow. If he’d been alone, he probably would have gotten up, paced around the living room, hands in his hair, muttering curses at himself for the chaos boiling inside him. Because he’s sure of it: he would’ve thought about him and Baek-Jin anyway.

No.

Maybe he could’ve thought about Gotak. Yes, maybe without all that mess with Baek-Jin, he would’ve thought about Gotak, he played basketball with him more often and longer and… while watching that kiss… he would have laughed. Maybe he would’ve texted him, told him to watch that series just to laugh together. And they’d have made fun of each other.

Actually no, he would’ve gotten hard even if he’d thought about Gotak. Yes. For sure.

Because he didn’t get turned on by a specific person, he could’ve gotten turned on by any guy, thinking about kissing him.

Yes. Any guy. Not necessarily Na Baek-Jin.

Yes.

He rejects the thought, and the confusion only grows. He can do nothing but stay there, frozen, trapped in silence and in thoughts that keep repeating, obsessive. The sound of mouths meeting, the rustle of breathing, tongues moving inside the other’s mouth, seeking their partner and playing at intertwining… and the perfect framing of the moment, the slowness of it all: they’ve carved themselves into his mind like torture.

He lies on his side, with effort, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. His heartbeat drums in his ears, and the echo of the kiss on the screen blends with a memory he doesn’t want to return to, but that crashes into him anyway.

He remembers Baek-Jin sitting on his lap. Remembers his hands on Baku’s shoulders, that direct, disarming stare. Provocative. That mischievous, feral smile.

“Would the idea of kissing me disgust you?” he had asked, voice barely a whisper.

And he… Baku hadn’t answered. Too shocked, too confused. He’d never really thought about it.

It hadn’t come naturally to him, not even when, right there on that couch, they had gone further. He hadn’t sought that kiss. And now he couldn’t think about anything else.

He wonders, with a sudden twist in his stomach, whether they pushed things too far that night. Whether, somehow, they missed something important.

Wait…

Something important?

“What the hell are you telling yourself, Hu-Min…” he growls softly, almost choked, turning on his side and clutching the blanket.

He squeezes his eyes shut. But behind his eyelids he doesn’t find darkness, he finds Baek-Jin. Sees him on his lap again, feels the weight of his body, hears the soft way he called his name, the image of the two of them brushing against each other, then kissing.

He can almost hear the sound of their mouths, the warmth mingling, the taste of Baek-Jin’s saliva on his tongue.

He growls again, strangling a frustrated moan, and covers his face with both hands.

“Stop it, fuck…”

Then, as if he could chase everything away, he starts humming softly, any song, the first one that comes to mind.

A silly, broken tune that fills the silence and keeps him company: “Dunggeulge, dunggeulge, uhh dunggeulge dunggeulge uhh binggeulbinggeul dolagamyeo chumeul chupsida uhh sonppyeogeul chimyeonseo uhh noraereul bureumyo uhh la la la la jeulgeoupge chumchuja yooh”

And he prays, really, that sleep hits him like a frying pan to the head, fast, blunt, without giving him time to think about anything else.

***

Baek-Jin’s Saturday mornings have always been the same. It’s a rooted habit, one he has never really questioned: he gets up, puts on a clean tracksuit, checks that everything is in his gym bag, and then leaves without even having breakfast. He knows he’ll eat something at the gym’s café, as always. He likes the routine because it never changes, never asks anything of him, never surprises him.

That morning, however, when he opens his eyes and checks the time, he realizes it’s later than usual. He slept poorly, restless, and the last few days have been… complicated. Baku has a natural talent for disrupting any balance he touches, and ever since he’s been in his house, Baek-Jin has lost every point of reference. It’s as if the other had shoved his hands into his routine and shuffled it like a deck of cards, then scattered it on the table without any order, telling him to play by his rules.

He sits up in bed, scowling. While packing his school backpack, it hits him again, like a punch to the stomach, that it’s Saturday. He grimaces. No school. Gym. He should get moving.

With an impatient sigh, he grabs the right duffel bag, checks that everything is inside, pulls on his tracksuit, and leaves the room.

When he reaches the living room, he freezes for a moment. Baku is still on the couch, asleep, the blanket a mess around his legs, his hair in a pitiful state. He’s breathing softly, lips slightly parted.

He looks… vulnerable? Tired. Not relaxed.

Baek-Jin presses his lips together.

Maybe he should leave him a note.

Maybe he should wake him up.

Should he?

The very idea that he should inform him of his movements irritates him deeply. He’s not a babysitter. He’s not a… partner, or anything else. He owes him nothing… right?

He lets the bag drop near the entrance, deliberately not caring about the sound. A dull thud. Then he goes to the kitchen, opens the cupboard, takes a glass and fills it with water. Noise. Too much noise.

He would never admit it, not even under torture, but he wants to wake him. That way he doesn’t have to leave notes. That way, if Baku wants to know where he’s going, he can just ask him directly.

When he returns to the living room, Baku is rubbing his eyes, hair even messier, his natural pout doubled by confusion. He looks like he doesn’t remember for a second what world he’s in.

Then their gazes meet.

Baku frowns.

Baek-Jin doesn’t manage to look away in time and gets caught in those dark, deep, questioning irises.

“Where are you going at this hour?” Baku mutters, voice thick with sleep.

Baek-Jin sighs, theatrically perfect. He pretends to be annoyed. In reality, he’s… inexplicably satisfied.

“I go to the gym on Saturdays.”

He bends down to grab the bag, then goes to the closet to get his coat.

“Really? Wow.” Baku yawns, sitting up on the couch. For a second he looks like a freshly woken child. Baek-Jin looks away.

He’s ready to leave when he turns toward him.

“Do whatever you want, but… don’t start fixing anything else.” he warns, vaguely gesturing around the house. “Have a good day, Baku.”

He reaches for the door, but a voice calls out immediately, almost pleading.

“Hey, Na Baek-Jin, wait!”

There’s a thread of desperation in his voice. Baek-Jin’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t turn right away; he doesn’t want him to see that that tone hit him square in the chest. He stands still three seconds, four… then turns just a little, in that usual way of his, as if patience were a limited resource.

“What is it?”

Baku has stood up, looking around the room as if it had suddenly become too big for him. As if the idea of being left alone genuinely scared him. He has that lost expression that shouldn’t belong to him, and that Baek-Jin hates, because it hits him exactly where he should be hardest.

He could go anywhere, Baek-Jin thinks, irritated. He could do anything.

And yet no. He’s stuck in this insane idea of “fixing him” of “saving him” and now… now he clings to him like a shadow.

Once, maybe, Baek-Jin would have wanted exactly this: Baku clinging to him, seeking him, following him everywhere like a clumsy but warm, present, insistent shadow. The kind of closeness that years ago would have filled his chest with something bright, electric, almost childlike.

But not now.

Now that idea torments him.

Every single moment with him, every slip of a glance, every sentence, every little habit Baku tries to thread into his routine like a root, is a suffocating reminder: soon he’ll have to say goodbye. Not a temporary goodbye, not a pause. A final goodbye, with no return. And that shadow of an imminent ending makes everything heavier.

Baek-Jin had wanted things between them to be simple. Clean.

One night. Sex without complications, without questions, without feelings creeping out through the cracks like water leaking from a broken dam.

He only wanted this: Baku’s body against his, flesh speaking louder than words, the violent and honest relief of two people seeking each other for physical need.

A parenthesis. A perfect one.

And then nothing more. But Baku doesn’t want that. Baku wants the opposite.

Baku wants to say goodbye in “the best way possible” whatever the fuck that means. He wants to “fix” whatever’s between them, as if he could repair it, as if there were a sweet ending available somewhere in the world, ready to be grabbed.

Baek-Jin knows it, feels it in his bones: it’s nothing but an excuse. A pathetic, fucking excuse to try to understand him, to get closer, to attempt what he feels he didn’t have time to do.

To read in him things Baek-Jin does everything to hide from everyone.

And deep down, in the confusion weighing on his chest, there’s a part of him that knows perfectly well it’s his fault.

Because it was him, with his voice and that strange honesty, who told Baku not to fuck him like two animals.

It was him who asked for something more human, more close, more… intimate.

One night, but it has to be unique.
You must desire me, totally, devotedly
As if you wanted every part of me to belong to you.

All sentences he should never have said.

Never.

Because it was in that exact moment that something foolish snapped in Baku’s mind, that urge to fix it, to end things properly, as if there were such a thing as a painless way to let go. As if it were possible to stay sharp while unfastening each other from the heart.

For Baek-Jin, a clean cut is better, a rip, like tearing off a band-aid: the slower you do it, the more it hurts. Strange, because he’s always been a masochist, but when it comes to losing Baku, he knows he can’t take pleasure in that pain.

But Baku isn’t a masochist, isn’t a sadist, doesn’t want to remove the band-aid, he wants to put on another, and another, and another… building something comforting, hoping it will be enough to make it work.

He regrets it every second.

Every breath, every step Baku takes behind him, every question, every attempt to enter his world… is a blade of guilt twisting in his stomach.

Now he has to live with it, with Baku insisting on staying close, and with himself who, damn it, can’t push him away the way he should.

“Can you wait five minutes so I can get changed?” Baku asks, voice slightly uncertain. “I want… to come with you.”

Baek-Jin raises an eyebrow. “You want to go to the gym… with me?”

Baku ruffles his hair, then scratches his belly absent-mindedly, terrible move, because he brushes near the scar. Baek-Jin shoots him a dark glare. Idiot. He could hurt himself again. But he bites his tongue instead of scolding him.

Baku seems to sense it anyway, because he stops touching himself immediately.

He nods. “Yeah, a bit of training wouldn’t hurt…”

“Go play basketball with your friends, then.”

Baku grumbles. “They’re… worried about me, they’d ask questions, insist with their plans... and I can’t explain this fucking situation to them. Please, let me come with you, I won’t bother you, I promise.”

Then he puts on that puppy-dog look. The one Baek-Jin hates because it works.

Baek-Jin looks away immediately, as if looking too long were… dangerous. He presses two fingers to the corner of his eye, the gesture he makes when he needs self-control, as if he could physically erase his own weakness.

“Do whatever you want. But hurry up.”

Baku lights up, suddenly awake and energized. “Two minutes! I’m going to pee!”

Then, he shoots toward the bathroom, almost slipping.

Baek-Jin stands still, bag in hand, listening to the bathroom door close. He sighs.

He starts to wonder, with growing irritation, when exactly his life became such a mess.

And he thinks this day will be much more complicated than expected.

***

They arrive in front of the gym after a silent walk, only the sound of their soles on the sidewalk filling the space between them. Baek-Jin is always a few steps ahead, posture straight, duffel bag held in one hand, the other slipped into the pocket of his coat, unperturbed, as if nothing could really surprise him when he’s focused on a destination.
Baku, instead, walks slower, his hands hidden in the coat pockets, one of Baek-Jin’s coats, too elegant for him and definitely too perfumed; his gaze vaguely sleepy, vaguely lost in who knows what meanders of his thoughts (perhaps discovering something more about Baek-Jin every day is mentally shattering the idea he had built of him for years).

The gym’s façade appears at the corner and, as soon as Baku recognizes the sign, the world seems to plant itself beneath his feet. He stops, motionless, staring at the door as if it were a portal to an alternate dimension. His brain switches off, or turns on too much, who knows.

Fact is, after three steps in which he no longer hears anything behind him, Baek-Jin sighs and turns. And finds Baku still there, staring at the entrance with an expression that screams: I’m about to make a huge scene, hold me back.

One glance is enough for him to understand exactly what’s swirling in his head. He lifts one corner of his mouth, amused but careful not to show it too much.

“Why are you wasting time?” he calls out, monotone, meaning: if you start with your bullshit, go back home.

Baku raises an arm and points at the building as if Baek-Jin hadn’t noticed it.

“You… you train here?”

Baek-Jin nods faintly, his head tilted by a millimetre. No trace of embarrassment, no explanation. Just a: yes, and what about it?

“What is it?” he asks, cold. “Changed your mind? You still have time to go wherever you want…”

His jaw tightens, sculpted like a damn Greek hero. His hands, inside the coat pockets, curl into fists. His neck stiffens as if he’s holding back the impulse to say what he thinks… but he must fail, because in the end he says:

“You know what they say about this gym?”

Baek-Jin barely lifts an eyebrow, slow, provocative: “I’m surprised you know…”

Baku’s eyes widen, incredulous. He tries to kill him with a stare. It doesn’t work.

Baek-Jin averts his eyes for an instant, exhales quietly, wets his lips with his tongue in an involuntary, almost nervous gesture.

“Baku, it’s the closest one to my place.”

He doesn’t have time to say anything else because Baku closes the distance in two decisive steps. And he’s once again too close.

His voice is a whisper, syllables carved like a warning to make him think otherwise, or it’ll be his end, right there on that street: “Gay people come here to pick up. It’s like live-action Grindr.”

Baek-Jin freezes. For half a second his breath stops in his throat: it’s the closeness, it’s the familiar scent of his own soap on Baku’s skin, it’s the unintentional ease of the other’s body only a few centimetres from his.

It’s too much. Too close, too sudden, too everything. Even that subtle jealousy slipping back into Baku’s voice and gaze.

Not the moment to acknowledge it.

He lifts his gaze and their eyes lock like magnets in a tension neither of them will ever admit.

“So?” he answers quietly. “You scared someone will hit on you?”

Baku says nothing. He just looks at him, feral. Baek-Jin knows perfectly well that’s not the point and he’s provoking him just to make him say it, or ask it, out loud, but Baku’s pride would rather have a tooth pulled than explain himself.

Baek-Jin goes on, sharp as always: “Relax. You reek of heterosexuality from metres away. No one will bother you.”

He turns to head to the entrance, but a hand grabs his wrist, holding it firmly.

Baek-Jin stiffens and slowly turns back, his eyes dropping first to the point of contact, then to Baku’s face.

One eyebrow rises.

“Cut it out with this heterosexuality crap” Baku growls, voice low, angry in a way that feels almost… vulnerable. “It’s the second time you bring it up. I’ve had enough.”

“Am I wrong?” Baek-Jin replies.

Baku’s grip loosens instantly. He mutters a curse under his breath, shakes his head and walks past Baek-Jin toward the entrance, as if fleeing the conversation were the only way not to explode.

Baek-Jin follows calmly, steady steps, and once inside he calls him over, pointing to a side area near the big windows.

“The bar is there.”

Baku doesn’t answer. He’s too busy looking around, as if stepping into hostile territory.

Baek-Jin, with an indecipherable expression, savours every shade of the scene.

When Baek-Jin approaches the counter, the bartender immediately looks up and smiles at him as if he had been waiting for him for hours.

“Hey Donald, giving you the usual?”

The voice is cheerful, way too familiar. Baku, who stayed a few steps behind, spins around. His gaze darts from the bartender to Baek-Jin, and he instantly understands that “Donald” is directed at him.
Baek-Jin closes his eyes for a moment, as if the name had caught him at the worst possible time, then turns toward Baku, just in time to see him advancing fast, with an expression that promises nothing good.

The bartender keeps smiling languidly at Baek-Jin until he notices Baku standing right next to him. His expression cracks, confused, as if he had no idea why this man is glaring at him with such hostility.

“Thanks, Joon, make it two, please” Baek-Jin answers, keeping his voice neutral, while beside him Baku radiates an energy that could make the bottles on the shelves vibrate.

Joon nods and steps away, leaving them alone. Baku moves closer, this time without touching him, but with his mouth so close to Baek-Jin’s ear that Baek-Jin feels the warmth of his breath.

“Donald?” he murmurs, incredulous.

Baek-Jin shoots him a sideways glance, a flash of not now in his eyes. He makes a small shrug.

“That’s how it works here.”

Baku huffs and rolls his eyes, exasperated.

“How it works for what? For fucking people without getting too personal?” he spits, fury overflowing in his voice.

Baek-Jin rubs a hand over his face, as if making a superhuman effort to stay calm.

“Baku, you said you wouldn’t cause problems…” he warns, voice low, tense.

Baku’s eyes widen. He realizes he went too far, too direct, too violent in his reaction. He wants to argue, explain it’s not jealousy, no, it’s just that Baek-Jin’s parallel life is short-circuiting every memory, every certainty he ever had about him.
But he stays quiet.

He bites the inside of his cheek, chaining the words before they can escape.

“What name do I put on the second drink, Donald?” Joon asks as he returns to the counter.

Baek-Jin opens his mouth to answer, but Baku beats him to it with a half-smirk:

“Ben. That’s my name.” And he winks.

Baek-Jin stares at him, incredulous. Baku shifts his gaze from Joon to him, lifting his brows in a bold, unmistakably provocative gesture, then crosses his arms over his chest, pleased with himself.

“By the way, Donald” Baku adds, emphasising the name with vindictive relish bordering on satisfaction, “I don’t know if anyone ever told you, but bisexuality exists.”

The sentence drops between them like a weight, but Baek-Jin doesn’t register it as a simple provocation. No. The tone, the wording, the timing, everything screams that it’s not just a jab.

Baek-Jin knows. He knows exactly why Baku said it in that precise moment.

It’s an answer.
Not a whim.
Not anger.
Not an instinctive outburst.

It’s Baku giving back what he put on the table.

He showed a part of his life: the gym everyone knows is a nearly exclusively queer place; the fake name he uses there, Donald, like a fence dividing what he shows and what he hides; the people who greet him with a familiarity Baku has never seen anyone receive from him.

And Baku… Baku, instead of backing off like anyone else would under such a revelation, chose to answer by opening another breach, one Baek-Jin had never truly considered.
He made him understand that labelling him as straight, because yes, Baek-Jin had done that, more than once, had been a misjudgment.

Not because Baku owed him anything. No. That’s exactly the point.

Baku never found it necessary to clarify anything. He never said “this is what I am.” Never confirmed nor denied. Never gave him any definition of himself. He didn’t allow it. He never granted it. It was Baek-Jin who filled the empty spaces with his assumptions. And now Baku is telling him, elegantly and brutally at the same time:

You never truly knew who I am. Not as much as you think.

And apparently, it goes both ways.

“Bisexuality exists” is not a theory lesson. It’s a whispered “you got it all wrong, just like I did.”
It’s a “I never lied to you, you imagined all that bullshit.” It’s a “you’re not the only one living a life you don’t show completely.”

Baek-Jin feels that admission like a thin tear inside his chest. Something closer to disorientation.
Because Baku is not teasing him. He’s not playing. He’s evening the score.

He’s saying: You showed a fragment of yourself. And I’m showing you a fragment of me.

Baek-Jin, in the silence that follows, understands it with a clarity that steals his breath: that fragment had been missing for years. And no matter how hard he tries to mask his surprise, a micro-gesture escapes him, an extra blink. His eyes narrow in an annoyed expression, but the disturbance is already there, visible like a crack in glass.

Joon sets the two drinks on the counter.

“Here are your drinks, Donald, Ben. Have fun!”

Baku thanks him with an overly wide smile, places a banknote on the counter, and grabs only one bottle.

“My treat, Donald, my friend…” he says, stressing every syllable. “Shall we go? I’m so dying to… work out.”

He turns his back and walks away without waiting for an answer, with a stride that screams “I won this round.”

Baek-Jin remains still a second too long. He picks up his drink, waves Joon a distracted goodbye and follows Baku.

His pace is no longer the same.

Before, he was sure he knew Baku, sure he could predict his boundaries, his limits, his immutable truths. Now he watches his broad shoulders, the coat draped over him as if it had always belonged to him, and wonders for the first time, with a subtle shiver: Have I ever truly known him?

***

Both of them walk down the hallway leading to the locker rooms without exchanging a single word.
The silence isn’t comfortable, nor is it hostile: it’s filled with everything they’ve already said to each other and everything that, if they tried for another five minutes in that mental state, could end badly, like always.

Inside the locker room, their steps echo, muffled by the rubber mats. They both take off their coats almost at the same time, as if that gesture were an implicit truce, a letting go of at least part of their armor.

Baku is wearing a tracksuit of Baek-Jin’s: pants a bit too tight for his legs and a hoodie whose smell irritates him. He takes it off and stays in a T-shirt.
Baek-Jin, instead, bends down to open his bag and, without hesitation, slips off his sweatpants and stuffs them inside. His bare legs emerge from the fabric with a natural, fluid motion, as if he had nothing to hide: two snowy, toned, exposed legs, wrapped in a pair of shorts so tight they seem made specifically to put Baku in trouble.

Baku freezes. He looks at them. He looks at them for too long.
He stares at those legs as if they were a crime. Or a temptation. Or both.

Annoyance creases his forehead, an annoyance that is more anger at himself than anything else. When he notices Baek-Jin’s questioning gaze, he whips around and sticks his head inside the locker as if he might find his lost dignity in there.

“So… Ben?” murmurs Baek-Jin behind him, raising a single eyebrow. It’s a question and a provocation, two in one.

“It’s my name.” Baku sips the energy drink as if it were whiskey, pretending the sugary liquid could give him courage. “That’s how it works, right? No real names. No personal ties. Just Donald and Ben ready for adventure…”

The tone is sharper than he’d like to admit.

Baek-Jin gives a slight nod as he rolls his eyes. “It’s not for the reasons you’re thinking that I use another name. It’s just… what I go by here.”

No defense. No deep explanation. But that “just” vibrates like a half-lie.

Baku huffs. A breath of disbelief, almost bitter. “Great. Now I know.”

Baek-Jin stiffens. And when he opens his mouth, Baku is already looking at him.

“Well, now I know new things about you too.”

Baku’s eyes drift downward, to Baek-Jin’s shorts, to those legs, too white, too bare, too… beautiful, though it annoys him even to think it. Then they go back up, promptly, directly, boldly landing on Baek-Jin’s face as he continues speaking: “Would you ever have told me under different circumstances?”

“Should I remind you how you made me figure things out about you?”

Baek-Jin should answer “touché” because it’s true: neither of them has ever clearly talked about anything.

They don’t do that. They don’t know how.

They only function in jolts, in detonations: an incident, a wrong move, a misplaced touch… and then, only then, the truth comes out. Every truth between them is born from a clash, a mistake, a provocation gone wrong. It’s always a reaction, never a peaceful confession.
It has always been like this. And every time, it’s half a disaster.

Baek-Jin keeps staring at him a second too long, seeing himself reflected in Baku’s eyes. It’s a brief moment, but a dangerous one.
He needs to step back. Defuse. It’s just an ordinary Saturday in a gym, they have a million ways to blow off steam without tearing at each other’s throats.

So, he looks away.
He opens the duffel bag, pulls out two towels. He keeps one and hands the other to Baku without touching him, without looking at him, without allowing himself another second of vulnerability.

“Let’s go.” His voice is flat, neutral, a desperate attempt at normality. “Finish your drink before you start training, don’t push yourself too much… the scar might open again. And if you’re hungry or feel low on energy, stop and go eat something. You know the way.”

He turns his back to him.
Away, as far as possible, otherwise they’ll end up in the same spiral again: questions without answers, answers meant to hurt, looks that say too much.
It’s a pause, yeah, another one.

***

The gym is enormous, almost chaotic, a hive of moving bodies and music blasting from the speakers. Saturday morning is apparently the moment everyone chooses to atone for their week’s sins: treadmills occupied, barbells clinking, overlapping conversations, the smell of sweat and colorful fabrics mixing with that of fruity protein shakes. Almost a little parade, crowded, colorful, exhausting just to look at.

Baku stops just past the entrance, gripping his water bottle like he needs it to keep his hands steady. He sips slowly, looking around, but it’s impossible to focus on anything that isn’t Baek-Jin.

He watches him walk toward the cardio area with that elegant, controlled, almost theatrical stride.
It’s as if the gym bends around him a little, reacts to his presence.

The reaction is immediate: heads turning, conversations pausing for half a second, some people smiling, others greeting him with a wave.

Baku understands exactly what they’re looking at.

Baek-Jin’s legs, the light sliding over his thighs like a spotlight on a stage, and those fucking bare legs, strong, sculpted, moving as if Baek-Jin were walking a runway, not crossing a gym.

And above, inevitably, the glutes covered only by those too-tight, too-short, too… everything shorts.

Consequently, Baku notices the stares.
One after the other.
Clustered.
Like moths drawn to a lamp.

The eyes of at least six people, Baku counts them without meaning to, drop there. Linger there.
And something inside him breaks, tears, an inner rip. He wants to howl, to draw attention, to scare everyone off like a wild animal in the wrong place at the perfectly wrong moment, to pull their eyes away from those damn legs.

Even while drinking, Baek-Jin attracts attention. The bottle brushes his lips, and someone comments to a friend, laughing. Baku doesn’t hear them, but he can guess what they’re saying. He’s furious. They shouldn’t. They shouldn’t even let the thought cross their minds.

Someone else, bolder, calls out: “Hey, Donald!”

Baek-Jin responds to everyone. Sometimes with a nod, a polite smile. Sometimes even calling them by name, with a familiarity Baku has never seen him use anywhere else.

“Good morning, Min-su.” “Hi, Hee-jun.”

It’s… uncanny.

Because that’s not Baek-Jin. Or rather, not the Baek-Jin he knows: not the perfect student, the impeccable one, not the one feared and respected in the Union, not even the Baek-Jin who stands up to him.
It’s Donald.
A version of him that has existed for years, alive and functioning, completely separate from the world they both know.
A part that Baek-Jin has protected, hidden, perhaps repressed. A part Baku had never seen. And he doesn’t like realizing how… how little he truly knows about him.

Baku feels annoyance surge in his stomach, hot, viscous, rising up his throat like a black tide.
Part of him wants to stride over, plant himself behind Baek-Jin, throw an arm around his shoulders, and growl something territorial and stupid like: eyes somewhere else, for fuck’s sake.
He wants to provoke him, point out how everyone here is looking at him like he’s a dish on display.
He wants to poke at him, irritate him, get him to respond in that irritated voice with that raised eyebrow.

But he can’t. Because if he reacted, if he gave in for even an instant to that instinct, Baek-Jin would shoot him that damn satisfied look.
The one that says: I know. I see it. You’re jealous. But don’t even try: it’s too late for anything.

That awareness, that elegant coldness, that invisible barrier he slams into him every time… would hurt more than anything else.

So, Baku does the only thing he can do to avoid exploding: he squeezes the bottle hard enough to almost deform it, takes a step back, then another, and turns sharply on his heels.
He walks in the opposite direction.

***

Baek-Jin steps onto the treadmill as usual. He sets his energy drink in the bottle holder, adjusts the speed, and when the belt begins to move beneath his feet, he slips his earbuds in, sinking into the music until it drowns out even the rhythm blasting from the gym speakers.
He starts with a brisk walk, breathing steady, body relaxed.
His mind, though, hell no.
His head is a tangle of thoughts, so dense and loud he barely registers the eyes following him. He’s always liked that kind of attention.
Here, he’s always been able to be free: bold, brazen, desirable, available to be looked at, chosen, sought after.

In this gym he wasn’t Na Baek-Jin, but Donald. A version he built on purpose, a safe shell in which he could allow himself what he couldn’t even think about outside these walls.
And yes, he had lied to Baku. A lot more than “it’s not what you think.”

It is exactly what the other was thinking.

He’s hooked up with so many guys here he can’t even remember them all. He’s fucked an amount of strangers so large it isn’t even worth quantifying. And he feels no shame about it. He’s never hidden that he knows what he wants, who he wants it from, and when he wants it. The reason he kept quiet with Baku is something else.

Baku wouldn’t have taken it well. Not even a little. And Baek-Jin had seen his jealousy all too clearly, uncontrollable, unrestrained, a feeling so wonderful in Baek-Jin’s eyes, but only when he can control it, when he can dose it to achieve the desired effect.
And this is not one of those moments. Today it would be a disaster, a wildfire.
Because Baek-Jin is confused too. And he’s fighting not to show it.

He increases the treadmill speed. His muscles warm, his breathing quickens, sweat beads at his hairline.

He needs movement, something to dull that mental state, that craving to know more, to hurt himself with truths he might not want to hear, that crawling irritation he doesn’t want to examine too closely… because in the past it made him act in such petty ways.

Yet he keeps wondering, inevitably: how long has Baku known he’s bisexual? When did he figure it out? With whom did he figure it out?

Because not even an hour ago, Baek-Jin would’ve sworn that Baku was straight beyond any shadow of doubt. That’s what he showed, what he said. He remembers the dates with girls, how passionately Baku talked about tits and asses. And yes, he had been stupid, had been shallow to take only what Baku displayed at face value.

Just like others reduce Baek-Jin to an image that isn’t entirely his.

So then… what changed? Who opened his eyes?

How did he reach full awareness that his interest could shift toward a male body?

His headphones throb in his ears, a strong, insistent beat pounding in his chest as doubts wedge themselves into every corner of his mind like an illusionist driving swords into a box full of living flesh.

Baek-Jin discovered his own sexual orientation in the worst way. The cruelest, most traumatic way.
For a while he was convinced he had been ruined, contaminated by the violence he endured. He thought it was just a consequence, a poisoning of the soul. But the truth is that even before all of it… he’d never felt interest in girls. It never came naturally. And then someone, that person, slipped into the most delicate folds of his heart. And suddenly everything made perfect sense: who he was, what he desired, what his body claimed, what his soul demanded.

So, he can’t help wondering how it was for Baku. Whether he figured it out on his own. Whether he ignored it for years, trying to convince himself he was something else.
Whether there was someone, even for Baku.

Who.

That damn friend whose leg Baek-Jin broke? He feels like an idiot for thinking “he’s too straight” because he thought the same of Baku and, well, he was fucking wrong. Nothing feels certain anymore. No foundations.
He wonders if he’s asking these things because he genuinely cares… or because some part of him refuses to admit how much it stings that he wasn’t the reason for Baku’s discovery.

He increases the speed again. Now he’s running.
His feet hammer the belt, his arms pump, the music in his ears drowns out almost everything.

Almost.

Because even as he runs, he feels the gaze of a few gym-goers on him. He recognizes the attempts to approach him. The sidelong movements, the glances, the smiles. And for the first time… he ignores them completely, not because he doesn’t enjoy feeling desired, but because he has no space in his head for any of them.
Not today.
Not when Baku is somewhere behind him in that maze of equipment and mirrors, likely battling his own demons, his own jealousies and barely contained anger… plotting revenge.

Baek-Jin pushes the speed again. His legs burn, his heart thunders, sweat trails down his temple.
He runs as if trying to outrun his own feelings. Or reach them before they swallow him whole.

When he steps off the treadmill, breath still heavy and sweat sliding down his neck, he wipes himself quickly with a towel and braces himself to catch his breath.

He barely has time to drink from his nearly empty bottle before someone blocks his path: a guy, one of the ones who had clearly been watching him, smiling with an invasive, almost wagging-dog energy. He carries himself like someone who has already decided how things will end and looks at Baek-Jin like he’s choosing a flavor of ice cream. He greets him with a smug, overly confident tone and steps half a pace closer.
The intention is painfully obvious. The offer too. But Baek-Jin’s eyes don’t linger even a second on the guy’s dazzling smile. They slide past him immediately, as if he were air, searching elsewhere. Searching for him.

The guy says something, maybe a joke, maybe a pickup line. Baek-Jin doesn’t hear it. He walks right past him, letting his body language alone make it clear that today is not the day. No quickie in the locker room. No games. No distractions.
Not when his stomach is a knot and his brain a minefield.

He heads toward the weight room, then beyond, following instinct more than logic.
The music in his headphones is still playing, but he’s turned it down without noticing, as if the real world has suddenly become too important to cover up. And there, in the boxing bag area, he finds him.

Baku.

He is lost in his world of strikes and sweat, broad shoulders tight, body moving with that mix of anger and control Baek-Jin knows far too well. He’s wearing bright red gloves, a red so vivid it almost hurts to look at, a blotch of color too loud among the blacks and greys of the room. But that’s not the detail that makes Baek-Jin clench his jaw.

He’s not alone. There’s another guy with him. A young dark-haired one, agile, with a slightly cheeky vibe and a quick sense of humor. The kind of guy who makes people laugh effortlessly. Sharp, confident, naturally kind.

Baek-Jin sees perfectly how the guy tries to make Baku laugh between punches, how he gives him instructions, how he touches his forearm to correct a movement.

The problem, the problem for Baek-Jin, is that it’s working. Baku actually laughs, short, choked, almost imperceptible. But real.
And that sound hurts more than any punch could, even in imagination.

A few hours ago, Baek-Jin could have convinced himself there was nothing to fear, that Baku was straight, that a guy like this didn’t stand a chance. Not anymore. There’s no fucking room left to feel safe.

An hollow opens inside Baek-Jin’s stomach. A clamp. An acidic, uncontrollable sensation.

That boy… that agile, slim, slightly awkward and funny boy… is that Baku’s type?

Could be his type?

Could he be the one Baku looked at to understand something about himself?

The thought irritates him. Disassembles him. Burns inside him like toxic fumes.

He has nothing in common with Baek-Jin. Nothing. He’s the opposite. Much more like Gotak, and the idea blinds him even more.

Because he could represent that messy normality Baku has always liked.

The music in Baek-Jin’s ears becomes just a distant buzz.
He ignores what he’d normally do. He breaks his routine. Breaks himself. On any other day he would continue his workout: some weights, a few arm exercises, stretching, the usual orderly sequence.

Not today.

He heads straight for his own personal point of collapse. Toward Baku. Toward the scene clawing at his nerves and heating his blood dangerously.
It’s stronger than him. Overwhelms him. Swallows him whole. He can’t hold back anymore. And, more importantly, he doesn’t want to.

***

Baek-Jin reaches Baku with determined steps, breath still warm from exertion, heart pounding too hard to blame it solely on the run. He’s about to call him by name when he remembers Baku might have introduced himself under a fake identity here, so he clenches his jaw and adjusts mid-sentence.

“Ba… Ben.” His voice comes out rougher than expected.

Baku is in the middle of throwing a right hook when he freezes, fist suspended midair. The other guy turns toward the voice too, frowning with suspicion, something Baek-Jin ignores, focusing solely on Baku as if the rest of the world has vanished.
Baku returns the look, and the way his eyes narrow is a ring of its own.

“Tell me, Donald.” It’s obvious only to them how much venom sits in those fake names they toss at each other.

“Don’t overexert yourself, okay?” Baek-Jin says, not advice, not criticism: a warning. His eyes drop to Baku’s side, covered by his shirt, where he knows the bandage is hidden.
Baku automatically follows his gaze.

Then, turning to the other boy, he says, “Ah, my friend is talking about the injury I got by accident.”

The other boy’s eyes widen, and he immediately looks worried.

“Oh shit, you could’ve told me! We would’ve taken it slower…”

That response, that concern, that readiness to adjust for Baku irritate Baek-Jin more than he’ll ever admit. But worse is that Baku smiles at him again, reassuring him with a natural ease he never reserves for Baek-Jin.

“Don’t worry, I’m perfectly fine.”

That’s when Baek-Jin moves in, closing the distance, invading Baku’s personal space without hesitation, positioning himself in front of him, almost shielding him from the other guy, a physical barrier demanding to erase him from the scene.

Baku’s eyes widen, caught off guard, as Baek-Jin grabs a fold of his shirt and lifts it with a quick gesture far too familiar to be accidental. The bandage is damp with sweat, but there’s no blood: everything is perfectly under control.

Or rather, it would be, if the bandage were the real problem at all.

Baek-Jin lifts his gaze to Baku, and their eyes lock for an instant that lasts too long, an instant that says everything neither of them wants to articulate. Baku is surprised, yes, but not entirely. He’s starting to understand the rhythm of his moves.

“Take a break. Are you hungry?” murmurs Baek-Jin, as if it were a stolen intimacy, a question that doesn’t belong to this place or this moment.

Baku unstraps his gloves, irritated. He steps back to reclaim some space, then turns to the guy who’s still watching them.

“Sorry for the interruption. My friend suffers from a rescuer syndrome.”

The other laughs, reassured. “No problem!” And walks away, maybe realizing it’s safer not to linger near that kind of atomic bomb.

As soon as he leaves, Baku whips around to Baek-Jin.

“Are you serious?”

Baek-Jin shrugs with a neutral, almost bored expression.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know exactly what you did. You emptied your bladder all over this area.”

The accusation is so fucking clear that Baek-Jin watches the guy walking away for a moment, studying him with a cutting detachment.

“Why? Did I interrupt something?”

That tone, almost harmless, almost naïve… decidedly theatrical. It’s enough to make Baku lose his patience. He grabs him by the shirt, gripping the fabric.

“Na Baek-Jin.” He says it through clenched teeth, his voice vibrating.

Baek-Jin looks at him. He passes his tongue over his lips. It’s an involuntary gesture, nervous, almost restless. It’s obsession in its purest form. He has to know. Otherwise his chest will explode.

Who? Who was it? Who made him realize he was bisexual? Who touched that part of his life that he himself couldn’t reach… in time?

“So that’s your ideal type?” he finally asks, and it’s not a provocation. It’s a weapon.

Baku tightens his grip on his shirt.

“Cut the crap and ask me what you want to know without all these detours.”

Baek-Jin doesn’t hesitate. He can’t.

“Have you already fucked another guy?”

Baku releases him immediately, as if the question were an electric shock. He inhales sharply, runs a hand through his hair, his eyes betraying far too much no matter how hard he tries to control himself.

“Shibal… I really don’t get you.”

Then something happens. Baek-Jin almost perceives it externally: a sudden reasoning, a mental connection, a decision made in a snap. It’s so fast Baek-Jin can’t even interpret it.
He only sees Baku grabbing his wrist and dragging him away. Without speaking. Without listening. Without looking around.

Destination: locker rooms.

Baek-Jin doesn’t resist.

***

Baku shoves him into one of the private changing rooms with a sharp, decisive, almost brutal gesture. The space is cramped, too small for two guys like them: big, tall, sweaty, swollen with adrenaline. The air is hot, suffocating. Baek-Jin loses his balance for a moment and hits the small bench, his shoulders brushing against the cold mirror behind him. Baku is on him a second later, grabbing him by the shirt, pushing him against the narrow wall as if he wanted to glue him to it. Their breaths collide, hot, erratic, too close.

Baek-Jin smells him, feels the anger vibrating in Baku’s arms. And deep in his stomach, he feels something else too. He thinks of all the times he’s entered this changing room with a stranger. All the hands, the mouths, the bodies. And then he thinks of Baku, of him holding him like this now, pinning him and overwhelming him, and a violent shiver shoots up his spine at the mere thought that it could happen with him this time.
But one look is enough to understand that Baku is far too furious to be touched by anything like that. He wants to talk. To shove his actions in his face, without witnesses, without indiscreet eyes. And Baek-Jin, even if he won’t say it, is grateful: no one should look at them when they are like this.

But a part of him, the most instinctive one, flashes back to his couch, to that moment when Baku reacted like someone who had no idea what was happening to him. He had seemed at his first intimate contact with a boy. Innocent. Sensitive. Scared. Now, though, Baek-Jin isn’t so sure of anything anymore.

Who touched you before me? Who held you in their hands?

His eyes fall to Baku’s mouth, and his stomach clenches at the thought that another man might have already kissed it. He wants to bite it just to erase the idea that it ever belonged to someone else. It’s a wild, violent, unacceptable impulse. Wrong. But it’s there.

“Listen to me carefully, because I won’t repeat it twice.”

Baku’s voice is an order. He grabs him by the jaw with his stare alone, forcing him to look at him. Baek-Jin feels the tension rising.

“From now on, if you want to know something about me, you don’t barge in like some jeal-” he stops for a second, corrects himself with an expression that betrays him, “-obsessed maniac. Because you know damn well that I react like this, and it ends badly. Really badly. With your fucking provocations and my anger, got it?”

Baek-Jin could stare at him for hours.

Baku is stunning.

His face flushed, breath short, eyes blazing with fury. He could hit him, Baek-Jin sees it, feels it. Baku radiates controlled violence. But Baek-Jin also knows he won’t. And in that contradiction, in that risk, in that tight limit between hate and desire, there’s something that sends him entirely out of control.

He’s so close he could kiss him and tear out his soul. But he only nods. A tiny nod, barely perceptible.

Baku lets him go and takes half a step back, giving him just enough room to stand properly. But they remain very close: the heat of their bodies saturates the tiny changing room, too small to contain them both. They stare at each other. Hold each other in their eyes. They feel the same tension, the same hunger, but neither moves.

Baku inhales deeply, as if counting to ten to avoid doing something stupid.

“You don’t need to have experiences to understand who you are.”

He says the words with a calm that doesn’t match the earlier fury. He doesn’t owe him these explanations. But he offers them anyway. It’s a white flag, a way to stop him from diving into the usual abyss, the one where Baek-Jin tends to destroy anyone who gets too close to Baku. It’s as if Baku can see the whole pattern, as if he can predict Baek-Jin’s next mistake. As if he’s saving him from himself.

And Baek-Jin, instead of feeling hurt, is struck by it. Because Baku knows him. And knows how to stop him.

“Just as I’ve always liked girls, I know I’ve always liked boys too. Okay?” he concludes, and his voice trembles just a little. Baek-Jin looks at him. His eyes slide to Baku’s lips. Baku is flushed, sweaty, vulnerable. Too much.

“And I’ve never had any experience before you.” He clenches his fists at those words, as if it hurts to admit it. “Unlike you.”

Then he adds, with an expression that hides a deeper panic: “I’m telling you because I know what you might do, and I don’t want other people getting hurt because of our- because of your stupid head!”

Baek-Jin holds his breath. He’s understood.
Baku is choosing his words, but it’s clear: he’s not just talking about Baek-Jin’s jealousy. He feels it too, he recognizes it. And Baek-Jin feels something break and reassemble all at once, a shock running down his spine.

The world shifts a few centimeters and everything glitches. Alarm.

Too close.
Too much.
If he lets him in, he’ll fool himself into thinking Baku could be his.
But he won’t be.
He’ll lose him. He’ll destroy him. He knows it.
But he can’t stop.
And he knows he caused this. He wanted this.

“I didn’t mean to hurt that guy” he says. It’s a lie.

Baku looks at him, studies him.

“Just like you didn’t with Gotak, uh?” he replies.

Baek-Jin’s expression changes completely. It’s as if Baku stripped him bare. He looks at him with eyes that know too much.

“I will never justify what you did to him” Baku continues, “but now I can understand the reason behind it. And yes, Na Baek-Jin, it’s wrong. Terribly wrong. That’s not how you love someone: burning everything around him, hoping the only option left will be good enough…”

“No one ever taught me how to do the right thing” Baek-Jin answers, knowing how pathetic it sounds, knowing it’s an excuse. But it’s also true. It’s awful to admit, but true.

Baku closes his eyes for a moment, then sighs. His breath is less violent now, more tired.

“Some things you get it at the first mistake. But not you. You kept going. And you ruined my life, and the lives of everyone who got too close to me…”

The words echo in the narrow changing room. Baek-Jin feels them penetrate. And yet, for the first time, he doesn’t defend himself.

He says nothing. Because for the first time, even if the truth burns, he feels understood by the other. And inevitably, he’s allowing him to see inside him like he never has before. And Baek-Jin has no idea where this will take them. But he knows they won’t go back. Ever again.

He says it with a fake calm, a calm trembling on him: “I know, just like I know the only right thing to do is to let you go, and I am doing it.”

“On your terms” Baku cuts in, his voice rasping.

Baek-Jin gives a small nod, almost imperceptible. “You’re the one making a mistake now.”

Baku knew it. He knew those words were coming, but still he can’t stop the wave rising inside him: he grabs Baek-Jin’s shirt again and pushes him against the mirror, closer, too close for either to breathe properly.

“What mistake am I making?” he spits.

“Trying to understand what I feel for you, trying to welcome it, to adapt it to you, to return it…” Baek-Jin answers without breaking eye contact, as if he had nothing left to lose. “We have to end it, Baku. I was wrong to ask you for more than sex, to make you think I needed something else, because I don’t. That’s not what I want. So, stop trying to find a possibility-”

Baku looks at him as if he wants to shatter him and hold him at the same time. His hands tremble against the fabric.

“You can’t control yourself, look at you” he shoots back. “A guy got close to me and you couldn’t handle it… how can you expect me to? Some things can’t be… managed.”

“You don’t feel the same things” Baek-Jin replies, and for the first time his voice is low, almost resigned. “You’re just confused by what I feel because now you can name it, and that makes you angry. For all the times you couldn’t understand it in the past, for all the times you couldn’t help me or your friends… You don’t feel what I feel, and I’m asking you not to mess everything up when the only thing we have to do is end it.”

“End it, on your fucking terms” Baku growls, his jaw so tight it must hurt.

Baek-Jin holds a breath, then nods again, without looking away.

He must not give in.

“Alright.”

Baku lets his hand, clenched around Baek-Jin's T-shirt, slide down onto his tight shorts, slipping inside without preamble, gripping Baek-Jin's member, already half-awake from that closeness, that confrontation.

Baek-Jin widens his eyes.

"You don't really want to do it here-" he says, thinking that everything could truly end, once and for all, in that dressing room, in that stupid queer gym.

He's not ready. He knows he's saying the opposite, that he has to do the right thing, but he's not ready to do the right thing. To let Baku go forever. Not so suddenly.

Baku looks at his lips that have just moved, reads the surprise in Baek-Jin's gaze, the unpreparedness, pumps his hand on his member, trying to make it hard, and smiles.

"What? You've done it so many times here that the place doesn't excite you?" he provokes him with a smile. He's angry. Nothing of what they've said to each other has pleased him, but he has to make it go down, and to make it go down, he must have decided to punish him with that closeness, with those intentions.

Baek-Jin observes the sweat beading on Baku's face and feels his own sweat sliding down his throat, while his breath becomes ragged because Baku's grip on his now fully awake erection becomes more and more dominant and predatory.

"Don't worry” Baku whispers in his ear, drawing closer. His voice warm, low, which doesn't help Baek-Jin resist those sensations that are already battering every cell in his body. "We won't end it here, I just want you to have a memory of me in this place. For the future. Isn't that what you want, Na Baek-Jin?"

Then he looks at him, challenges him. Baek-Jin moans in response, out of pain, but also excitement.

They look at each other's lips. But they don't dare eliminate the distance. Because kissing would be a mistake, yet another one. Baku must think the same, as he deviates at the last second, positioning his mouth on Baek-Jin's neck, kissing it, enveloping skin between his lips and sucking lightly, as if he wanted to mark him. Baek-Jin moans without holding back, one hand slides onto Baku's shoulder but doesn't push him away, he doesn't have control over his body, which wants and doesn't want everything that's happening. He looks toward the ceiling, his eyes force themselves shut, unable to control all the responses to Baku's actions.

Often, he's felt without a way out, trapped. But no one has ever made him feel like this: as if he didn't desire any escape. As if he were exactly where he wants to be, enclosed by Baku's body, the hand clenched around his member, pinned by a desire for that moment to last forever.

"Hu-M-" he swallows that moan that would carry the name of the man who's devastating him in that way, and Baku pulls away from his neck, giving fake relief to Baek-Jin who remembers how to breathe. Until the moment he sees Baku's hand, the free one, position itself over his mouth to cover it.

Baku an inch away from Baek-Jin's face.

"Don't let yourself be heard, there are so many envious people out there” and without waiting for a reaction that he would read in Baek-Jin's eyes, he returns to his neck, to bite it, kiss it, lick it. While he continues to stroke Baek-Jin's member, more and more without mercy, fast and slow, perceiving with his own body every reaction of Baek-Jin's body, which is shaken and trembling.

Baek-Jin doesn't take long to come, his moans stifled by Baku's hand over his mouth. The seed slides onto Baku's hand, inside his tight shorts that over time have claimed many victims and that for the first time he himself has reaped.

If Baku were to pull away abruptly, and Baek-Jin knows he will in a matter of seconds, he's not sure his knees will hold.

All that closeness between them is no longer... manageable. It's no longer under his control.

***

When Baku leaves the dressing room, he does it with heavy steps. He pulls off his T-shirt to get rid of the feeling of sweat and of that contact that was too intimate, too real, and wipes his hand with it to clean off Baek-Jin’s semen still sticking to his fingers like a mark. Then he crumples the shirt and throws it onto the bench without looking at it.
He reaches his locker, yanks it open, grabs his hoodie and pulls it on as if he could hide inside that thick fabric.

Baek-Jin comes out of the dressing room shortly after, silent and stiff. He simply opens his own locker, takes his bag, puts inside the T-shirt Baku has thrown, then heads toward the showers without saying a single word, as if that mechanical gesture could erase what just happened. But nothing can erase it.

Baku needs to run. Needs air. He puts on his coat quickly and leaves the gym, leaving behind the noise, the mirrors, that suffocating room where he lost his clarity.

Outside, the air cuts his skin, cold, sharp, greeting him like a slap.
He leans against the wall, then slowly lets himself slide down until he’s seated on the ground, legs bent, breath trembling. He lifts his gaze to the sky, as if he could find an answer there, some kind of order in the confusion exploding inside him.

Everything happened so fast his brain didn’t have time to connect the dots, to separate cause from effect, desire from anger. Again. It was all too much: too fast, too intense, too confused. Every second in that dressing room was an explosion he had no time to contain. He can’t even tell what he felt first: anger, desire, frustration, fear. Cold. Heat. Cold again.

He knows only one thing: the jealousy in Baek-Jin’s eyes was identical to his own.
He knows he recognized something. Something deeply familiar and deeply wrong. Because he had felt it too. He’d felt it returning in waves while all those people in the gym kept staring at Baek-Jin’s legs while he ran, while he sweated, while his muscles moved, while he attracted eyes as if it were normal. And Baek-Jin had felt it when that kind boy offered to help him with his gloves, when he laughed with him between one block and the next.

Baku knows he never looked at that guy with desire. Never thought of making a move. It didn’t even cross his mind…
While Baek-Jin… is always a possibility. Even when he shouldn’t be.

The dressing room comes back to him: that narrow corner, the heat of their bodies, the fury, the frustration, the wanting. Hearing Baek-Jin reject him again, push him away, made something desperate snap inside him. And he admits it, finally.

He had wanted to kiss him.
He had wanted to kiss him like the two protagonists of the drama they watched the night before, holding each other as if the world could end and it wouldn’t matter. He had wanted that kind of kiss, that kind of contact that doesn’t come from sex but from something that comes before and beyond it. He had wanted to grab him, pull him close and smother Baek-Jin’s words with his mouth.

But he didn’t. And now that realization strips him bare of any emotion except sadness.

Baek-Jin can keep rejecting him, keep saying it’s too late and that they need to end it. Yes, they need to end it, quickly, Baku agrees, because he’s starting to feel something else: something Baek-Jin doesn’t want.

His throat tightens, a hard knot, and before he can understand what’s happening he finds himself crying. He covers his eyes with his hand, the same hand that still carries the memory of Baek-Jin’s body, the heat of his skin, his semen. A trace too intimate not to feel like a sentence.

A sob breaks in his chest. Every time Baek-Jin is close, he loses control.
And every time, right after, he wants something more. One more second. A contact that doesn’t always end in a rush, as if what happens between them were wrong, dirty, something to be erased.

End it. The word pounds in his head like a hammer.

Opening his eyes hurts. But he does it. It feels like he suddenly understands something he always refused to see.
Baek-Jin is right: he ruined everything. He burned every possibility. There can be nothing between them except one thing. The one Baek-Jin wants.

Ending it.

On Baek-Jin’s terms, not his.

Baku feels that stab in his stomach again, that pain that cut his breath, but he accepts it. Because maybe it really is too late. Because some things cannot be managed, he said it himself, and yet he has to try.
He has to put a stop to it, has to stop giving in, has to do it to save himself from a wall he cannot climb over.

He cannot keep running like a madman, like someone blind, knowing he’ll crash because Baek-Jin has already made his decision. And he hates him for that.
Yes. He hates him. He has to remember he has always hated him, that this feeling can still feed him. The only one Baek-Jin accepts.
He just has to ignore everything that extinguished that hatred, no matter how much it goes against his nature, and light it again through all the boundaries Baek-Jin keeps placing in front of him.

He wipes his tears. Stands up. And waits.

They will end that ridiculous story once and for all.

***

They returned to Baek-Jin’s apartment wrapped in a heavy silence, a silence that doesn’t protect them but exposes them, because there is no word that can hide what happened in the gym, nor what happened in the dressing room. The rain had begun to fall while they were walking, first timid, then violent, until it turned into a storm that forced them to hurry, with the wind cutting their skin and lightning shaking the sky above their heads, as if it were imitating the chaos they both carried inside.

They finally reach the building entrance, soaked and shivering. The elevator is a silent, distant ride: Baku leaning against one wall, Baek-Jin against the other, as if even the air between them had become toxic, dangerous to breathe.
The doors open, they walk down the hallway with almost synchronized steps, reach the apartment door… and suddenly the power goes out. A sharp sound, the neon flickers off, darkness swallows the corridor.

Baek-Jin curses under his breath.

Baku looks at him, confused.

“The door won’t open without power. And I left the keys inside.”

For a moment nothing happens. The rain beats against the hallway windows, distant but relentless. Then Baku slowly pulls down the hood of his coat. He looks at Baek-Jin, with his wet fringe stuck to his forehead, then looks at the unopenable door.

Then, he bursts out laughing.

A real laugh, incredulous, exasperated. A laugh that sounds like: of course, obviously, why not today, why not now, why not like this.
Because life seems to be mocking them in this exact moment, or having fun blocking them. It’s telling them: you want to end it? I’ll give you the time to rethink it.

Once inside that apartment they would have had sex and ended it there. A final point, a last act to shatter the illusion that there could be another chance, an alternative. Baek-Jin had decided it, and Baku had finally accepted it.
But instead that storm, the blackout, everything bigger than two stubborn human beings, seems determined to keep them outside that ending.

A forced pause. One more.

“What’s so funny?” Baek-Jin asks, in a tired tone that almost hides irritation.

Without the hood he looks like a wet, irritated cat. A cat that, if he could, would break that door down with his teeth.

“Nothing. You wouldn’t get it” Baku answers, sitting on the floor, sliding down until he’s seated with his legs stretched out. Resigned. Exhausted. Ironic.

Baek-Jin sighs and sits as well, but in front of him, against the opposite wall. The distance is full of pride, but their feet inevitably touch, as if they had built-in magnets.

Violet lightning cuts the sky, the rain crashes against the windows like a liquid avalanche. The corridor vibrates. It’s an absurd, surreal climate, like a set designed just for them by a sick mind.

Baku stares at that sight, then sighs. Baek-Jin follows his gaze, then turns toward him.

“You don’t have to stay here. You can-”

“Go outside while there’s a biblical flood?”

Baku’s laugh this time is more bitter. “Come on, this looks like it was written by someone with a terrible sense of humor.”

A biblical flood sent specifically to keep him from fucking Baek-Jin, he can’t believe it.

Baek-Jin frowns but nods.

“The power will be back soon.”

His voice sounds like an awkward attempt to give him an option that doesn’t exist.
Actually, he almost seems disappointed about it. As if he didn’t want to go inside that apartment with him at all.

Silence settles over them again, but this time it’s more nervous.
Baku takes out his phone, hoping to distract himself. He plays, scrolls, pretends. But after ten minutes the device vibrates, flickers and shuts off, betraying him completely.

“Unbelievable …” he mutters, letting the phone fall to the floor.

He doesn’t know what else to do, so he looks at Baek-Jin. The other is still, eyes closed. A picture of apparent calm, deceiving as always. Irritated by his apparent self-control, Baku moves his foot and gives him a small kick on the heel.

Baek-Jin opens his eyes. Slowly.

“What is it?”

Baku shrugs. A childish gesture.

Baek-Jin closes his eyes again, calm, as if nothing could touch him. And Baku watches him. Really watches him: his soaked hair framing his face, the dark lashes still shiny with rainwater, the cheeks reddened by the cold, the lips that always seem slightly parted, as if he were about to say something and then changed his mind.

Baku keeps staring at them. He shouldn’t. But he can’t stop. Those parted lips… soft… too soft.

He’s so… beautiful.
He’s insufferably… beautiful.

An irritation burns inside him, an irritation he knows too well: the one that is nothing but the mask of what he wants. It crashes inside his chest.

He gives Baek-Jin another light kick, as if he could get rid of him like that.

Baek-Jin opens his eyes again, this time truly annoyed.

“Baku.”

“I hate you.” It slips out before he can filter it, sounding more like a mental note than an insult, as if he were repeating it to himself to remember it.

Baek-Jin smiles. A tiny smile, but enough to make the blood rush to Baku’s head. A stupid, satisfied smile. As if he were saying: yes, that’s better, stay where you belong.

A thunderclap explodes outside and the corridor lights up white for a second.

Baku looks at him in that sudden flash.

Beautiful. Too beautiful. And yes. He hates him. But that feeling is so tangled with everything else that he no longer recognizes the borders. And then, without planning it, without even truly wanting it, the question slips out.

“Have you ever thought about what we could have been?”

Baek-Jin closes his eyes, as if to protect himself.

“Possibilities aren’t how I think.”

Aish.

Baku grits his teeth. He wants to strangle him.
Strangle him and kiss him in the exact same second.

“Well, that’s how I think: if we hadn’t ended up with you ruining my life and me hating you, if we were still best friends…” Baku stops, as if the sentence had snagged somewhere between his ribs.

Baek-Jin opens his eyes slowly, like he was prepared for anything except that.

“Would you have hit on me?” he asks with a half-provocative smile. “I’m not your type…” he adds, glancing out the window, as if the answer didn’t really concern him.

“Are you as sure of that as you were of me being straight?”

Baku’s question hits like a slap, one that isn’t meant to hurt, but to make him understand.

Baek-Jin snaps his head toward him. He stares for a second, then gives the slightest shake of his head. A tiny gesture, but an absolute denial.

Baku taps his foot against Baek-Jin’s again, harder this time, as if asking: React.

“Baku.”

Baku smirks sideways and kicks him lightly again.

Baek-Jin’s eyes dart up to his, quick, sudden. There’s something else in them now: a temporary surrender to Baku’s childish game.

So, he taps Baku’s foot in return, a short, perfectly intentional nudge.

And with that small tap, a faint smile curls on Baku’s lips. Baek-Jin watches it, drinks it in, and without realizing it, answers with one of his own, just as small, almost complicit.

Something strange happens: they smile at each other. First one, then the other, as if that tiny gesture had cracked open a dam.

A thunderclap shatters the moment, so loud it jolts them both at the same time. They look at each other, breath caught, and then burst into laughter, unable to stop, exhausted by a tension that finally found the smallest crack to escape through.

They both lean back against their opposite walls, heads tilted, faces turned toward each other. The corridor is still swallowed in darkness, lit only by the intermittent flashes slicing through the air like whiplashes.

“I don’t know what we could’ve become” Baek-Jin murmurs, his voice suddenly lower. “If I hadn’t messed everything up. But I did, and it’s right that you hate me.”

His gaze drifts away, as if he’s afraid to hold Baku’s now.

Baku inhales deeply, a breath that almost trembles in his chest. His eyes sting; the world blurs at the edges. He tries to swallow everything: the urge to hold him and the urge to run away. He succeeds only halfway.

“If it means anything” Baek-Jin continues, “I still consider you my friend, Hu-Min.”

Baku looks at him. And there’s too much in that face. Too much.
Pain.
Affection.
Guilt.
And the kind of nostalgia you feel only for something that never really existed, but could have, so easily.

How fucking complicated this guy is. Complicated and beautiful.

Yes, exactly Baku’s ideal type. The worst ideal type imaginable.

Stupid and stubborn. Stupid to death, stubborn like a bricked-up door, incapable of understanding a damn thing, not about himself, not about whatever this is between them.

Stupid, stubborn, and beautiful.

Baku wants to kiss him. He really, really… wants to.

And the outage, that darkness full of lightning, steals coherence from their promises and gives space to everything else: to desire, to mistakes, to possibilities that shouldn’t even exist.

Baku nudges his foot again. A simple, tiny gesture that says more than any speech ever could.

Baek-Jin slowly lowers his gaze to where they touch, breathes softly. Then he answers with the same gesture.

A small, playful battle that hides a confession neither of them is brave enough to speak aloud.

And for a moment, in that dark corridor, they look like two boys again, who haven’t ruined anything yet, with a thousand possibilities still laid out in front of them.

You don't wanna hurt me

But see how deep the bullet lies

Unaware I'm tearin' you asunder

Oh, there is thunder in our hearts

Is there so much hate for the ones we love?

Oh, tell me, we both matter, don't we?

You...

It's you and me...

It's you and me...

Won't be unhappy...