Archive of Our Own ^beta

Seongje had always believed the world was a place for men with loud footsteps.

That noise itself was a kind of dominion,first over others, then over yourself. That if your voice broke first, your bones might never have to. That violence was a language, yes— but only those fluent in silence ever truly bled.

Now, in the aftermath of Union, in the ash-gray hours that stretch between nothing and more of it, he no longer believes in noise. Or survival. Or anything that doesn’t rot.

He walks as if he’s been dead for some time already.

And maybe he has.

Yeongdeungpo had been his crucible. Smoke-stained alleys, iron-gated corners, the metallic smell of sweat and cheap liquor. He belonged there once, not in the romantic sense of roots or loyalty, but in the way rust belongs to a blade. In the way ruin knows its own architect.

But when Baekjin died, the city expelled him like a lung rejecting dust. Union folded in on itself like a burning photograph. All the boys who had called him hyung or sir turned scavenger. Blood-stained loyalty gave way to rats with sharpened teeth. And the rest…the rest was a silence too thick to breathe.

He left. No funeral. No reckoning.

Just a duffel bag, a motorcycle ride, and the dull realization that no one would miss him.

Gangnam on the other side is cleaner. On paper at least. But cleanliness is not the same as grace. And wealth doesn’t redeem anything, it only dulls the knives.

Here, he’s just another tall man with scars that beg explanation, but never sympathy. The people in this part of the city don’t shout, they just look. Brief, surgical glances. The kind that ask without asking ‘Who let that thing in here?’

His face is too menacing for public space. His silence is mistaken for threat. The children grip their mothers hands tighter when he passes, those same hands that once used to pat powder into porcelain cheekbones now wrapping around their daughters like prayer.

And always, that fucking scar.

Left cheek, dragged down toward the corner of his mouth like some god had tried to erase him mid-sentence. He can feel it twitch when he breathes. People think it’s from a fight. It wasn’t. Not exactly. It was from Baekjin, years ago, patching him up after a job gone wrong. No hospital, just liquor, a sewing needle, and the only time Baekjin’s hands ever shook.

“You’ll look like a villain now,” Baekjin had said “Good. Villains get remembered.”

It was a prophecy. And a curse.

Because now that’s all Seongje is,

Remembered. But not wanted.

His days pass the way final breaths do. They are slow, shallow, torturing. Not quite dying nor living. Just suspended. Each hour drags like a bad memory he can’t scrub out, time smearing into itself until everything is the same dull, gray ache.

He eats when the nausea passes. Smokes when the silence starts to throb inside his skull. He paces, not with purpose, but with the restless muscle memory of something once dangerous. A wolf long past the years of teeth and fury, still carrying the shape of violence in his bones but with nothing left to kill.

He started walking. For hours. For no reason. Through alleys with shuttered windows and streets where no one looks twice. The kind of wandering that doesn’t end anywhere because it was never trying to. Just movement for its own sake. 

There’s a kind of theology in it. A quiet superstition.

That maybe if you just keep moving ‘don’t stop, don’t settle, don’t speak’ the earth might get confused. Might think you have somewhere to go. Might mistake you for someone who matters. Might spare you.

It never does.

But today, without intention, his feet veer south.

The air thickens. The buildings change. This district doesn’t reach toward the sky the way others do. It shrinks into itself, squat and low to the ground, like it remembers being stepped on. The glass here doesn’t reflect. It refuses to show you back to yourself. Windows filmed with dust, metal corroded to soft orange scabs. Nothing gleams. Everything just survives.

He turns a corner. Keeps moving. Then stops.

He doesn’t know why at first, only that something unfamiliar is pricking at the edge of his hearing, like an itch in the part of the brain that still remembers softness.

Music.

Real music.

Not on a speaker. Not a ringtone. Not the sterile perfection of a recording. No. This is….live. Imperfect. Human. Piano notes, timid at first, like it’s apologizing for its own presence. A note slips. Another hesitates. Then something catches and continues, raw and unresolved.

It freezes him mid-step.

His head turns like a predator catching scent, but it’s not hunger that moves him. It’s something closer to ache.

He follows.

The sound draws him down a narrow walkway flanked with chain-link fences and brittle, tilting signage. Eventually it stops in front of a building that barely registers as anything. A squat brick thing with no sign, just a door that’s been painted over so many times it’s started to lose its shape. A place that feels in-between. Not quite a school. Not quite abandoned. More like a shelter for things people forget how to name.

He steps closer.

The piano falters, then steadies again. A minor key. Something old. Melancholy, but not self-pitying. The kind of music someone plays not to impress, but to stay alive. A conversation held between the melody and the world.

Seongje’s fingers twitch.

He leans, almost unconsciously, against the nearest window frame. It’s cool beneath his palm, the condensation fogging the edges of his reflection. He holds his breath without realizing it, afraid that even the sound of exhaling might snap whatever fragile spell he’s wandered into.

Inside, the room is bare. But not cold. There’s warmth in the clutter, folded blankets, chalk-dusted corners, books stacked with neither order nor apology. A piano sits at the front, a little battered. There are shadows moving. Not many. Not clearly.

Then the music stops.

And he doesn’t move.

The stillness wraps around him. For a moment, it feels like the whole building is holding its breath with him. Waiting.

Then—

“You’ve been standing there for seven minutes.”

The voice is quiet. Unstartled. Not irritated. Not even curious.

It hits him like a chord struck clean in the chest. Not loud, but resonant. Calm. Certain. The kind of voice that doesn’t need to announce itself. The kind that carries silence inside it and offers it instead of demanding attention.

If music could speak, it would sound like this.

Seongje stiffens. The breath he didn’t know he was holding scrapes its way out of his throat. He blinks, swallows, says nothing.

“If you’re here to stare,” the voice continues, “you might as well sit down.”

A pause.

“Though you’re blocking the light for the children.”

Children?

There are none visible. Just a row of low chairs, a few faded posters curling at the corners, and the outline of someone seated at the piano, half in shadow, half in sun. As if the light itself hasn’t decided whether to stay.

But the keys still seem to hum with aftersound. Like they miss the hands already.

It’s not the words that disarm him. It’s the neutrality. The terrifying ease.

No fear. No alarm. No curiosity, even. Just quiet awareness. Like the person inside has already measured him, has already made peace with whatever threat he might be, and found him not worth worrying about.

He tries to speak.

His mouth opens around a half-formed excuse. A joke, maybe. Or a threat. Or something cool and sharp to keep the distance safe.

But nothing arrives.

Because in that moment, raw and strange and disarmed, Seongje becomes aware of something bizarre.

Something small and soft and terrifying.

He wants to hear that voice again.

The silence between them stretched, it wasn’t tense or uncomfortable, just unhurried, like neither of them owed the world anything anymore.

And then he looked at the person.

At the piano.

Still seated, one hand resting on the edge of the keys, the other loosely holding the back of the bench like it tethered him to this world.

The boy turned his head slightly, as if following the motion of breath.

“Are you here to pick up one of the children?” he asked. His voice was neither inviting nor cold. It simply was. Balanced. Measured. Like he was speaking from the center of some internal metronome no one else could hear.

The question caught Seongje off guard. He didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. Words felt like stones stuck in the back of his throat.

Because how could he explain that he had been drawn here not by obligation but by something closer to hunger?

He stared at Sieun. And in that pause, thick, holy and disorienting, he really saw him.

And for a second, longer than a second, maybe an eternity disguised as one, Seongje forgot how to exist in his body. Forgot he had lungs. Forgot what year it was. All he could do was look.

It was as if a gothic cathedral had grown a heartbeat and sat, breathing, beneath the skin of a boy.

Not just the slight tan skin or the soft slope of his jaw. Not the disheveled collar of the thin shirt or the way his fingers hovered over the bench like something delicate lived there. It was deeper. Harder to define. The kind of observation that made Seongje feel like he was falling upward.

There was no other way to explain it.
That boy was just….beautiful.

Not in the conventional, brittle way that passed for beauty in convenience stores magazines or through camera filters, but in that way ancient paintings try to render divinity without knowing quite how.

And Seongje, who had lived among monsters and carried death in his knuckles, was suddenly, helplessly aware that he was standing in the presence of something not sacred, but adjacent to it. Something unspoiled. Something uninvited by violence.

The thought hit him sideways

‘He’s a man, but I can’t stop looking.’

But he could see the beauty, and that, in its purest form, was a kind of punishment. A reminder of everything that should’ve been possible in this world and wasn’t. And he, just sitting there, with his quiet composure and his impossible stillness, was a mirror reflecting the kind of grace Seongje had never believed he’d be allowed to see.

His eyes were open but unfocused. They’re clouded, teary, yet somehow bright, like light filtered through a milk sea, or snow under moonlight. Not deep in the way people feared, but in the way prophets were, looking elsewhere. Past. Inward. Beyond comprehension.

Seongje didn’t know how to reconcile it.
How to reconcile that this being, this quiet, motionless boy, could unmake years of hardness with nothing but the shape of his breath.

If angels ever wept, they would have looked like this.

And this type of beauty wasn’t the kind meant to provoke. It didn’t ask to be noticed. It didn’t shine, it endured. Like a holy relic behind glass, untouched by the rot outside the cathedral walls.

It was the kind of beauty that made you want to confess. Not sins. Not crimes. But truths.
The kind of beauty that made Seongje remember he still had a soul, because for a split second, it ached.

He hadn’t felt that ache in years.

And while Seongje was in trance, the spoke again, unbothered by the silence.

“If not, I’d prefer you wait outside. We don’t usually allow strangers to linger indoors.”
A pause. His tone didn’t change. “You’re very quiet, but your breathing is too heavy to be one of the children.”

That startled Seongje slightly.

He hadn’t realized how loud he sounded.

He cleared his throat, quietly.

“….I’m not here for anyone.” His voice cracked more than he wanted it to.
He didn’t finish the thought, didn’t say ‘I just heard the piano.’ 
Didn’t say ‘You stopped me from dying a little more today.’
Didn’t say ‘I saw your eyes and forgot what cruelty was.’

Because you don’t say those things out loud. Not to strangers. Not to men.

Not to angels playing piano in ruined buildings.

He stepped back slightly, unsure if he should leave.

But his gaze stayed fixed.

Sieun adjusted his posture slightly on the bench, tilting his head as though he were listening to something just behind Seongje, something only he could hear. There was no impatience in his voice when he spoke again, but neither was there kindness.

“Then you must’ve wandered in for a reason.”

The words weren’t accusatory. They were just true. Like Sieun wasn’t asking for answers, but naming the shape of the moment. Naming the truth out loud to see what it would do.

Seongje didn’t know how to answer. He wasn’t used to people who didn’t try to soften the silence with pleasantries.

He found himself speaking before he understood the sentence.

“I heard the music.”

That made Sieun’s head shift again, not towards him, but slightly upward, as if the sound of Seongje’s voice had finally registered its own space in the room.

There was a pause. Then a soft breath.
It wasn’t a sigh. It was something quieter than that, a thought changing shape.

“You’re not the first” Sieun said, his fingers lightly brushing the edge of a music sheet on the stand. “I leave the windows open for a reason. Some people listen. Some just move on.”

He didn’t smile when he said it. His tone remained mild, almost clinical.

But Seongje felt like he’d just been forgiven for something he hadn’t confessed.

He stepped into the room without realizing it, his shoes walking faintly above the peeling floor. He couldn’t look away.

“….Do you play every day?” he asked, unsure why the question felt as intimate as asking someone if they were lonely.

Sieun tilted his chin slightly downward. “Only when the children leave. They like to hum along, and it makes the rhythm go strange.”

A pause.

“And I don’t like being interrupted.”

That should have been the end of it.
A polite dismissal. A door gently closing.

But instead, Sieun turned his face toward him again, not his eyes, just his face, and added in that same even voice

“But you didn’t interrupt. You stopped walking.”

There was something about the way he said it, like he was naming something sacred. As if pausing your footsteps meant more than a thousand introductions.

Seongje swallowed. The back of his throat felt scraped raw.

“I don’t know why I did.”

The confession was small. Bare. It slipped out before he had time to coat it in armor.

Sieun didn’t respond at first. He let the silence settle.

And then he asked, not cautiously, but curiously,

“What’s your name?”

Seongje hesitated.

No one had asked him that in weeks. Months, maybe. In this part of the city, he was just ‘that guy’. Just shoulders and height and heaviness. Just a leftover from a violent page in someone else’s history book.

He almost gave a fake one. Almost said Junyoung or Hyunchan, or something forgettable.

But looking at those pale, impossible eyes that never quite met his, he found he didn’t want to lie.

“…Seongje.” His voice was lower now. Steadier “Keum Seongje.”

Sieun nodded once, lightly. As if tucking the name somewhere in his memory.

Then, very softly, almost like a benediction “Mine’s Sieun. Yeon Sieun.”

Just that.

And for a moment, Seongje felt like something in the room had shifted. 

And all at once, Seongje realized, He didn’t want to leave. Not now. Maybe not ever.
 

That night, Seongje couldn’t sleep.

Not in the way people usually mean when they say that. He didn’t toss or turn. He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t pace the room or scream into a pillow. No. He simply sat, in a corner of his apartment, the window cracked open despite the sticky heat, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, and let the melody play on loop in his mind.

It wasn’t even a complicated piece. There were  some missed notes. Flaws. No dramatic flourishes.

But it lived in him now. Like a scar under the skin, quiet and irreversible.

And worse than the melody were the eyes.

He had seen violence. He had seen beauty, too, though not often, and never for long. But he had never seen something beautiful that refused to be seen back. Never encountered a face that so clearly belonged to the realm of myth while speaking with the casual clarity of someone asking what time it was.

Sieun’s eyes never looked at him. And yet, Seongje felt known. Not in the way people know your past, or your sins. But in the way a mountain knows wind, its touch, its weight, its indifference.

It rattled him.

It was days after that he finally admitted he wanted to see him again.

He told himself it was the music. That the school was just near enough to his usual route. That walking past didn’t mean anything. That the cigarette he lit just before turning the corner wasn’t a ritual.

But on the third day, as the sky just began to bruise into night, Seongje found himself at the same rusted fence, the same cracked window, listening.

Waiting.

And this time, when he heard the first few bars of piano drifting into the air, he didn’t pause.

He went inside.

The classroom was exactly as it was, warm with the residue of the day’s sunlight, dust motes like ash in an old house, the silence between notes breathing like an animal in sleep.

Sieun sat in the same posture. Spine straight. Shoulders relaxed. His head slightly tilted, not toward the door, but to the side, like he was tuning himself to something far away.

But after a few seconds, he stilled. His hands hovered above the keys.

Then he said, without turning “That cigarette smell isn’t the most pleasant, you know, Seongje-ssi”

The words dropped into the room like a single drop of ink into clear water, spreading quietly, without hostility.

Seongje froze.

Sieun continued, calm as breath “But if you want to listen, you can sit. Just not too close.”

A pause.

“The piano gets shy when it’s stared at.”

It wasn’t a joke. Not exactly. But there was a faint trace of dryness in his tone. A ghost of humor, maybe. A different way of showing shyness.

Seongje sat.

Not because he knew what to say. Not because he understood why he’d come.

But because something in him obeyed.

Not Sieun.

The moment.

The music began again.

And Seongje, without quite realizing it, began to exhale.

The music Sieun was playing was neither polished nor showy, it moved like memory, slow and imperfect, full of pauses that felt intentional. It wasn’t the kind of piece written to impress an audience, but the kind someone plays when they think no one is listening, raw, intimate, almost confessional. The melody climbed and stumbled, then found its way again, like a boy walking barefoot through the ruins of something once holy. It felt like regret transcribed into sound, like the kind of song that could only be played by someone who had survived the thing he never talks about.

And before he could realise, the final note lingered, delicate and unresolved, like it was waiting to see if silence would be kind enough to catch it.

Sieun let his hands rest on the keys for a moment longer, as if measuring something invisible. Then he withdrew them gently, folding them in his lap, exhaling without sound.

Behind him, the classroom held its breath.

From one of the classroom chairs, Seongje sat still, arms crossed loosely, leaning forward just slightly.

He didn’t clap. Didn’t move.

But after a pause, without meaning to, he murmured “….Wow”

Just that.

The word felt stupid the moment it left his mouth. Too small. Too modern. Like saying just a simple ‘nice’ after a life-changing orchestral performance.

Sieun tilted his head faintly in acknowledgment.

“Thank you” he said simply. It wasn’t modest or proud. As if he were used to beauty being received in silence, or forgotten entirely.

Seongje cleared his throat.

“You play like someone who didn’t have a choice”

Sieun turned his head just slightly toward the sound of his voice. His expression didn’t change, but there was a pause. A brief hush. Then a subtle quirk at the edge of his mouth, not quite a smile, more like something tugging at its memory.

“I didn’t”

They were quiet for a moment.

Seongje shifted in his chair, suddenly aware of how big he was in this room. His legs too long for the desk in front of him. His body too big for the small chair.

“So….this place,” he said eventually, nodding toward the empty chairs and chipped walls. “Is it really a school?”

Sieun nodded, lightly.

“Solidarity school. Not government funded. Not private. We take the ones no one wants to deal with. Foster kids, expelled kids, kids who bite too hard or talk too little.” His voice was quiet, but never soft. “They’re not misbehaved. Just….unlucky.”

Something in Seongje’s chest pulled tight.

Sieun continued, his tone not changing “Most of them go home at five. But sometimes they stay late. Sometimes the night feels safer here.”

Seongje studied him, brow furrowed. “And you teach them?”

“Music.” A beat. “Among other things.”

Seongje leaned back slightly in his chair, running a hand through his hair, unsettled by how steady the boy seemed. He didn’t talk like a twenty-something music teacher. He talked like someone older. Someone who had lived through a war no one else had noticed.

Sieun turned toward him again, facing just slightly off-center. “You can come earlier next time. Help is always welcome.”

That caught Seongje off guard.

He let out a single breath of a laugh, almost a scoff. “Help?” He glanced around the room. “Look at me. If the kids saw me, they’d probably run for the nearest fire exit.”

He gestured vaguely to his frame, his scar, his general atmosphere of what people liked to call ‘intimidation’.

“Ain’t no way, right?”

Sieun was quiet for a beat.

Then, calm and dry “Well, I wouldn’t be sure of that.”

A pause. 

“I can’t actually see you. I’m blind.”

The words hung there.

And it took Seongje a full two seconds to register what had just been said.

His heart kicked.

“….Wait, what?”

Sieun tilted his head faintly. Not mocking, genuinely curious.

“You didn’t notice?”

Seongje sat up straight, suddenly flustered, his voice rising with embarrassment.

“Shit—no, I—I didn’t—I mean, you looked at me. Or I thought you were—”

He ran a hand over his face like he could scrub the mistake off.

“God. Sorry. That was— fuck.”

For the first time, Sieun actually laughed.

Not loud. Not theatrical. But real.

A soft, clean sound, like wind catching a chime.

“It’s alright” he said, clearly amused now. “You wouldn’t be the first to miss it. I forget sometimes, too.”

Seongje groaned, half-laughing through the mortification. “Fuck. I’m so stupid.”

Sieun tilted his head again.

“You’re not stupid. You’re just loud.”

That made Seongje grin despite himself.

Something in his chest loosened. Not healed, just…relaxed. A knot untied slightly.

And somehow, he already knew he’d come back tomorrow.

The light had already faded into that dusky blue. The classroom, once full of invisible sound, now hummed with the quiet of things unsaid.

Sieun stood up, slowly and without flourish, as though pulled by the same invisible rhythm that had guided his playing. He reached for a small keychain on the piano’s edge, then paused.

“I have to lock up” he said softly, as if that phrase carried more meaning than it appeared to. A line in the day. A quiet dismissal of everything that had dared to unfold.

Seongje stood as well, unsure what to say, unsure if he should say anything at all. He felt like a man waking from a dream too surreal to name.

Sieun tilted his face in his direction again.
“Will you come back?”

It wasn’t hopeful or pleading. It wasn’t even really a question. It was a neutral invitation extended across a bridge neither of them had agreed to build.

Seongje shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, then nodded.

“Yeah. I will.”

And that was it.

They walked toward the door. Not together, but not apart either. And when they stepped outside, the air was cold in a way that made breath visible, as if even silence had to announce itself in the city.

Sieun turned the key in the door.

“Goodnight, Seongje-ssi.”

The sound of his name, spoken so simply, tightened something under Seongje’s chest.

“…Goodnight, Sieun-ssi”

The next morning, Seongje woke later than usual. The sun had already risen, and his apartment smelled faintly of leftover smoke and unopened windows. He moved slowly. His daily coffee, cold shower, morning cigarette. There was no urgency in his movements, only momentum, like he was orbiting something unnamed.

He had enough money. The Union may have collapsed, but not before leaving him with enough silence and guilt for a lifetime, and a small fortune in his name. Nothing luxurious, but enough to live on quietly for the next few years. That suited him fine.

Still, even he had to eat.

So, around noon, he walked to the small supermarket down near the station. Maybe out of necessity, maybe to give his body something to do that wasn’t remembering.

And yet, the thought kept looping in his head.

Sieun.

Not the music this time, but the way he had said ‘Will you come back?’
Not a plea nor a test. Just a statement dressed up as a question.

And the way he had laughed, soft, fragile, like it surprised even him.

Seongje’s mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but lived in the same neighborhood.

He was rounding the last corner toward the market when he froze.

Just ahead, by the fruit stall near the entrance — Sieun.

Standing alone, hair shining in the sunlight, dressed in that same clean, understated way. One hand on his white cane. The other loosely holding a canvas bag. He was angled slightly, face tilted upward like he was listening for direction in the wind.

Seongje blinked. His body moved before his thoughts caught up.

‘He shouldn’t be out alone’ was the first ridiculous thing that crossed his mind, as if Sieun hadn’t lived a thousand years without him.

But then he saw it.

A man. Mid-30s. Tan jacket. Greasy hair.
He was standing too close.

At first, Seongje thought he was just being annoying, talking too loud, maybe trying to ask for directions.

But then the man grabbed the cane.

Yanked it suddenly, just out of reach.

“C’mon, show me how you use this thing, yeh?” the man said, mocking. His voice had that rotten amusement drunk men wear like perfume. “What, you think you’re special or somethin’? Walking around like that?”

Sieun didn’t react immediately.

He didn’t flinch.

He just stood there.

But something in his shoulders had gone perfectly still. Not fearful. Just waiting. Like someone who had been here before.

The man waved the cane like a joke. 
“Can you even tell which way I’m standing?”

And that was when Seongje stepped forward.

Fast. Quiet.

His voice came low. Tight. Deadly.

“…Put it back.”

The man turned.

He wasn’t drunk. Just fucking stupid.

And he wasn’t ready for what he saw.

Tall. Broad. That scar along the cheek. That weight in the voice like something caged and tired of being polite.

The man froze, still holding the cane like a joke he’d already forgotten the punchline to.

Seongje took a step forward. Not lunging. Just closer.

“Now.”

And maybe it was the tone. Or the eyes. Or the ghost of something violent and real in the way Seongje’s hands curled into his pockets, but the man scoffed, muttered something like “Jesus, alright” and shoved the cane back into Sieun’s hand before stumbling away, trying to laugh like he hadn’t nearly pissed himself.

Seongje didn’t watch him go. He was already turning.

Already walking toward Sieun, who had remained still the entire time, unmoved by the scene unraveling around him like it was weather, annoying, but survivable.

His hand now rested lightly on the cane. His grip steady.

But then, gently, he reached out with the other, feeling forward through space until his fingers brushed against Seongje’s forearm.

His touch was featherlight, like he didn’t want to startle him. Then it slid lower, until his hand closed softly around Seongje’s wrist.

A pause.

He held it there, just for a second longer than expected. Like he was trying to remember something without having known it before.

Then he let go.

“…Thank you.”

The words were sincere, but not fragile. Like he was used to saying them, and used to meaning them, even when he shouldn’t have to.

Sieun tilted his head slightly toward him again.

“You didn’t have to.”

Seongje opened his mouth, then closed it.

He didn’t know how to explain that it hadn’t been a choice. That something inside him had moved, before thought, before reason.

Sieun adjusted the cane, fingers drifting along the grip again.

“This happens sometimes,” he said, matter-of-fact. “People say things. Try to be funny. Take things they don’t need.” A pause. “They usually get bored if I don’t give them what they want.”

There was no bitterness in his voice.

Only endurance.

“I don’t normally come alone. My friends or one of the volunteers walks with me. But today no one was free.”

Seongje stared at him.

This. This thing. This person.

This boy who played music like a memory and spoke like a philosopher. This boy who laughed like a secret and stood like he didn’t need saving even when the world was cruel. This boy who had to live in defense of being precious.

‘How could anyone do this?’
 
How could someone raise their voice, their hand, their filth, to this?

He wasn’t just beautiful. He was unrepeatable.

And then, without meaning to, without planning it, Seongje said,

“Give me your number.”

Sieun blinked.

“….What?”

“Your number” Seongje repeated, slightly softer, but no less serious. “So if you need to go somewhere and no one’s around, you can call me.”

A pause.

He looked away, self-conscious all of a sudden.

“Anytime. I mean— only if you want.”

Sieun was silent for a few seconds, as if running his fingers mentally over the offer like he would a piano’s keys. Not to weigh it for danger, but to test its shape.

“Alright.”

And then, a tiny smile. The kind you’d miss if you looked too fast.

Sieun reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his phone, and handed it to him without hesitation.

And as Seongje typed in his number with unfamiliar care, he could still feel, faintly, the ghost of Sieun’s hand on his skin.

And it stayed with him.

They stepped into the supermarket together, side by side but not touching, and yet something between them had already settled, something unspoken but mutual. The air inside was cold and artificially scented, tinged with that familiar combination of floor cleaner, plastic wrap, and fresh fruit. A woman was restocking lettuce in the produce section. Somewhere farther down the aisle, a toddler wailed.

And through it all, Sieun walked as if nothing around him could ever touch him.

He didn’t need to see. He felt the space around him, measured it in steps, in air pressure, in sound. He moved his cane side by side loosely but certain, moving like someone who had practiced being alone until it became second nature.

But Seongje still walked slightly behind, slightly to the left. Not hovering. Not shepherding. Just….near. His movements slower than usual. His hand, once clenched into habitual fists, now rested open at his side like it was waiting for a sound. He kept glancing toward Sieun, not because he thought he would fall, but because he couldn’t not look.

‘How did a person like this exist in the world without being consumed by it?’

Sieun cleared his throat lightly. “Well, since you’re here, I need rice, green onions, tofu, gochujang….and milk.”

Seongje nodded, shifting the weight of his jacket. “‘kay.”

There was something strangely satisfying about the list, how practical it was. How familiar. The kind of things a person bought when they were planning to stay alive. He moved through the aisles with the muscle memory of a man who’d lived alone too long to ever ask for help, but now found himself glancing back after every item, waiting for Sieun’s voice.

“Is medium grain okay?”

“Mhm.”

“Spicy or mild gochujang?”

“Spicy’s fine.”

And so it went, a rhythm forming, clean, quiet, and oddly domestic.

It wasn’t until they reached the ramen aisle that something shifted.

Seongje slowed his pace, eyes scanning the shelves. His hand reached out and grabbed a pack of spicy Shin Ramyeon, then another. It was the same brand he always bought, because it was fast, and familiar, and you didn’t have to be anyone to eat it. It didn’t judge you. It just burned your throat and reminded you you were still alive.

He tossed the packs into the cart.

Behind him, Sieun raised an eyebrow.

“What are you buying?” he asked, with the calm neutrality of someone already knowing the answer.

Seongje turned slightly. “Ramen, dinner.”

There was a pause.

Then, as dry as wind on concrete “That’s not really food. That’s a chemical accident in a plastic bag.”

Seongje blinked. Then scoffed, half-laughing. “Okay, and?”

Sieun didn’t hesitate. “That kind of meal isn’t great for someone your age.”

The words hung for a second in the air, unnoticed by the people around them but echoing in Seongje’s mind like a gunshot in an empty hall.

“….My age?” he repeated.

Sieun tilted his head innocently. “Well. You smell like cigarettes. And your voice is kind of… rough. I assumed….”

He said it so matter-of-factly, without cruelty, like he was just describing a color. But there was a beat of silence afterward, and in it, Sieun seemed to realize what he had said. His lips parted slightly.

“….Sorry”

He turned his face just a little to the side, as though embarrassed, but not sure what to do with it. The flush on his neck was subtle, but there, and for someone who wore composure like a second skin, the softness of his reaction hit Seongje like a punch to the chest.

It was the first time he’d seen him flustered.

And it was almost unbearably beautiful.

Seongje tried not to smile. He failed.

“You thought I was some old guy just trying to live off instant noodles and Marlboro?”

“I didn’t say—”

“C’mon. Be honest. You thought I was, what— forty-five? Got a whole divorced life behind me?”

Sieun opened his mouth, then closed it. He clearly didn’t know how to respond.

Seongje grinned and waved it off. “We’re probably the same age. You’re what, early twenties?”

“Twenty-five” Sieun mumbled.

“See?” Seongje clapped his hand to his chest in mock offense. “Exactly my age. And already being told I’m too old to eat garbage. Tragic.”

Sieun let out something like a laugh, though it was mostly a breath. It was quiet, but genuine.

Their cart filled slowly after that. A few snacks. Bottled tea. A couple extra packs of tofu. At one point, Seongje reached for the higher shelf without needing to ask, and Sieun made a small noise of acknowledgment, a small thank-you and habit.

When they finally reached the checkout, Sieun reached into his coat for his wallet, already counting bills with practiced hands.

But before he could hand them over, Seongje moved first, smooth, fast, automatic. A swipe of his card, one hand already gathering the bags like it was second nature.

Sieun frowned after hearing the machine beep. “Hey, no. I can pay for mine.”

Seongje shrugged with a grin. “Too late. Guess you’ll owe me now.”

“For what? A cup of noodles and tofu?”

“Nah” He hefted the bags in only one hand now, balancing them easily. “For the joy of my company.”

Sieun shook his head, exasperated but faintly smiling. “You’re ridiculous, at least give me my bag.” 

“Nope, you’re small,” Seongje added lightly “These probably weigh more than you.”

“Not true” Sieun muttered, but made no move to take them again.

They walked out together, the automatic doors hissing open as the sunlight struck them again.

And as they stepped into the light, Seongje felt something odd settle in his chest.

The sun hung lower now, casting long golden slants across the cracked sidewalks of Gangnam. The heat had softened, replaced by a faint breeze that rustled the edges of signs and fluttered the sleeves of Seongje’s jacket. He walked beside Sieun without speaking for a few blocks, their steps quietly synced, the grocery bags swaying rhythmically in his hand.

They were headed south, but Seongje hadn’t asked where.

Sieun walked like someone who knew every step ahead of him, not through sight, but familiarity. There was no hesitation in his posture, just that same calm, steady presence that felt older than his years.

Eventually, Sieun broke the silence.

“I live just beside the school.”

Seongje glanced at him. “You mean, like….in the same building?”

Sieun shook his head. “Next door. It used to be a storage unit. One of the directors converted it into a residential space. Barely bigger than a classroom, but….it’s enough.”

Seongje absorbed that quietly.

He’d lived in a dozen places in his life, half of them paid in blood, half of them borrowed with guilt. But the way Sieun said ‘it’s enough’ made something in him ache.

They turned one more corner, and the school’s faded fence came into view, flaking paint, bent metal, stubborn in its age. Beside it, a narrow gray door sat tucked into a concrete wall, barely marked.

Sieun stopped just short of the entrance.

“This is me.”

Seongje didn’t move right away. He adjusted the bags, then handed them over carefully. Their hands touched for the briefest second, just a brush of skin against skin, and the contact hummed louder than it should have.

Sieun seemed to feel it too. He stepped back half a pace.

They stood there, facing each other in the quiet.

For a moment, neither of them knew what to say. Or maybe they did, but neither wanted to say it first.

Finally, Seongje broke the silence.

“I’ll come by later.”

He meant it casually. But his voice gave him away.

Sieun raised an eyebrow faintly. “Later today?”

Seongje shrugged. “Unless you’ve got another piano date lined up.”

That pulled a soft sound from Sieun’s chest, a smile just barely there.

And then, without thinking, without ceremony, Seongje added “See you then, cutie.”

The word dropped like a stone in still water.

It wasn’t mocking, it wasn’t flirtatious, not exactly.

Sieun blinked.

His mouth parted just slightly, but no sound came. His ears flushed pink.

And Seongje grinned, not his normal smug, but caught off guard by his own boldness.

“You can call me old again next time. We’ll call it even.”

Sieun shook his head “Go home, you idiot.”

Seongje took a few steps backward, watching him.

“Later” he said again, softer this time.

“Later….” Sieun echoed, and slipped inside.

That night, Seongje sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed, staring at the empty wall across from him like it had something to say.

He could still feel the way Sieun’s hand had held his. Could still hear that soft, startled laugh. Could still see the faintest pink blooming on his flawless skin.

He’d called him ‘cutie’ as a joke.

But it hadn’t felt like a joke.

And now it echoed in his chest like a song he wasn’t ready to stop playing.

‘Why the fuck had that felt so good?’

Many walls away, Sieun stood on the small kitchen of his tiny apartment, sorting the groceries by habit. The rice. The tofu. The sound of plastic rustling. The silence, louder now than usual.

And in the stillness, he thought about that voice.

Rough, low, a little wild. But there had been a softness in it when he said cutie, like he didn’t quite mean to say it, but meant it all the same.

Sieun’s fingers paused on the rice bag.

No one had called him anything like that in years. Maybe never.

He should have been annoyed. Should have deflected it.

But instead, he smiled, just barely.

And whispered, to no one in particular,

“….Idiot.”

And both of them, miles apart in memory but just a wall away in real life, sat in the growing dark, thinking,

‘I liked that more than I should have.’

There were nights when the quiet didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt like weight.

Like the sound of everything that wasn’t happening pressing against the walls of his apartment.

Sieun sat with his back to the floor-length shelf near the window, legs stretched out, a lukewarm cup of tea resting against his thigh. The street outside was busy with weekend noise, shouting, heels on pavement, someone coughing into the night, but it might as well have been miles away. In here, the air was still. Too still.

He tilted his face slightly toward the window, toward the hum of motion, the faint passing wind.

He hated admitting it, but he was lonely.

Not in the way people usually meant. Not in the shallow, social ache of a phone with no notifications. No, Sieun’s loneliness was deeper than that. It lived in his flesh. It came not from the absence of people, but from the presence of time. From watching things pass. From knowing how much had passed, and how silently it had done so.

There was no great tragedy in his life. Just the slow, steady erosion of youth.

Sieun had been a quiet child long before he went blind.

Not shy, not withdrawn, just tuned to a frequency other people didn’t hear. He noticed the way light fell on wooden floors in winter. The way the wind shifted just before a thunderstorm. The hush that lived between adults when something was wrong but no one would say it.

His parents, polished, professional, distant, found him difficult to understand. Not rebellious. Not needy. Just….strange. They were people who believed in structure, results, outcomes. They filled rooms with silence and strategy. They wanted a son who spoke clearly and with purpose, who ran fast, answered correctly, smiled on cue.

Sieun didn’t run. He wandered.

He smiled, but only when it felt like something deserved to be smiled at.

He liked music more than people. Shadows more than sunlight. He was sensitive in a way that couldn’t be disciplined out. And in a house like his, sensitivity was a flaw.

He lost his sight when he was ten.

It was an accident, a small and stupid one. The kind people forget unless they’re the ones it happens to. A kitchen fire. A gas leak. A flash. Then heat, unbearable and absolute. And then the dark.

His mother screamed louder than he did. His father blamed the stove. The doctors used long, complicated words. And Sieun sat in a hospital bed for six weeks, relearning how to exist in a world that no longer offered him the luxury of sightseeing.

The physical pain healed quickly. The scar along his cheek faded. The burning stopped. But the world didn’t come back.

And that’s when the real silence began.

Not the kind outside, but inside. The silence of being unseen in a new way.

His parents bought him tools. Hired tutors. Reconstructed the house so he wouldn’t ‘feel sad’. But they didn’t ask how he was. They asked what he needed. What the therapist said. What he could still do. It was as if he’d become a project they were afraid of failing.

But what he wanted was simple,

To be heard when he said nothing.

School was worse.

Children weren’t cruel on purpose, they were just thoughtless, loud, clumsy. They whispered near him like he couldn’t hear them. They took his pencils, rearranged his desk. A few poked fun at the way he blinked wrong, or turned his head too sharply.

But worse than that was the way adults spoke around him.

“He’s smart, but he’s so….delicate.”
“Poor thing.”
“I wonder if he’ll ever adjust.”

Adjust to what? A world that only spoke to him with pity?

He started spending lunch breaks in the music room, sometimes with the piano, sometimes just sitting, letting the vibrations of the strings hum through the wood into his mind. There, at least, nothing asked for explanations.

It was around that time that he stopped crying in front of anyone.

He learned to navigate the world again, but people never quite learned how to navigate him.

Except for two.

He met Suho when he was twelve.

A new school. A new classroom. Another round of quiet evaluations.

Someone had nudged him in the hallway that day, hard, a shoulder shove meant to be a joke. His cane clattered to the floor. A boy laughed.

And then another voice “Pick it up.”

Protective.

Sieun didn’t need to see him to know it was Suho, and when he placed the cane gently back in Sieun’s hands, his fingers were careful. No awkward pity. But an unfamiliar respect.

From then on, Suho sat with him at lunch. They didn’t talk much at first. They didn’t need to. There was an unspoken agreement between them, neither of us ask why.

Later, Baku joined them. Louder, endlessly chaotic. Baku had no sense of volume control and no filter, but he called Sieun ‘princess’ like it was a joke between friends, and always made sure the music room stayed unlocked for him.

With them, Sieun didn’t have to be impressive. He just had to be there.

And so he stayed.

Together, the three of them had formed a fragile sanctuary. They were the few who didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t stare too long, didn’t treat him like something already mourned.

But time had its own way of peeling people apart.

Suho had joined the fire department three years ago. Long shifts. Sudden calls. His voice was tired now, even when it smiled. Sieun still received texts and calls sometimes, simple ones ‘You good?, Ate yet?, Miss you.’ But days, sometimes weeks passed between them.

Baku had taken over his dad’s restaurant, and with that a mountain of expectations all stacked on his shoulders. Beside his weekly canteen service, he called once in a while, to check in, but their conversations always ended with the same words, “Let’s meet soon, yeah?” And it was always soon, never now.

Sieun understood.

They hadn’t left him. They were just living. The same way he was.

But some nights, when the teacup cooled too quickly and the silence got too tall, he let himself feel it, the grief of being loved from a distance.

He didn’t resent them. He would never.

But he missed what they had been. The chaos of Baku’s laugh in the schoolyard. The soft knock of Suho’s hand on his shoulder. The feeling of knowing, without doubt, that he wasn’t the only one holding the weight of his body upright.

Now he had music. And the children at the school. And a handful of volunteers. And silence.

And, lately—

There was Seongje.

Rough voice. Cigarette smell. A laugh too impactful to be forgotten. A man with pain stitched into the fabric of his posture. And yet, when he stood near Sieun, it wasn’t heavy. It was….warm. Unstable, but warm.

He sipped the now-cold tea and leaned his head back against the shelf.

He didn’t know what this was, or where it would go.

But in a life full of practiced solitude, the echo of that word in Seongje’s voice had cut through.

And God help him, he liked way it more than he wanted to admit.

Time passed, but not in any way the clock could measure.

There was no official arrangement. No schedule written in ink. No explanation.

But Seongje began showing up almost every day.

Sometimes in the mornings, when the children weren’t there yet and Sieun sat alone in the music room with a lukewarm thermos of barley tea and the piano open. Sometimes at dusk, when the sky burned orange and the wind dragged faint laughter through the rusted fences. And sometimes, without warning, he would simply appear. At the door. In the hallway. Sitting on the school’s back steps with a plastic bag of mandarins and two packs of cigarettes, one unopened.

He didn’t say he was coming.

He just came.

And Sieun, for his part, never asked why.

He let those moments pass between them like it was normal, familiar.

They didn’t touch. They rarely even stood too close. But the space around them started to feel different, like something sacred had quietly formed in the emptiness between their bodies. A proximity that didn’t require definition.

Sometimes, Seongje called him.

He never had a reason. He’d start with “What are you doing?” and then pause awkwardly when Sieun answered “Eating” Or “Tuning the piano.” Or just “Sitting.”

There would be a silence after that, long and comfortable.

Then,
“You need anything?”

Most of the time, Sieun would say no.

But once, he said yes. He needed batteries for the small fan in his apartment. It was summer. Too hot to sleep. Seongje brought him three packs, even though Sieun only asked for one.

After that, he came even more.

A routine emerged. Familiar, warm, unstated.

Then one afternoon, Seongje was walking through a back street on his way to the school, passing the same bent bus stop sign and sun-drenched fence he always did, when he saw someone leaning against a wall, smoking.

At first, he didn’t look twice.

He rarely did.

But something in the man’s stance caught him. The curve of the shoulder, the angle of the jaw. Something greasy about the smirk as he glanced down at his phone. Familiar in an ugly way.

Seongje slowed.

Then stopped.

The man looked up at him briefly and looked away again, without recognition.

But Seongje knew now.

It was the man from the supermarket. The one who had taken Sieun’s cane and laughed. The one who had spoken like Sieun was an inconvenience, a prop, a joke.

He didn’t know why it came back so vividly, the memory of Sieun’s quiet voice saying “You didn’t have to.” The light way his fingers had brushed Seongje’s hand in thanks. The steadiness with which he’d said “They usually get bored if I don’t give them what they want.”

The calm. The shame of that calm. 

Seongje felt something shift in his chest, not exactly rage. More like clarity.

He hadn’t hit anyone in a long time. Not since Union collapsed. Not since Baekjin died and he walked away from the blood-soaked hierarchy that had once given him purpose. He told himself he didn’t miss it.

But now, looking at that man—

He realized maybe he did.

The chaos, the rightness of it.

Because some people deserved it.

And this fucker, he deserved it.

Seongje stepped into the alley beside the corner store. Waited half a minute.

Then, in a single smooth motion, he grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him into the dark.

There was no screaming. Just a quick, choked noise. A heavy thud against brick.

The man barely had time to register the scar slicing along Seongje’s cheek before the first punch landed.

Then another. And another. And another.

Seongje didn’t shout. Didn’t even breathe hard.

His fists moved like instruments, controlled and rhythmic.

No wasted motion.

No mercy.

Blood spattered the sidewalk. Teeth clattered against the pavement like coins. The man cried out once, something like “Why—?”

But Seongje already knew the answer.

‘Because you touched him.

Because you laughed.

Because Sieun shouldn’t have to live in a world where trash like you walk freely.’

When it was over, the man lay slumped and sobbing in the dark, mumbling half-coherent threats and apologies. Seongje crouched briefly, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and looked him in the eye.

His voice was calm. “If you look at him again, even breathe near him, I’ll bury you in a way that doesn’t get found.”

And then he stood.

Dusted his hands off.

And smiled, like an old habit.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped through the school’s side door, his jacket damp with sweat and the metallic taste of blood still faintly in his throat.

He smelled piano dust and floor polish. Heard Sieun’s fingers moving lightly across ivory keys, something soft and unfinished.

He felt peace.

The real kind.

The hallway outside the music room was still, save for the soft hum of light bulbs and the distant ticking of the wall clock that Sieun never saw but always heard. Inside, he sat at the piano bench, one hand lingering on the keys, the other wrapped around a cup of barley tea.

He felt it before he heard it, footsteps. Familiar weight. Heavy, confident strides slowed by thought. The way Seongje walked was a kind of signature, a code Sieun could read without effort.

Then came the sound of the door clicking shut.

“You’re late” Sieun said, without turning. His voice was calm, but edged with something quietly bitter. “I thought you forgot about me.”

Seongje exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh.

“Didn’t forget” he muttered. “Got….sidetracked.”

Sieun turned his head slightly, listening. His brow furrowed. “You’re breathing hard.”

“I walked fast.”

“And you smell like metal.”

That stopped Seongje in his tracks.

He blinked. Swallowed. There were no cameras in this room, but he felt exposed.

Sieun continued, voice even, curious. Not suspicious. “And sweat. And something else. Like rust. Or old coins.”

Seongje looked down at his hands, fists still a little sore from earlier. He washed them, but that iron scent was stubborn, It clung to the seams of his knuckles like memory.

He said nothing.

Sieun waited a beat, then added softly “Did something happen?”

Silence stretched too long.

And Seongje hated that silence, because it wasn’t the right kind. Not the comfortable kind they usually shared. It was the kind that threatened to widen between them, to name the thing he didn’t want to be seen.

The kind of silence that saw too much.

“I was working out,” he said finally, dismissively “Took a different route, lots of stairs. That’s all.”

Sieun didn’t press. He only gave a small nod.

“Working out?”

Seongje’s jaw clenched, wary. “Yeah.”

Then Sieun tilted his head.

“Can I feel it?”

Now that threw him off.

“….Feel what?”

“Your arm.”

“What?”

“You just said you were working out. I’m curious.” Sieun said, in that infuriatingly serene way of his “You talk like you’re built like a mountain, but all I know is the sound of your voice and your footsteps. That’s not enough data.”

Seongje stared. “You serious?”

“Mhm”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t even flirtatious. It was trusting.

And part of him wanted to pull away. Part of him didn’t want anyone, least of all someone like Sieun, to touch the body that had broken too many ribs and crushed too many windpipes. But another part….

Another part wanted to be felt, not feared.

And Sieun was offering him something he didn’t know how to name.

So, after a moment of hesitation, he pulled off his jacket and stepped closer.

“Alright then,” he muttered. “Here.”

He took Sieun’s hand, way too carefully, like it was something he wasn’t sure he deserved to hold, and guided it to the curve of his bicep.

Sieun’s fingers were soft. Light. The way they touched him made him feel like he was being studied, not judged.

“Oh….” Sieun said softly. “You really are built like a mountain.”

Seongje huffed out a breath. “Told ya.”

“I didn’t believe it” His hand traveled slowly across the shape of his upper arm, then down, feeling the line of muscle. “You could carry me with one hand.”

“I could.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“No promises” Seongje said, smiling despite himself.

Sieun’s hand paused, then moved higher, brushing along Seongje’s shoulder and up to his collarbone. The motion was tentative, but not shy. His fingers traced the base of Seongje’s throat, then shifted— hesitated —before resting lightly on his chest.

He was close now. Closer than usual.

“You’re tall, too” Sieun murmured.

“Six foot, give or take.”

Sieun nodded. His palm flattened slightly against Seongje’s chest. “I knew you were tall. But I didn’t know you were warm.”

Seongje felt his heart stutter.

“What?”

“Warm” Sieun repeated. “Your chest. Your body. It’s not what I expected.”

Seongje didn’t speak for a long moment. The sensation of Sieun’s hand, so gentle, so fitting, against the place where his worst memories lived made him feel cracked open.

He swallowed hard.

“….People don’t usually call me that” he said finally.

Sieun tilted his face upward slightly, toward the direction of his voice.

“Well,” he said softly, “maybe they’re not listening right.”

Seongje didn’t know what to say to that.

He looked down at the smaller hand pressed to his chest. The way it moved, not with caution but with trust. With the faith of someone who couldn’t see the things he’d done, and yet still reached out anyway.

He covered Sieun’s hand with his own.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Sieun nodded. “You’re okay.”

And for a moment, for just that moment, he believed him.

Sieun’s fingers rested for a moment more on Seongje’s chest, quietly, as if memorizing the rhythm of his heartbeat. Then, almost absently, they lifted.

Upward. Gently.

They moved to his collarbone, then to the side of his neck. Light as breath.

Seongje didn’t move.

He stood still, head tilted slightly downward, letting those soft fingers explore what most people avoided. His body, his frame, his warmth, those were easier to touch. But the face was different. His face was history. A battlefield.

Sieun’s thumb traced the edge of his jaw, then the curve of his cheek. His brow furrowed in concentration, not because he was confused, but because he was reading.

Feeling instead of seeing.

And then, his fingertips paused, just near the corner of Seongje’s mouth.

The texture changed there. The skin was tighter. Rougher. A line carved across his cheek like a memory that refused to fade. From the upper cheekbone, it angled diagonally toward his mouth. A slash. Old and quiet, but permanent.

Sieun’s fingers stilled against it.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, his voice lowered. Soft. Careful.

“….This is a scar.”

Seongje swallowed.

“Yeah.”

“It’s deep” Sieun said, not in fear, but with something like sadness. “It stretches to your mouth.”

“Mhm.”

A beat of silence.

Then,

“Do you remember how it happened?”

Seongje hesitated.

For a moment, his first instinct was to say no. To deflect. Joke about it. Pretend.

But something in the way Sieun touched him made the lie catch in his throat.

“….Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”

Another pause.

Sieun waited, not pressing, just present.

“It was from a fight” Seongje continued. “Years ago. I was seventeen. A guy pulled a knife, and I was too slow. Didn’t block it in time.”

He almost left it there.

But then added, quieter “I won, though.”

Sieun’s fingers moved slowly over the scar again, gentle and deliberate. No recoil. No judgment. Just understanding.

“I’m sorry” he said.

Seongje blinked. “For what?”

“That someone did this to you.”

That stopped him. He didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever said it like that. Not ‘I’m sorry it happened’, not ‘You poor thing’, but a simple, sincere regret that the world had been cruel.

He forced a shrug.

“Comes with the job” he said, trying to laugh.

Sieun’s hand moved again, upward now, brushing the edge of his nose, then bumping softly against the side of the thick-rimmed glasses he wore.

“And these?” Sieun asked. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“You’re not the only one with bad sight” Seongje joked. “These are new actually, the last pair broke.”

“How?”

Another pause.

“Someone broke them. Accident.”

Sieun didn’t push. He just nodded slightly, then tilted his head again. His fingers lingered at the bridge of Seongje’s nose, adjusting the frame slightly, as if seeing him without eyes.

“You look good in them” he said simply.

That made Seongje freeze.

“What?”

“You look good” Sieun repeated. “the structure of your face. Your body. Even in the way your breathing changes when I touch your chest.”

Seongje stared at him.

Something opened in him then, something raw and unguarded and terrified. And for a second, all he could say was:

“….You can’t even see me.”

“I don’t have to” Sieun said.

And he meant it.

There were some nights Seongje couldn’t sit still. This was one of them.

He laid on his back in the half-dark of his  bedroom, one arm slung across his eyes, the other resting on the bare rise of his chest, just under the collarbone where Sieun’s hand had lingered like breath.

The fan rattled quietly in the corner. A cigarette burned down in the ashtray untouched. The room smelled like old smoke, laundry detergent, and the faint ghost of perfume.

His mind wouldn’t shut up.

That hand. That voice. That stillness.

It just kept playing back. Over and over.

He’d been touched before. Random chicks he couldn’t remember their names. The occasional make out sessions in the dark when he still cared about pretending everything was alright. Once, someone said he had “bad boy energy” and bit his lip until it bled. He was used to all.

But this (whatever today was) had nothing to do with that.

Sieun had touched him like he was human. Like he deserved to be known. Not just seen, not just feared. But held.

And that undid something in him.

He wasn’t used to being studied like that. Not without motive. Not without some game being played. And certainly not by someone like Sieun, someone so light in his presence, and yet so painfully exact in the way he noticed things.

It made him feel younger. Not in a nostalgic way, but in a raw way. Like he’d been dragged back to some half-forgotten version of himself, awkward, heat-flushed, breathless just from someone’s fingertips grazing his skin.

He’d gotten hard on the way home.

Not even from fantasy, just from memory.

He had to sit with his hands in his pockets, his legs stiff, staring at the ground because all he could think about was “You’re warm.” That stupidly pure phrase, whispered like a prayer.

And then the shame hit him.

Not because he wanted Sieun.

But because he didn’t think he deserved to want him.

He’d done too many things. Hurt too many people. That scar on his face didn’t come from a sob story, it came from a fight where he was the one who kept hitting even after the guy dropped the knife. The blood had sprayed, and he hadn’t even stopped.

Sieun didn’t know that. Couldn’t know.

He just reached out and touched it.

And said “I’m sorry someone did this to you.”

Seongje swallowed. Hard.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of grace. Didn’t know how to let it settle.

Because no one had ever called his scar sad before.

Only ‘cool’. Or ‘scary’. Or ‘fuck, that’s hot’.

But never, “I’m sorry.”

Never “….You’re warm.”

He pressed his hand to his own chest again, as if trying to feel what Sieun had felt. The rhythm was still there, slow and steady.

And it terrified him.

Because he wanted that hand there again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Sieun wasn’t exactly flustered.

But he wasn’t not flustered, either.

He lay on his narrow bed, sheets slightly twisted around his ankles, the windows cracked open to let in the night wind that tasted like rust and sweet soil. His fingers still tingled.

He’d done something unusual today.

He’d asked to touch someone. Not just brush past them in the hallway, not bump their shoulder in apology. No— he’d asked. Intentionally. ‘Can I feel it?’ Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean something.

But it had.

He could still remember how Seongje’s skin felt beneath his palm— warm, yes, but also tense. Like something waiting to uncoil. Coiled power under the skin, a body sculpted by the kind of life that didn’t offer softness.

And that scar.

Sieun traced the memory of it in his mind again. His fingers had known before his thoughts did, that this wasn’t some accident. This was a wound meant to last. It curved toward the mouth like an unfinished sentence.

And yet, Seongje hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t flinched. Just stood there, letting himself be mapped.

That alone said more than words.

Sieun smiled faintly into the dark.

He knew Seongje was attractive. He didn’t need eyes for that. It was in the way people spoke around him, in the way the silence of a room shifted when he walked through it. Still, he hadn’t expected the others to notice.

But they had.

A few volunteers at the school, one of the other music instructors, a young woman with a peculiar laugh, had asked him recently, voices curious, 

“Who is that handsome man that comes by so often?”

“The tall one. With the scar.”

“Is he….is everything okay? Are you in danger?”

Sieun had only smiled at that.

Danger?

The idea almost made him laugh. If there was danger, it wasn’t in Seongje’s presence. It was in how Sieun found himself relaxing around him. How he started looking forward to the echo of those footsteps in the hallway. How his fingers remembered that body even now, its warmth, its shape.

No one had ever made him feel bold before.

But today, he had been.

He didn’t regret it.

his mind lingered on the unspoken. That scar. The silence in Seongje’s voice when he talked about his past. The way he’d said “I won, though” like he wasn’t proud of it anymore, but instead resigned.

‘What kind of work gave someone a scar like that?’

Sieun didn’t know. But he wanted to.

Because there was something in Seongje that felt unfinished. Something wounded but not rotten. And Sieun, he’d spent most of his life being unseen. But tonight, for the first time, it wasn’t his own pain he was thinking about.

It was someone else’s.

And it made him feel more alive than he’d felt in years.

It was still early when Seongje’s phone buzzed, one long vibration that crawled across the table beside his mattress. He was barely awake, tangled in the loose cotton sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the light pollution of the city and the bitter of morning cold.

He squinted. The screen was lit.

Sieun is calling.

His chest pulled tight with something strange and automatic. A gravity he hadn’t agreed to but followed anyway.

He answered without thinking.

“….Yo.”

There was a pause on the other end, soft, but not awkward.

Then came Sieun’s voice, and God, it was early, and it still managed to sound like velvet strained through fog. Sleep-warm and careful. A little breathless, like he’d run to the phone.

“Seongje” he said.

It wasn’t a question. Just his name, spoken like a sentence.

Seongje sat up slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Sieun hesitated.

There was a sound in the background, papers shuffling, maybe a child laughing far off, or a chair being moved. Then, 

“I wouldn’t call so early unless it was important. I know this might be a bit much, and you can say no, really, you can, but—”

Seongje felt something shift in him. He rubbed the back of his neck, half-awake but already tense.

“What happened?”

“One of the volunteers can’t come today” Sieun said. “And….it’s activities day at the school. The kids are really excited. They’ve been talking about it all week. Outdoor games, painting, lunch outside, things they don’t usually get to do. But we’re short one adult now.”

Seongje was silent.

“I know it’s not your thing” Sieun added quickly. “And you’re probably busy, and the kids can be loud and messy and I know you think the kids are….scared of you. I mean— not that they should be, but—”

Seongje closed his eyes.

It was the voice.

That voice.

Soft and stumbling and trying not to ask for too much. Trying not to sound like it mattered if he said no. And yet, behind every careful syllable, Seongje could hear the truth, Sieun didn’t want to call anyone else.

A breath pushed through his chest like a reluctant surrender.

He could’ve said no. Could’ve made something up.

But he remembered that day, not long ago, when he’d pulled that asshole from the supermarket into an alley and beat his face in. He remembered how light his fists had felt afterward, and how dirty he felt carrying that into Sieun’s presence.

And now this, a chance to be useful in a different way. Even if he didn’t believe he deserved it.

“Didn’t I say.…” he muttered, rubbing his face, “….that if you needed something, you could call me?”

Sieun paused. “You did.”

“Then stop apologizing like you’re doing something wrong.”

There was the tiniest smile in Sieun’s voice now. “So….you’ll come?”

Seongje let out a low groan, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Yeah. Fine. What time?”

“Be here by ten, if you can,” Sieun said. “We’ll be outside. I’ll wait for you by the back gate.”

Seongje blinked. “Why the back gate?”

“….It’s quieter. And I thought maybe… if you were worried the kids would be scared, it might be easier to ease into it. Fewer eyes.”

For a moment, Seongje said nothing. That strange feeling in his chest tugged again, hard.

This man, who couldn’t see him, still knew exactly how to read him.

He cleared his throat. “Alright. Ten.”

“Thank you” Sieun said, and it was so quiet, so real, it made Seongje’s throat go dry. “I really appreciate it, Seongje-ah”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, reaching for his glasses. “Don’t make it a thing.”

But it was a thing. Because even as he hung up, even as he got dressed with heavy sighs and grumbling thoughts of children and sunshine and awkwardness, his chest wouldn’t stop burning with something dangerously close to wanting to be good.

The sky was bright when Seongje walked the path behind the school, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other clutching a small paper bag of cigarettes he’d promised himself not to open in front of the kids. A few birds made soft, lazy noise above him, and the distant chatter of children filtered faintly through the air.

He didn’t know what he expected, exactly. He’d never been to a place like this before, a school that felt more like a sanctuary than an institution. A place too warm for someone like him to walk into without feeling like a threat.

But then he saw him.

Standing near the back gate, as promised. Cane in one hand, a light-colored sweater layered over his shirt, something cream or soft grey, Seongje couldn’t quite tell in this light, but it looked clean, light-catching. Something gentle. Something like Sieun.

It suited him. Too well, in fact.

It made Seongje slow his steps without realizing. For a brief, shameful second, he just watched.

Sieun stood facing slightly off-center, listening intently, head tilted with that quiet, exacting focus of his. There was a soft furrow in his brow as he smiled, faint but honest, at the man standing too close beside him.

And that was when Seongje noticed him.

The other guy.

Tall. Slouched posture. Messy hair. Smile too big. Broad across the shoulders, but nothing intimidating. No visible scars. Just the kind of effortless presence that came from someone who belonged here.

And he was leaning in, leaning in too far, in Seongje’s opinion. Talking animatedly, hand brushing Sieun’s arm as he laughed. Like it was normal. Like he could just….do that.

Seongje’s jaw tightened.

He slowed to a stop before either of them noticed him.

The man was saying something about ‘rice portions’, and ‘the new kids being picky’, and then a loud, familiar laugh spilled out of him, and Sieun laughed too, shaking his head.

Not flirting, exactly.

But still too close. Too familiar.

It felt like walking into a conversation you had no right to interrupt, and yet wanted to break apart with both hands.

Then Sieun turned his head slightly.

“Seongje” he said, like tasting the word before offering it. “You came.”

The man beside him turned as well, raising his eyebrows, visibly sizing Seongje up.

“Oh” he said, mouth twitching into a half-smile. “So this is the mysterious guest. You didn’t tell me he was tall. Or scary-looking.”

Sieun chuckled under his breath. “I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

Seongje stepped closer, every muscle alert now.

He ignored the other guy and addressed Sieun directly. “You said ten.”

“I’m impressed” Sieun said warmly. “You’re early.”

Then, a beat. “Or did I sound that desperate?”

“You always sound desperate when it comes to the kids” the other man added casually, nudging Sieun with his elbow.

Seongje blinked once. Slowly.

“Who’s this?” he asked, voice flat.

“Ah, sorry” Sieun said, raising a hand toward him as if gesturing meant something. “Seongje, this is Humin-hyung. He’s a longtime friend. And also—” he turned slightly toward Baku’s direction, “—our unofficial cafeteria tyrant.”

“Lunch guy” Baku said. “Snacks. Meals. Sometimes emotional support.”

Sieun tilted his head toward Seongje. “He cooks for the kids in days like these. He doesn’t let them eat packaged food, even when they complain.”

Seongje gave him a brief nod. “So you’re the one starving them.”

“Only the picky ones” Baku replied without missing a beat.

Sieun smiled at that.

And again, the warmth of it made something in Seongje’s chest pull tight.

He didn’t like the way Baku hovered. He didn’t like how familiar his voice sounded when he talked to Sieun, like they had decades of memories stacked behind their jokes. He didn’t like that Baku got to make Sieun laugh before he could.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

Sieun turned back to him.

“Thanks again for coming,” he said. “I know it’s not really your thing.”

“It’s not” Seongje muttered. “But you asked.”

Sieun’s smile turned a little gentler.

“And you came.”

That shut Seongje up completely.

Even Baku raised his eyebrows like he’d caught something private in the exchange. But he said nothing, only clapped his hands once and turned back toward the building.

“Well, I’ll go check on the rice. Don’t break anything while I’m gone” he joked, disappearing inside.

The moment he left, silence settled between them again.

Quieter now. More theirs.

Sieun turned slightly toward the sound of Seongje’s breath.

“I hope he didn’t overwhelm you” he said.

“He talks too much.”

“He worries” Sieun said softly. “I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s like family.”

That word ‘family’ sent a brief chill through Seongje’s spine.

He didn’t have one.

But he just nodded. “Got it.”

Sieun adjusted his cane, turned slightly toward him.

“You ready for a lot of noise, sticky fingers, and questions you can’t answer?”

“No.”

“Good” Sieun said, smiling again.

The first wave of children came with the force of weather as they walked inside.

Like a sudden summer storm, it was loud, rapid, unpredictable, and sticky with joy.

Seongje froze the moment the back doors opened and they spilled into the courtyard. Paint-streaked paper in their hands. Mismatched socks. Shoelaces half-done. One kid held a butterfly net like a sword. Another was dragging a chair for no clear reason.

They didn’t see him right away.

He towered near the corner, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, standing next to Sieun like a shadow. His jaw was tight, but something in his shoulders was taut with unease. He hadn’t been around kids in years, if ever. Not like this. Not outside of the kind that ran in packs and threw rocks for fun. This was different.

“Just stand still for a bit,” Sieun murmured beside him, sensing the tension. “They’ll get used to your shape.”

“My shape?” Seongje muttered.

“You’re tall” Sieun said, lips curving faintly. “Very tall. And you have that whole….tragic soldier aura going on.”

Seongje blinked. “What.”

“You’ll see.”

And he did.

Eventually, a small girl with an oversized hoodie and two crooked ponytails approached them slowly, cautiously. Her eyes, wide and serious, traveled up Seongje like she was studying a monument.

“Are you a bodyguard?” she asked, deadpan.

“No.”

“Are you Sieun-oppa’s friend?”

A pause. He glanced at Sieun, who said nothing, just stood there, waiting.

“….Yeah” Seongje said finally.

The girl nodded as if that explained everything. Then turned to Sieun.

“Can your friend lift the paint buckets? Teacher Soo said we can’t carry them ourselves.”

Seongje stared.

Sieun raised an eyebrow. “Seongje?”

He sighed. “Where are they?”

“Under the art table” the girl said, already walking off like he’d agreed. “The red ones.”

By noon, he’d been asked to lift a bench, carry juice boxes, find two missing paintbrushes (one was inside someone’s hoodie), untangle a kite from the playground fence, and explain why he had “a big line on his cheek.” That last one came from a boy with chocolate on his lips and a sharp, suspicious gaze.

“It’s a scar” Seongje said flatly.

“Cool” the boy replied, then offered him a potato chip.

And just like that, something shifted.

He wasn’t scary.

He was interesting.

He was useful.

And God help him, he was slowly being pulled into chaos.

And when he finally stopped a little, after set down a stack of water cups on the folding table, a shadow lingered beside him longer than expected.

A kid, taller than most of the others. Maybe twelve. Wiry arms crossed over his chest, his expression thoughtful in that kinda suspicious, kinda curious way only kids that age could pull off.

Seongje glanced sideways. The boy didn’t speak at first.

“You friends with Sieun-hyung?” the kid finally asked, like it was a casual question, but his eyes stayed sharp.

“….I guess” Seongje muttered.

The kid squinted. “He doesn’t bring new people here. Like, ever.”

That made Seongje pause.

The boy went on, arms still crossed, his voice lowering just a little. “You know this school exists because of him, right? It’s not like a normal place. Most of us came from that orphanage up the hill. It was garbage before. I mean, they fed us and whatever, but no one cared. Not until he showed up.”

Seongje stayed quiet.

His eyes drifted to where Sieun sat near the shade of a tree, helping a younger girl tie a ribbon in her hair. His cane rested across his lap like part of him. The girl was giggling. Sieun was smiling that small, tilted way he did, like he knew he’d never see what he was making, but wanted it to be beautiful anyway.

The kid followed Seongje’s gaze.

“He’s kinda annoying sometimes” the boy admitted. “Like, he makes us write down our feelings and stuff. But he listens. Nobody else does that.”

A silence passed between them.

Then the boy added, quieter now “So if you’re close to him, be good. Okay?”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a plea.

Before Seongje could say anything back, another voice called out from across the grass “Seongje-hyung!! Come play tug of war!”

A group of kids waved wildly, holding up a long, fraying rope and bouncing with excitement.

The older boy smirked a little. “You’re popular now.”

Seongje let out a slow sigh, already walking toward them.

He looked back one more time at Sieun beneath the tree, his hands gently adjusting the ribbon on the girl’s hair, patient, focused, full of grace.

And in that moment, with kids laughing and the rope landing at his feet, Seongje thought,

‘No one had ever fought to make something gentle like this. But Sieun had.’

And now… he wanted to protect it, too.

Even if he didn’t know how.

From his spot under the tree, Sieun listened to the waves of voices ripple through the air. He couldn’t see the way Seongje crouched awkwardly to tie a shoe. Couldn’t see the slow, stunned way a child hugged him after winning a game of musical chairs. Couldn’t see the uncertain softness on Seongje’s face when one of the younger boys sat on his foot and refused to move.

But he could hear it in his silence. That stillness again. That pause before every sigh.

And he smiled to himself, folding his hands neatly over his cane.

Later, after the sun had dipped behind the western wing of the school, and the children had been fed (Baku arriving with trays of neatly packed kimbap and fruits, looking smug), the courtyard began to empty.

Some parents came. Volunteers waved goodbye.

And Seongje stayed, sitting on the low brick edge of the garden bed, breathing in the slow calm of post-chaos.

Sieun approached, his cane tapping gently across the concrete.

“Tired?” he asked.

“I think my soul left my body around lunch.”

Sieun laughed softly. “They weren’t scared of you.”

“No” Seongje said, his voice quiet. “they weren’t.”

A silence passed between them. Not awkward, just heavy with something unnamed.

“You were good with them” Sieun said. “You didn’t have to be. But you were.”

Seongje didn’t answer.

He just looked at Sieun.

At the way the last light of day caught at his pale sweater. At the way his blind eyes lifted to the wind like they saw something. At the faint curve of exhaustion around his mouth, gentle, real.

“….You’re not like I expected” Seongje murmured.

Sieun tilted his head.

“What did you expect?”

Seongje exhaled, eyes falling to the ground. “I don’t know. Someone soft, I guess. But you’re not.”

Sieun let that sit for a while. Then said “Being soft doesn’t mean being weak.”

Seongje looked up again. Met the direction of those impossible eyes.

“No” he said. “But you’re strong.”

Sieun smiled faintly. “So are you.”

They didn’t say goodbye right away. They just stood there, side by side, watching the shadows lengthen.

And though no one reached out, the space between them felt almost warm.

It happened happening slowly, so slowly that Sieun wasn’t sure when it began.

One moment, Seongje had been a stranger standing near the piano, silent and distant, watching without saying much. The next, he was arranging chairs after music class, helping a child find a missing shoe, walking quietly beside Sieun with grocery bags in one hand and his jacket in the other.

He never explained why he kept showing up. He never gave any excuses. He simply became part of the rhythm.

And the children, sharp-eyed and sharper-sensed than most adults gave them credit for, accepted him.

More than that, they claimed him.

They started asking why when he wasn’t there. Started drawing him into their games and questions. One small boy gave him a painted rock shaped vaguely like a heart and said it would “make him smile more.” A group of girls braided a strand of red string into his coat one day and told him it was good luck. He didn’t take it off.

Sieun noticed the change like a subtle key shift in a song.

The children’s laughter softened around him. The air around the piano was quieter, warmer when Seongje stood beside him. And though Seongje rarely spoke, when he did, it felt like something carefully excavated from under years of rubble.

One afternoon, Sieun found himself seated alone in the office sorting music sheets when his phone buzzed. He heard the phone assistant saying,

“Baku-hyung is calling”

He answered without much thought.

“Hey Sieunnie, you alone?” Baku’s voice, over the background sound of a simmering pot.

“More or less” Sieun replied. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not that something’s wrong, I just have been thinking….” Baku said, then paused. “about your new friend.”

There was a silence. Then Sieun questioned “Seongje?”

“Yeah.” Another pause. “Look, I know he hasn’t done anything bad. He’s helpful, respectful, even polite in a weird, caveman way. The kids like him. You like him.”

“I never said that” Sieun replied, too quickly.

“You don’t have to.” Baku sighed. “I just want to understand what this is.”

Sieun didn’t answer immediately. He sat back in the creaking chair, fingers resting lightly over his knee. Outside, he could hear the faint sound of the wind moving the garden chimes. Somewhere in the hallway, a child laughed and then ran off.

“I don’t know what it is yet” he said finally, voice low. “But….when he’s around, I feel good. I don’t have to perform. Or lead. Or explain myself.”

Baku went quiet again.

“That’s exactly why I’m asking you to be careful.”

Sieun’s throat tightened. “I am.”

“I don’t doubt your judgment, Sieun. But I’ve seen you give everything to people who never knew what they were receiving. You don’t fall often, but when you do, you fall hard. I just want to make sure this one—”

“I know he’s not dangerous,” Sieun cut in, gentle but firm. “Not in the way most people think. He doesn’t scare me.”

“That’s the part that scares me” Baku said, exhaling. “You see something in him. And he sees something in you. But something doesn’t always mean something safe.”

Sieun’s voice softened. “I know.”

Baku added, quieter now, “I’m not asking you to let him go. I’m just asking you not to forget that you matter, too.”

“I haven’t forgotten” Sieun said. “Not this time.”

And maybe that was the strangest thing.

Because with Seongje, despite the silence, the scars, the unspoken things, Sieun felt something he didn’t know he’d been longing for, the sense that someone would still come back even if he didn’t ask them to.

They hung up soon after, no resentment lingering. Just the unshakable bond of old worry and protective love.

That night, Sieun stood in the garden long after the school had gone to sleep, fingers brushing over the flowers him and Baku had planted last spring, and thought of hands that trembled when they weren’t holding anything sharp.

Saturday, 10:12 p.m.

The phone rang again. This time, it was Seongje.

Sieun answered with a soft hum.

“Yeah?” he said, brushing crumbs off his shirt from the toast he’d abandoned.

On the other end, there was a pause. Not like hesitation, but like Seongje was still deciding whether to say what he’d already decided.

“You doing anything tonight?”

Sieun blinked. “Not really.”

Another breath. Then Seongje said, “Come out with me.”

“….Where?”

“Nowhere far,” he muttered. “Just…out. Away from here. You’ve been cooped up in the school all week.”

Sieun tilted his head. “Are you worried about my routine?”

“I’m not worried” Seongje muttered. “You just sound like someone who needs a break.”

Sieun smiled faintly, sitting back. “You’re strangely persuasive today.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I thought I was always weird.”

A pause.

Then Seongje said, in a voice so low it felt like it wasn’t meant for anyone to hear “You’re not weird. You’re just— different. In a way I want to keep seeing.”

The air shifted. A chord pulled tight in Sieun’s chest.

He hadn’t expected that.

“Alright” he said, quietly. “I’ll go.”

“Sweet” Seongje said, already pretending it didn’t matter. “I’ll come get you in an hour.”

When the call ended, Sieun sat in silence for a long time, thumb resting on the edge of the phone, pulse steadier than it should’ve been.

And for the first time in a long time, a smile broke across his face that no one could see.

Not even himself.

The knock came just an hour and half later. Three short taps, followed by a pause. As if the person on the other side wasn’t in a hurry, but also wasn’t sure if they were really allowed to be here.

Sieun had been waiting by the door for nearly ten minutes.

Not nervously, exactly. But with that familiar feeling of anticipation that sits just under the skin, like standing too close to a piano string, waiting for someone else to strike the key.

He adjusted the fall of his light jacket one last time, then opened the door slowly.

A shift in air. A faint smell of wind and fuel. Leather.

“Hey” Seongje said.

His voice wasn’t as deep as it usually was. There was something cautious in it. Something hesitant, though he wore his usual expression stone-bored, eyes always bored, shoulders heavy beneath the dark jacket. Helmet in one hand.

“Hey” Sieun replied, stepping back slightly from the door.

“You ready?”

“Am I overdressed?”

Seongje looked him over without even meaning to. White shirt with an open knitted jacket. Fitted black slacks. Cane in one hand. Hair slightly messy in that effortless way. He looked like he belonged in a silent film.

“No” he muttered. “You look like you.”

Sieun tilted his head. “That sounds dangerously like a compliment.”

“You should probably take it before I change my mind.”

Sieun chuckled, then stepped outside.

Seongje held the helmet up. “So, uh….you okay with motorcycles? I should’ve asked before, but I figured I’d risk it.”

There was a pause.

Sieun turned his face slightly, listening to the distant sound of traffic. He brought one hand up to touch the helmet briefly, fingers grazing its smooth curve.

“The last time I was on something like that,” he said, “was with Suho. When we were in school.”

“Suho?” Seongje echoed.

“Friend of mine. Back then he used his work electric scooter and swore it was the future of transportation. It was mostly scrap metal and wire held together by his ego.”

Seongje let out a low, surprised laugh. “That sounds safe.”

“It wasn’t” Sieun said lightly. “But I was fifteen. And I trusted him.”

That last line made Seongje pause. He looked at him for a second too long.

Then he held the helmet closer.

“Can I?” he asked, already stepping into Sieun’s space.

Sieun nodded, and Seongje gently guided the helmet over his head, slow and careful, fingers brushing behind Sieun’s ear as he adjusted the strap.

“There” he muttered. “It’s loose enough to breathe, tight enough not to fall off.”

“Very professional” Sieun said, lips twitching.

“I googled it” Seongje admitted.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not risking your pretty head.”

The words were quiet. Matter-of-fact. But beneath the flat tone, Sieun heard it again, that subtle thread of protectiveness that always wrapped itself around Seongje like second skin. Rough. But real.

“Where are we going?” Sieun asked, stepping carefully down the stairs, one hand trailing along the railing.

“You’ll see” Seongje said. “It’s not far.”

“Is it….a loud place? Crowded?”

“No” he said quickly. “Just somewhere I found out. It’s quiet. I thought you’d like it.”

Sieun hesitated. Then, “You’re sharing a secret place with me?”

Seongje glanced over, and for a moment, something unreadable passed through his eyes. A flicker of discomfort. Then resignation. Then something else entirely.

“Yeah” he said simply. “Guess I am.”

The motorcycle was parked near the curb—weathered and dark, with low handlebars and patches of age that gave it more character than style. Seongje climbed on first, kicking the stand and adjusting the rearview slightly. Then he reached a hand back.

“Take it slow” he said.

Sieun found the seat by instinct and touch, settling behind him, one hand resting cautiously on Seongje’s side.

“You’ll want to hold on more than that,” Seongje muttered.

Sieun didn’t say anything.

He just leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Seongje’s torso, lightly at first, then firmer as the engine rumbled to life.

And for a few seconds, neither of them moved.

The sound of the motor. The shift of wind. The closeness of breath and heartbeat and something unspoken.

Then Seongje muttered under his breath “Alright. You’re gonna feel wind. It’s not dangerous. Just….lean with me.”

“I trust you” Sieun said.

And he meant it. Without knowing why. Without needing a reason.

The motorcycle pulled away from the curb, and the city began to slide behind them, its noise dimming.

And for the first time in what felt like years, both of them stopped thinking about the weight they carried.

Because in that moment, it was just the road.
And a body to hold on to.

The ride took longer than expected, not because the road was winding or the traffic heavy, but because Seongje kept the pace deliberately slow.

The city peeled away behind them, replaced by the vast hush of open stretches of road and the occasional rustle of trees lining the shoulders. He avoided the highway. Took backroads. Long turns and dusty hills. Every time he felt the pull in his chest, the instinct to speed, he remembered the way Sieun had trusted him. Without flinching. Without question.

So he kept the ride smooth.

It was quiet between them, even over the soft roar of the engine. But it wasn’t empty. There was something electric in the way Sieun’s arms wrapped around him

He hadn’t realized how much that would mean.

They pulled off the road eventually, into a narrow dirt path that split through wild trees and low brush. No signs. No fences. The kind of place people forgot, and the kind of place Seongje liked because of that.

By the time they arrived, the trees opened into sky. Wide and dark. And just beyond the last dune, the world melted into water.

It wasn’t a grand beach. Nothing like the tourist traps. It was small, cradled by dark rocks and tall grass, the sand uneven and soft like flour beneath your feet. The tide was low and lazy, waves folding gently across the shore like breath.

Sieun stepped down slowly, cane in one hand, Seongje’s hand guiding the other.

“Where are we?” he asked, stopping when the ground shifted beneath his shoes and the scent of the salt spray.

“Somewhere quiet.”

Sieun tilted his head, listening. The sound of wind rushing through the dune grass. The slow suck and drag of water across sand. The occasional distant call of a gull overhead.

He took a deep breath.

Salt. Sea. Something old in the air, like stories.

“….The beach?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Seongje said. “Not many people come here at this hour. You can feel everything out here.”

Sieun smiled, faint and soft. “Good. I’d hate to waste it.”

Seongje guided him down the slope of soft, sun-warmed sand. Sieun took off his shoes without asking, cane in his hand, letting his toes sink into the earth with the reverence of someone reacquainting themselves with the natural world.

Then he took a few steps towards the water,slow, careful. When the tide kissed his toes, he exhaled like it touched something deeper than skin.

“….It’s cold” he whispered.

“But nice?”

“Yeah.”

Seongje watched him from a few feet away. Just watched. The way the breeze lifted strands of his hair. The way his head tilted up toward the light. The way his fingers curled instinctively when the waves came in a little stronger.

He was barefoot, pale feet half-buried in the sand. Eyes glassed with the moonlight. Lips parted slightly in awe, like he was listening to the language of the sea.

Something about the sight made Seongje’s throat tighten.

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, glanced away briefly. “I used to come here when I just moved” he said. “No one around. Just water. It made sense.”

Sieun turned his face toward him, still not seeing, but sensing.

“You brought me here because you thought I’d understand?”

“I didn’t think about it that much,” Seongje muttered. “I just….wanted to show you.”

Sieun stepped a little closer. His fingers brushed Seongje’s jacket again, like an echo of the other times he’d reached out to him in silence. His hand drifted down until it found Seongje’s wrist.

“I do understand.”

Neither of them moved for a long moment.

The breeze tangled around them. The water whispered its endless lullaby.

“I haven’t been near the sea since I was a kid” Sieun said quietly. “I forgot how alive it feels.”

“You ever swim?”

Sieun gave a breath of a laugh. “I used to. Before.”

Before. The word hung there, fragile and clean.

“You can still,” Seongje said. “If you want to.”

Sieun tilted his head again, expression unreadable. “Are you offering to catch me if I drown?”

“I’ll carry you back if I have to.”

There was something promising in the way he said it. Something real.

And Sieun, for the first time in days, laughed. He leaned his head back slightly, and the sound of it rang against the ocean air like the clearest note in a half-finished song.

“You’re terrible at being casual” he said.

“Didn’t claim I was trying tho.”

Sieun stepped forward once more, his hand still at Seongje’s wrist.

“You didn’t have to bring me here” he said, quieter now.

“I wanted to.”

“Why?”

Seongje paused. 

“You make everything else quieter.”

The wind moved again. The sea pulled away. And Sieun, for the first time since he was a boy, felt like he belonged in a world that couldn’t see him, because someone had chosen to see him anyway.

They sat near the edge of the water where the sand was a little wet and cool. Not quite close enough to get soaked by the tide, but just near enough that when the waves curled forward, the mist reached their ankles like soft fingers.

Seongje had taken off his jacket and folded it behind Sieun’s back like a cushion. He didn’t say anything about it. Just placed it there with the kind of gentleness he didn’t know he had. Sieun accepted it without a word, just a slight nod and that faint smile again, the one that always undid him more than anything else.

The ocean murmured in slow breath. The gulls circled overhead, their cries distant and faint.

For a while, they didn’t talk.

Then Sieun tilted his face toward the sky, his hands sifting through the wet sand absently. “You come here often?”

“Not anymore” Seongje said. “Only when I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Is that what today is?”

“….Maybe.”

Sieun let the silence stretch again, but this time, it was warmer. Like the beginning of a confession.

“I never had places like this,” he said after a minute. “When I was a kid, everything was just rooms. Rooms full of noise, or silence too loud to breathe in. My parents weren’t cruel, just….absent. I could scream and no one would come. I think I learned to stop screaming before I ever really learned how to talk.”

Seongje glanced at him. The light breeze lifted strands of Sieun’s hair, softening the edge of his face.

“They didn’t come around?”

“They loved me the way people love awards. Something to be proud of if polished enough. But I was born different. And when I went blind….I stopped being their prize.”

Seongje looked down at his hands in the sand. The faint bloodied bruises on his knuckles still lingered from the alley.

“I get that” he murmured.

Sieun turned toward him slightly, though his eyes didn’t meet anything in particular. “Your parents?”

“No. Mine were just tired. Angry, sometimes. My old man had fists before he had words. My mom said he didn’t mean it. So I didn’t mean it when I started hitting back.”

Sieun said nothing. But his presence leaned just slightly closer. Not in pity—never in pity—but in understanding.

“So I found myself somewhere I would be accepted”

“…where?” he asked gently.

Seongje didn’t flinch at the question.

“A gang, Union,” he said, the name falling like a stone into water. “It was….a way out. Or maybe a way in. Depends how you look at it. I was seventeen when I joined. By twenty, I was second. The only guy above me was Baekjin. We ran things like we’d live forever.”

Sieun nodded slowly. “And then?”

“He died” Seongje said. “And I didn’t know who the hell I was without him.”

The quiet turned deeper. The tide whispered secrets neither of them could hear.

“Sometimes” Seongje added after a moment, “I think if I hadn’t met you, I’d still be walking around like a ghost.”

Sieun turned his face to him fully now. “That’s how I felt too. Before you started showing up.”

Something in Seongje’s chest stuttered at that. He looked away, embarrassed.

“You’re easy to be around” Sieun said.

“I’m not.”

“Not for other people. But for me….you are.”

The wind picked up just slightly. The moon dipped a little lower behind the veil of clouds. And Seongje realized that his shoulder was brushing against Sieun’s, not by accident anymore.

Sieun reached up slowly, hesitantly.

“Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Seongje swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

Sieun’s hand came to his cheek first. Gentle. Exploring. Fingers brushing over the lines of his jaw, the faint stubble, the smooth curve beneath his eye. Then upward, slowly, until his fingertips touched the long scar.

He paused there.

Didn’t ask. Didn’t flinch.

Just traced it once with his thumb.

“It’s deep” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Do you still feel it?”

“Not really” Seongje said. “Sometimes I forget it’s there. Then someone looks at me, and I remember.”

Sieun’s hand lingered.

“I can’t see you” he said. “But I’ve had people tell me you’re handsome.”

Seongje huffed a dry breath of disbelief.

“And I don’t just mean your looks,” Sieun added. “You’re….steady. Like you’ve been through hell and still decided not to collapse.”

“Sometimes I think collapsing would be easier.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

Seongje turned his face just slightly, his cheek leaning into the touch without meaning to.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Maybe I was waiting for something to hold on to.”

Sieun’s fingers slipped downward, from scar to cheekbone to jaw. His breath was slow. Intent. And when he leaned forward, it wasn’t dramatic or rushed. It wasn’t a moment stolen from passion or heat.

It was quiet.

Like a prayer.

And then, their lips met, slow and warm and trembling.

it was the kind that broke. Quietly, like something fragile being opened after years in the dark. It began soft, almost unsure, mouths brushing like a question, breath shared in the hollow space between memory and want. But as their lips found each other again, the kiss deepened, trembling with the ache of things neither of them had dared to say out loud. 

Seongje kissed like someone who hadn’t touched anything sacred in years, like he was afraid to be forgiven but kissed anyway. And Sieun received it with the soft patience of someone who knew silence too well, his hands reaching up as if to feel whether the moment was real. In that kiss, there was salt and wind and something older than either of them, something like longing, but heavier. Something like hope, but quieter. A meeting not of mouths, but of two people who had spent too long surviving, and finally, mercifully, remembered how to feel.

When they pulled back, barely, their foreheads still touching, Seongje let out the faintest breath of a laugh.

“You sure you’re not blind and delusional?”

Sieun smiled, resting his hand on Seongje’s chest, over the beating heart beneath.

“I don’t need my eyes to know when something feels real.”

For a while, they just stayed there.

Foreheads gently pressed. Breath shared. The faint salt of the sea on their lips.

Seongje hadn’t planned this.

He hadn’t even known he wanted it until it happened. And now, with Sieun’s hand still resting lightly on his cheek, his own hands still at his sides, he felt something rare bloom in the hollow of his chest, like the stirring of something too tender to name.

Sieun leaned in again, slower this time, more sure of it. His lips brushed Seongje’s again, and something in Seongje gave way.

He tilted his head, caught Sieun’s mouth more fully.

The kiss deepened. Hungry in the way grief is hungry. Lonely in the way silence aches. Their mouths met with more urgency now, Sieun tilting into him, and Seongje’s hand finally rose to touch him.

His fingers hovered at first.

Then, softly, he laid his hand along the side of Sieun’s neck, thumb against his jaw. His palm could feel the beat of Sieun’s pulse, rapid and real.

Sieun sighed into him.

And then, just as his other hand came forward, brushing the hem of Sieun’s shirt where it met his waist, he paused.

Pulled back, just enough for his voice to fall between them.

“Can I.…?”

It was barely a question. More like a breath caught between fear and want.

Sieun nodded once. “Yes.”

That was all.

No dramatics. No trembling declarations. Just the simple, vulnerable ‘yes’ of someone who wanted to be touched, not because he had something to prove, but because he trusted him.

Seongje’s hand slid carefully to Sieun’s waist, his fingers spreading over the delicate line of bone beneath his shirt. Warmth met warmth. Sieun’s own hands clung to Seongje’s shoulders now, anchoring himself through the storm of sensation.

They kissed again, longer this time. Slower and deeper, lips parting, tongues meeting, saliva mixing, breath catching.

Sieun tasted like salt and wind. Like warmth held back too long.

And when Seongje drew him closer, one hand steady on the back of his neck, the other splayed low on his back, it wasn’t about desire, it was about gravity. Like they had both been pulled into something inevitable.

Like all the ache they carried finally had somewhere to land.

They broke apart only when the tide rolled too close, sending a cold wave brushing over their ankles.

Sieun laughed into Seongje’s neck, breathless, and whispered “I think the sea’s jealous of us.”

Seongje chuckled under his breath, pressing a kiss into Sieun’s hair, then resting his chin lightly atop his head.

“Let it be.”

And there they stayed, wrapped in one another’s warmth, while the water sang around them.

The air was already way colder by the time they made it back to the city, street lights streaming between buildings like something holy. The ride back had been wordless, but not empty. Sieun’s arms were wrapped around Seongje a little tighter this time, face pressed lightly to his back, as if memorizing the shape of him through motion alone.

At the door to his building, Sieun hesitated just briefly before speaking.

His voice was low, hesitant, but certain beneath the shyness. “Do you….want to come upstairs?”

Seongje blinked. The question hit softly, but squarely, in the center of his chest. He glanced at him, about to ask if he was sure. But Sieun’s expression, even behind the faint tiredness from the day, was open. Expectant.

“I don’t have anything fancy” Sieun added. “Just tea. A couch. A piano that’s out of tune.”

Seongje cracked a faint grin. “You trying to seduce me with flat notes?”

Sieun smiled, quiet, but there. “Maybe.”

‘It’s working then’

And Seongje followed him.

They walked the stairs slowly, Sieun leading with his cane, Seongje staying a half step behind without being told to. It was an old building, the kind that smelled like wood and old books and maybe a hint of someone’s dinner from two floors down. When they reached the top landing, Sieun’s hand fumbled with the keys, and Seongje took them wordlessly, helping with the lock before handing them back.

The apartment was small. Warm. Soft light filtering through cream curtains. Books stacked along one wall like a forgotten library, piano against the far window, half-covered in sheet music and old coffee mugs. The floor was scuffed in places, the walls slightly faded, but it was lived in. And it smelled like him.

“Cute place,” Seongje said, stepping inside and glancing around. “Kind of exactly what I imagined. Doesn’t scream ‘danger,’ so I’ll assume you don’t keep a sword under your bed.”

“I keep it in the piano bench” Sieun deadpanned.

Seongje snorted. “Makes sense.”

He was mid-scan of a small framed picture on the wall, Sieun and two others, laughing, maybe Suho and Humin, when he felt the light tug at his sleeve.

Sieun’s hand.

“Come here” he said softly.

Seongje let himself be pulled.

They walked to the bedroom together, not fast, not slow. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t shy. It was inevitable.

The room was simple, the walls pale, the bed unmade in the kind of way that made it look more real. There were books on the nightstand and a half-finished braille novel tucked beside the lamp. It wasn’t a scene built for seduction.

But it didn’t need to be.

Sieun turned towards him once they were inside. His hands found the edge of Seongje’s jacket, then slid up to his chest. Touching, feeling, locating the center of him with that quiet intimacy he always carried. His palms rested just over his heart.

“You’re really warm” he murmured.

“You’re the one wearing a sweater.”

Sieun laughed faintly, then tilted his face up. “Kiss me again.”

Seongje didn’t hesitate.

This time it was different.

Not hesitant or questioning, but starved. The kiss deepened quickly, hands moving, breath stuttering. Seongje backed him gently toward the bed, their bodies brushing, then pressing. He lifted a hand to cup Sieun’s jaw, then moved lower, thumb grazing the skin at the base of his throat.

When they broke for air, both were already breathless.

“Can I—” Seongje started, voice rough “—can I touch you more?”

Sieun nodded, voice barely audible. “Please.”

And then Seongje was kissing him again, harder this time. His hands slid beneath the edge of Sieun’s sweater, fingers brushing bare skin, hot, soft, alive. Sieun let out the faintest sound, breath catching, and Seongje felt the sound like a flame catching the edge of paper.

They moved to the bed together, unhurried but urgent. Glasses taken off. Jackets fell. Clothes shifted.

Sieun’s hands explored first, sweeping across Seongje’s back, his abs, the strong line of muscle along his arms, then up again, finally resting at the edge of his jaw. His fingers trembled only slightly as they touched the scar again, familiar now.

Seongje’s lips moved to his neck, trailing slow kisses downwards, his hands steady at Sieun’s waist.

“Tell me to stop if you want me to” Seongje murmured into his skin.

“I won’t.”

And so he didn’t.

Seongje’s fingers trembled as they traced the outline of Sieun’s torso, feeling the smooth planes beneath his skin like tracing the curve of a fragile sculpture carved by some divine hand. Every touch was electric, as if his hands had discovered something sacred, something so pure and rare it deserved worship. Sieun’s skin was soft and warm, glowing under Seongje’s fingertips like sunlit marble, with every subtle contour telling stories of quiet strength and delicate beauty.

His body was a revelation. Not just in its physical form, but in the gentle surrender it offered. The gentle swell of his chest rising and falling with each breath, the slender line of his neck that Seongje’s lips couldn’t resist following, everything about Sieun was breathtaking, a kind of celestial harmony between vulnerability and quiet resilience.

Seongje’s lips trailed from the delicate line of Sieun’s jaw down to the curve of his neck, each kiss a benediction.

Sieun’s breath caught. a small, beautiful sound that echoed through Seongje’s chest like a hymn. His hands moved along Seongje’s back, feeling the tense muscles and the strength that belied his lean frame. In contrast to Sieun’s delicate grace, Seongje’s body was raw power, coiled and ready, yet in this moment softened by the lightness of Sieun’s touch.

Sieun’s fingers traced along Seongje’s upper body, then ventured lower, fingertips trembling slightly as they explored the solid planes of muscle beneath. The contrast between their bodies, the heavenly softness of Sieun’s skin against the strength and scars of Seongje’s frame, was electric, a perfect tension of vulnerability and protection.

Seongje’s lips followed the line of Sieun’s collarbone, breathing warmth into the pale skin as their connection deepened.

Their kisses grew more urgent, the tender worship giving way to something more consuming, more desperate. Seongje’s hands moved lower, tracing the lines of Sieun’s hips and ass, feeling the subtle shiver that ran through him at every touch. Sieun’s breath hitched again, small gasps mingling with murmured names and promises.

Sieun now laid beneath him, so soft and vulnerable, his lips slightly parted, breath shaky and uneven. His eyes were dazed, glassy, as if caught somewhere between dreaming and waking. So beautiful, like a fragile spirit floating on the edge of the world.

Seongje’s lips traced slow, worshipful paths down Sieun’s chest, tenderly kissing over the fresh marks. His tongue flicked lightly along bone to the other’s nipples, sucking and savouring every inch. 

The smaller boy’s eyes widened at the sudden touch, shimmering with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. He could feel by the lower touching that they were both already very hard.

After a pause, Seongje’s voice cut through the silence, deep and cautious. “Hey….do you have condoms?”

Sieun blinked, the question catching him a little off guard. He hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “No….I don’t.”

There was a moment where the space between them thickened, the unspoken risks hanging in the air. But then Sieun’s lips curled into a small, shy smile. “But….we can keep going, I don’t mind”

The honesty in his voice, soft and sincere, pulled at something inside Seongje. He reached out and clasped Sieun’s hand, fingers tightening gently around it and giving a small peck at the palm. “Alright” he said, his voice soft but steady “I’ll be careful. We don’t have to rush anything.”

When his hands reached Sieun’s hips again, Seongje paused, Sieun nodded, his cheeks flushed but his trust absolute.

Slowly, Seongje licked one of his fingers, slid along the curve of Sieun’s body until the other’s cock still in covered by underwear, feeling the tension tighten before he eased inside with the utmost gentleness. He watched every reaction, every small intake of breath, every flutter of eyelids, and adjusted his touch accordingly.

Sieun’s body tensed, then gradually relaxed beneath him. His breath became quieter, lips parted slightly, eyes dazed but steady. Seongje’s heart hammered as he whispered against Sieun’s ear “I’ll go slow. Only as fast as you want.”

A soft, barely audible reply came “I want to….with you.”

Encouraged, Seongje took the others underwear and spat on one of his fingers. He opened Sieun’s legs and took a good look. And ‘god what a sight’ he thought. Sieun’s dick was way smaller compared to Seongje’s, but the girth and pink tip that matched his soft hole was a sight Seongje couldn’t forget. 

He then slowly added a finger, moving carefully in rhythm with Sieun’s breaths. The quiet sounds Sieun made, whispers, soft moans, tiny gasps, filled the room and wrapped around Seongje like a fragile flame.

He bent to kiss the curve of Sieun’s neck, trailing heat and reassurance over the skin. His hands steadied Sieun’s hips, grounding them both as he felt the growing need between them.

Slowly he started adding another finger, exploding Sieun’s insides like an enigma. Seongje’s fingers traced delicate circles, coaxing Sieun to relax. He slid the third finger slowly, gently inside, watching closely for any sign of discomfort. Sieun’s body tensed at first but then softened beneath him, a quiet breath escaping his lips.

Seongje’s lips hovered near Sieun’s ear as he whispered, “Are you feeling good?”

Sieun’s reply was barely audible. “Mhm— please put it in…..”

Seongje smiled against his skin, he didn’t need to hear more. He then took his fingers and heard Sieun’s gasp at the sudden emptiness.

He now took and finally touched his own cock out of his underwear, feeling the hardness and the soft twitching of anticipation. He picked one of Sieun’s soft hands to feel his. Sieun’s eyes widened and he, slowly, began to touch and move his hand on Seongje’s cock. He never felt something like this before, this size, this thickness. For a moment, he wondered if it would be ok for him to be inside of him. 

“Woah….you’re big….”
 
Seongje laughed a little and mumbled “I’ll put it now baby, is that ok?” 

He waited for Sieun’s nod and took the smaller’s hand out of his cock. He spat on it, stroked a little and when he finally pressed forward, as he felt the clinch of the other’s hole  on his member, he saw Sieun’s breath hitched, soft and trembling, lips parting in a quiet surrender.

Seongje moved slowly forward, letting his cock entering until all of it was inside.

“Baby, can I start moving?” He questioned.

Sieun’s fingers gripped on his back harder, letting his finger nails draw on Seongje’s body. His head tilting, eyes closed, but he was able to give a slight nod.

Seongje didn’t wait and started moving slowly, his mind on how tight and amazing Sieun’s insides felt. They moved together slowly, the world narrowing to the warmth of skin, the sound of their breaths, groans, and the fragile trust binding them close.

“Seongje— please” Sieun whimpered on the others ear.

Seongje moved forward with deliberate slowness, hands steadying Sieun’s hips, guiding him with something that looked like patience but was really control wrapped in care.

“What baby? Tell me—“ he questioned.

As Sieun prepared to respond, he felt Seongje hit a specific point, he couldn’t control himself and let out a loud and desperate moan.

“ANH— fuck— yes.…there—“

“Is it here baby? Can I go faster?” Seongje asked and as he felt Sieun’s clench and small nod on his shoulder, he accelerated. Rougher. Now desperate for each other’s body.

Sieun’s breath caught, shaky, lips parted in quiet surrender.

Seongje paused, heart pounding, watching the way Sieun’s body opened beneath him like a fragile flower unfurling in the sun.

He leaned down, mouth brushing the side of Sieun’s face, whispering like a prayer meant only for him.

“I love you Sieun, I love you so much….fuck—“

And then he continued moving, faster, more claiming, full of a fire deeper than lust, twisted and raw as love itself. Sieun’s breath hitched, body arching to accept the ache blooming inside him, the electric pulse running through their veins.

“Fuck— fuck….Seongje, please—” Sieun’s voice trembled, almost a plea.

“Huh? I can’t understand you Sieun-ah” Seongje laughed.

“Please—please, Seongje….I love you too—”

That was enough.

Seongje’s thrusts grew completely ruthless, his movements driving deeper into the place where pleasure and pain tangled. Sieun’s moans and pleads filled the air, trembling on the edge of climax, especially when Seongje started to stroke his forgotten cock.

The intimacy wrapped around them like a cocoon, shielding them from the outside world.

Seongje leaned down, pressing his forehead to Sieun’s, eyes shining with a fierce tenderness. “You’re my everything,” he murmured. “Only mine.”

Sieun smiled through his breathless haze, fingers threading through Seongje’s hair, pulling him closer.

The fast crescendo continued, their bodies moving together with increasing urgency but never losing the careful respect and love threading every touch.

When both of them finally reached their limit, Seongje kissed Sieun fiercely, muffling their shared release, their breaths mingling in a tangle of heat and devotion.

As they settled, Seongje rolled off slowly, careful to stay close, wrapping an arm around Sieun’s waist and pulling him into a warm, protective embrace.

Sieun’s head rested against Seongje’s chest, the steady beat of his heart a soothing rhythm in the quiet aftermath.

In the stillness, their fingers intertwined, holding onto the fragile new bond forged in patience, trust, and something far more profound than mere passion.

The air in Sieun’s small apartment hung heavy with the lingering warmth of the shower’s steam, a gentle veil that blurred the edges of the world beyond those walls. 

Seongje led Sieun by the hand, the touch familiar and grounding, as if anchoring himself to the fragile peace they had just carved out together. The bathroom was modest, white walls, no mirror, a single light bulb casting a warm, intimate glow. Water ran softly from the showerhead, the sound like a steady heartbeat, steady and reassuring.

Seongje’s hands were careful, almost reverent, as he helped Sieun wash himself. Each movement was careful, slow, as if afraid to disturb the fragile bubble they inhabited. His lips found the skin of the back of his neck, then tenderly tracing the line of Sieun’s jaw, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the nape of his neck. 

There was a quiet poetry in those moments, a silent ode to vulnerability and trust. Sieun’s breath hitched slightly, his lashes fluttering closed, surrendering to the sensation without hesitation. The water splashed against their bodies, warm and enveloping, cascading like a blessing over every curve and contour.

Seongje’s kisses traveled down, following the gentle slope of Sieun’s collarbone, trailing across his chest with an almost worshipful attention. Each kiss was a soft question, a silent promise. His hands roamed reverently, never rushed, as if memorizing the map of Sieun’s skin. The room seemed to shrink, the world outside dissolving into a blur of steam and murmured breaths. Time stretched, suspended in the intimate gravity of their connection.

Seongje’s hand pressed gently against the warm tile as the water cascaded over them, steam swirling around their bodies like a quiet veil. He leaned closer to Sieun, his breath mingling with the mist.

“You know” Seongje murmured, voice teasing “you’re my boyfriend now.”

Sieun blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little startled, water dripping down his cheeks. “Boyfriend? Since when?”

Seongje smirked, tracing a finger along Sieun’s jawline, careful and slow. “Since I said so. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

Sieun’s lips twitched into a small amused smile “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“Doesn’t matter” Seongje said with mock seriousness, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “I’m claiming the title. So get used to it.”

Sieun laughed softly, the sound mixing with the rush of water. “Well, I guess I can live with that….boyfriend.”

Seongje grinned, pressing a warm kiss to Sieun’s temple. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”

When at last they stepped out, wrapped in towels, the soft fabric clinging to Sieun’s watery skin, there was an unspoken acknowledgment between them, something fragile and precious held in the space between their breaths. Back in the quiet sanctuary of Sieun’s bedroom, Seongje pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead, a gentle benediction.

But peace, as always, proved fleeting.

Seongje’s phone vibrated sharply on the bedside table, slicing through the quiet like a knife. The screen lit up, casting a cold, blue glow that fractured the warm ambiance. 

Dongha calling

A name heavy with memories and unspoken threats. Seongje’s jaw tightened, the soft ease in his posture stiffening almost imperceptibly. He glanced towards Sieun, still lost in the softness of sleep, innocent and untouched by the weight pressing down on Seongje’s shoulders.

With a quiet apology swallowed in the dark, Seongje slipped from the room, careful not to wake him. The living room awaited, barely lit by the distant light outside. 

His fingers hovered over the phone for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he answered, voice was low, steady but heavy with the weight of years lived on the edge of something darker.

“Yeah” he said, voice careful, measured.

On the other end, the line crackled faintly, and Dongha’s tone was urgent, sharp with the edge of old loyalties and long-held grudges.

“Seongje, listen. Baekjin’s gone, but the Union isn’t dead. The other gangs are moving fast, trying to take what we left behind. We need someone to step up. Someone who’s got the guts, the respect. You’re the only one who can keep the pieces together, keep the Union alive, for revenge, for power.”

Seongje closed his eyes for a moment, the sounds of Sieun breathing softly in the other room threading through his mind. The school, the kids, the fragile calm he’d found, and Sieun, his now boyfriend, with his quiet strength, his light in the darkness.

“I’m not fucking Baekjin Na” Seongje said firmly. “And I’m not interested in revenge. I’m done with that shit. You want the Union? Find someone else.”

Dongha’s sigh was heavy, almost a growl of frustration. “You think you can just walk away? You think they’ll let you? The other gangs won’t stop. Without you, it all falls apart. You’re not some charity worker, this is our blood, our family.”

Seongje shook his head slowly, the resolve hardening. “I’m not part of that family anymore. I’m with something different now. Something that means more than violence or power.”

“Like that school? That blind kid? Don’t you think everyone already knows the fake sweet life you’re living now? You really think you can outrun who you are?” Dongha’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

Seongje’s grip on the phone tightened, but he stayed calm. “I’m not fucking running. I just don’t want to be involved with Union shit anymore.”

There was silence, heavy and tense.

Finally, Dongha said “Think hard, Wolf. The rest of The Union will come for you if you don’t take your place.”

Seongje’s answer was quiet, but absolute. “Then I’ll face that when it comes.”

He hung up, the line going dead, and the apartment felt suddenly colder.

Back in his bed, Sieun shifted beneath the covers, his face peaceful, murmuring softly in his sleep. Oblivious to the storm gathering just beyond the door, a fragile hope glimmered in the quiet night, something almost like safety, almost like belonging.

And for a moment, in that fleeting stillness, it felt like enough.

The weeks slipped by like soft whispers on a gentle breeze, each day folding into the next with a quiet kind of grace. The storm that had once raged in Seongje’s life gradually gave way to calm, to something steadier and softer than he had dared to imagine. The school, once a place of shadows and tentative hope, became an official sanctuary, not just for the children Sieun cared for so deeply, but for Seongje himself. He found himself there more and more, lending strength where he could, his presence a silent promise that this place, this fragile world, was worth protecting.

Their lives began to intertwine like the slow, deliberate weaving of a tapestry, threads once rough and unruly now drawn close together with care. Nights spent in quiet companionship at one another’s homes, mornings broken with whispered words and shared smiles. Seongje’s tough personality softened beneath Sieun’s steady and calm light, Sieun found in Seongje’s heartbeat a new rhythm to his own.

Two months had passed since their first night, that first time when everything had shifted between them. Now, here in the classroom, bright with morning light filtering through dusty windows, Seongje sat quietly beside Sieun, listening. The notes floated from Sieun’s fingers like a gentle wind, the song the very first piece that Seongje had heard him play. It was simple, pure, an echo of beginnings, of hope.

Seongje’s gaze lingered on Sieun’s focused face, the way his eyes closed as if to better feel the music, the way his fingers danced delicately across the keys. This was more than music,it was a language between them, a bond that needed no words. Sitting beside him, Seongje felt something unfold deep inside him, something young and unburdened, something tender and fiercely alive.
 
In that quiet moment, surrounded by melody and light, their journey felt less like survival and more like blossoming. 

A pure, unspoken promise held between two souls learning to trust, to heal, and to simply be. 

The late afternoon sun stretched its golden over the small schoolyard, painting the worn pavement in warm hues that softened the edges of the day. 

Seongje moved through the scattered groups of children with steady, practiced care. Each child clutched a small bag or clung briefly to a volunteer’s hand before being handed over to a waiting relative or social worker. Names were called softly, backpacks zipped shut, and gentle goodbyes floated through the air like fragile echoes of hope.

He guided the youngest ones, their steps hesitant, eyes bright but unsure, toward the waiting arms of familiar adults. The older kids lingered just a little longer, reluctant to leave the safety of the school’s worn walls. Seongje’s voice was calm and warm, his presence quietly reassuring, as he helped them gather their scattered belongings and led them out into the fading light.

The school buzzed with life during the day, but now, as each child was claimed, the building seemed to breathe a slow, reluctant sigh. Chairs were pushed under tables, books stacked neatly on desks, and the playground emptied of laughter and running feet. The corridors, once filled with voices and footsteps, grew still, holding their breath in the quiet.

Seongje paused near the door after the last child had gone, his eyes sweeping over the empty yard bathed in soft twilight. The silence wrapped around him like a fragile veil, heavy with the weight of endings and the promise of what was to come. His hands, usually so steady and sure, trembled just slightly as he ran a hand through his hair, thoughts swirling with everything he had come to care for in this place, the kids, the school, Sieun.

As he stepped back inside, the dim glow from the hallway cast long shadows on the walls, stretching toward him like silent witnesses. And there, standing quietly at the threshold, was Sieun. His figure was still, framed in the doorway by the soft light spilling from the corridor behind him. His eyes, wondering and never still, met Seongje’s, just for a second, but Seongje felt like it was the best second in his entire life.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to slow, the weight of the day settling between them in a delicate balance. Seongje’s chest tightened, the past’s harsh memories pressing alongside the fragile hope that had grown with Sieun by his side. 

The years of pain, violence, and loneliness felt distant here, softened by the presence of someone who saw him, not just the thug, not just the broken pieces, but the man he was becoming.

Sieun’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile, the kind that reached his eyes and touched something deep inside Seongje’s guarded heart. Without a word, he took a step forward, the quiet space between them shrinking until it felt like the whole world.

Seongje felt the weight of the moment, the fragile promise of safety, of belonging, of something pure and real. He reached out slowly, his fingers brushing against Sieun’s hand, grounding himself in the touch, in the certainty that despite everything, they had found a place to stand together.

And in that simple, silent connection, there was a quiet vow, no matter what storms would come, they would face them side by side. The day’s last light faded fully, but inside, something gentle and fierce burned steady, a fragile hope held tight in the space between two souls who had finally found each other.

The corridors are empty now, too quiet, the kind of silence that scrapes at the skin, raw and unforgiving. The faint hum of the ventilation system is the only sound left, cold and mechanical, echoing off the bare walls. 

Seongje now sits on the floor, back pressed against the unforgiving concrete, the chill seeping through his clothes and crawling into his bones, as he waits for Sieun who was now tuning the classroom’s piano. His phone rests limply in his hand, the screen dark like the weight settling in his chest.

His eyes, bloodshot and dry, stare blankly ahead. They don’t blink. They don’t see. The stillness wraps around him, heavy and suffocating.

Then, a buzz.

The phone screen suddenly flares to life, the harsh glow breaking the oppressive darkness of the hallway. An unknown number. No name. Just digits, cold and jagged, like broken glass lying in wait. Seongje’s fingers twitch but hesitate. His breath hitches. With a quiet resolve, he swipes to answer.

There is no greeting.

Only a voice, cutting through the silence like shattered glass underwater, fragile, yet dangerous.

“If you care about the ones who went to the orphanage” the voice says, unfamiliar and urgent, “you’ll come to the road. Now. Or they won’t see morning.”

A silence stretches, suffocating. Seongje’s breath catches in his throat, sharp and ragged. His chest tightens as the words claw inside him.

“And don’t bring anyone. Or they die screaming.”

The line goes dead.

Seongje doesn’t speak. There’s no need. The threat lingers, hanging thick between heartbeats.

He rises fast. No tremor in his limbs, no falter in his steps. Death in his bones, fire in his eyes. The weight of countless past battles sharpens his focus.

He moves like an animal, slipping through the empty halls, past darkened classrooms and locked doors, his footsteps swallowed by the night.

He pushes open the heavy door, stepping out into the cold embrace of the night. The wind is biting, a whispered menace that coils around his neck and shoulders, like the breath of ghosts rising to claim him. The moon is a pale witness, cold and distant.

Ahead, the road stretches, black and unforgiving.

And somewhere in the shadows, those children, his responsibility, his fragile hope, wait on the knife’s edge of danger.

Seongje’s jaw tightens. This is no longer about himself. It never was.

He’s the storm now.

And tonight, he will be their reckoning.

The road lies silent, swallowed by the thick fog that coils like smoke, wrapping the night in a suffocating embrace. For a heartbeat, it seems empty,too empty, like the calm before a disaster. But then, shapes begin to emerge, faint and shifting in the gray mist. Figures lean from the shadows, their movements slow but deliberate, like jackals circling prey, eyes glinting with cruel intent.

Seongje’s breath catches, but he does not hesitate. There’s no time for fear, no space for hesitation. His body moves on instinct alone, honed by years of violence and survival. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t warn. He takes off his glasses, his hands curl into fists, his muscles coil, and then he strikes.

The first blow lands hard, knuckles smashing against bone with a sickening crack. A man staggers backward, clutching his face where a tooth has shattered beneath Seongje’s boot. The air fills with guttural snarls, curses spat through broken lips, the raw sound of a fight waged at the edge of humanity.

Seongje is a storm. His fists hammer ribs, shatter cheekbones, his legs sweep and kick with brutal precision. The sharp, cold taste of adrenaline floods his veins as he fights, not for himself, but for those who cannot fight. The children. The innocents caught in this war he’s tried to escape but who keep pulling him back.

Amid the chaos, a sudden, searing pain cuts through his arm. Sharp and unforgiving, the knife sinks deep, slicing muscle and drawing blood hot and sticky against his skin. He gasps, a raw, guttural sound that is more animal than man. Blood wells, warm and insistent, but it fuels his rage rather than slows it. His grip tightens, his strikes grow more furious, every blow a silent promise ‘no one hurts the ones he cares about.’

The fight blurs into a whirlwind of fists, blood, grunts, and harsh breaths. Limbs flail and fall, bodies crumple and groan. The cold night air tastes metallic with blood, his, theirs, all mingling in the dirt and fog.

Finally, the last attacker lies broken, silence settling like a shroud over the bloodstained road.

Seongje stands, chest heaving, every nerve aflame, the pain in his arm a dull roar beneath the pounding of his heart.

He doesn’t stay. He can’t. There’s no triumph in this. Only survival.

Without a backward glance, he turns away from the carnage, blood dripping from torn skin and stained fists, and runs.

Runs back to the fragile sanctuary of the school, back to the soft glow of Sieun’s room, back to a world he’s desperate to protect but knows is slipping further from his grasp.

The sky is red.

Not the gentle red of dusk, not the poetic bloom of sunset skies, but the raw, blistering red of catastrophe. Of warning. The kind of red that paints myth into reality, the red that once marked plagues, wars, gods angry enough to crack the earth open.

Above, smoke coils thick and black into the heavens, veiling the stars in a funeral shroud. The flames rise like unholy spires, licking the night with tongues of something almost divine, if divinity were cruel. The school, their school, is on fire.

People scream. The air is fractured with sound, someone sobbing uncontrollably, a child calling for a friend, a phone ringing unanswered, someone filming, always someone filming, framing ruin like it’s entertainment. Others try to help, dragging hoses from too far away, shouting for the fire department. But it all blends into static.

Because Seongje is thinking only one thing.

Only one name.

Sieun.

He doesn’t hesitate. There’s no time for logic, no room for caution.

He runs.

Straight into the inferno.

The moment he breaches the doorway, the fire meets him like a living thing, roaring, greedy, searing against his skin like breath from some ancient beast. The heat punches into his lungs, claws down his throat. It steals oxygen like a jealous lover.

The familiar walls of the school are almost unrecognizable, cracked, blistering, bleeding light. The wood groans under pressure. The ceiling drips hot ash like rain, embers floating down in mocking silence. A hallway collapses behind him. Still, he moves.

His arm is still bleeding from the fight earlier, but the fresh heat sears through the blood, through skin, through bone. He is burning, inside and out. The wound on his side has opened even more, he doesn’t care. His legs are shaking, his chest heaving, his eyes watering from the smoke and the panic and the grief.

But he does not stop.

Because Sieun is somewhere in here. He has to be.

Each step is a prayer. Not to any god Seongje ever believed in, he stopped praying long ago. These are the prayers that come from the body itself. Prayers of instinct. Prayers screamed silently through marrow and heartbeat. Prayers like ‘please let me find him. Please let him still be breathing.’

He stumbles past what was once the art room, now collapsed inwards like a burned lung. Through a hallway full of flames curling around the windows like fingers. Past a melting bookshelf where they used to read with the kids after snack time. All of it gone.

But he keeps moving.

He has to. Because somewhere above this collapsing world, somewhere past the howling fire and creaking timber, Sieun is waiting.

And Seongje would walk through the gates of hell ten thousand times over if it meant he could reach him.

Even if it’s already too late.

Upstairs, past crumbling stairwells and beams that hang like broken ribs, through hallways warping in heat, there is a room half-devoured by flame and shadow. And in it, a boy sits at a piano.

The paint is blistered. The keys are scorched. The floor groans beneath the weight of fire licking through the foundation, but still, he plays.

Sieun’s fingers are raw, the skin at the tips cracked and peeling. Blood streaks down the keys like a quiet kind of hopeless grief. His back is straight, composed in silhouette against the inferno outside the shattered windows. But his shoulders tremble. Each note he presses sounds like it’s fighting to exist, a trembling defiance in the face of collapse.

He plays not because it will stop the fire, but because it is the only thing that has not been taken from him.

This isn’t music anymore, it’s self-sacrifice. A hymn offered to whatever god still listens, a requiem for a building full of memories that won’t survive the hour. Notes rise in fits and fragments, curling upward like smoke, like prayer. The melody is cracked, uneven. A lullaby for the dead.

He cannot see the flames as they consume the ceiling above him. But he can hear them.

And still, he plays.

Until— a sound.
It breaks the rhythm. Doesn’t belong to fire.

Footsteps.

Not the confident stride of a rescuer. Not the chaos of someone escaping.
But dragging, labored, every step a burden. Like bones refusing to give, like death being pushed back by will alone.

Sieun stops playing.

A beat. Then—“.…Seongje?”

His voice is a whisper, nearly lost beneath the roar of collapse.

And then, from the smoke, he appears.

Seongje stumbles through the doorframe, his eyes wild, his chest heaving, blood trailing from his mouth. His shirt is half-burned. His arms are blistered. His legs, trembling. One knee buckles, and he falls before Sieun like a man falling to his knees at an altar.

And maybe he is.
Maybe this is worship.

“I’d never left” Seongje whispers, voice frayed to ribbons. “I would never left you.”

Sieun doesn’t speak, not at first. Instead, he moves forward through the dark, finding his way by instinct. His arms wrap around Seongje’s crumbling frame, his cheek presses into his shoulder, and their foreheads touch in the thick heat of the end.

“I can hear your heartbeat” Sieun says.

Seongje breathes once, like it hurts. “It’s yours.”

And then— they kiss.

Not like lovers beneath cherry blossoms. Not like two boys in the hush of new affection.
But like the sea kissing the sand before it pulls everything away.
A kiss that is surrender. That is remembrance. That is holy.

Sieun’s tears mix with the blood on Seongje’s lips. Their breath comes shallow now, smoke tightening in their chests. Seongje cups Sieun’s face with shaking hands, gentle as ash falls around them like snow.

The room groans. The ceiling fractures. The piano collapses in on itself with a dying wail.

“I love you….” Sieun says.
It’s barely more than breath. But it’s all he has left.

“I love you.” Seongje replies.
And the words taste like goodbye.

Sieun exhales, once. Softly.

And does not breathe again.

His head rests against Seongje’s chest, weightless in death. Still. So terribly still.

Seongje doesn’t cry.

He just leans forward, arms wrapped tightly around the boy who saved him, rocking gently in the smoke, like he can lull him back to life.

Like a prayer.

Like a lullaby he refuses to stop singing.

He presses one last kiss to Sieun’s head, tender, reverent. Like sealing something sacred.

The flames are closing now. The roof groans like the world is ending.

And Seongje closes his eyes.

Still holding him.

Still whispering that same broken refrain into the dark, 

“I love you, forever”

Hours later, when the flames have surrendered to exhaustion and the sky is washed in gray, the firemen sift through the ruins.

Ash drifts like snow over the wreckage, soft, deceptive, disguising the violence of what came before. Walls are gone. The roof has collapsed inward, devoured by flame. There is no more color. No more warmth. Only the quiet, smoldering aftermath of something sacred turned to ruin.

They find no bodies.

No limbs curled in final gestures. No silhouettes frozen in surrender. Just cinders. Just soot.

And one thing more.

A piano.

Or rather, what remains of it. Its wood blackened, its frame a melted cage. The keys, once ivory and full of light, are warped beyond sound. Bent and curled, like they tried to scream before the heat stole their voice. The seat is burned away, but the floor beneath it is marked, like someone sat there too long, refusing to move, even as the world ended around them.

The firefighters move past it. They speak in hushed voices, too tired to question what’s already gone.

But those who live nearby, those who walk past the rubble after dark, tell stories.

Whispers.

That if you stand very still, on a quiet night, when the wind is low and the sky forgets to breathe—

you can hear music.

Not loud. Not whole. But something soft, faint, almost lost.

Like a song still being played by hands no longer there.

Like a promise.

Like someone’s playing for someone they never stopped loving.

Once, not long before the fire, when the world was quiet and ordinary, when love still fit into afternoons and laughter still echoed off the classroom walls, Seongje had said something that Sieun never forgot.

They had been lying together on the couch in Sieun’s apartment, the window cracked open just enough to let in the sound of distant birdsong. Sieun’s head rested on Seongje’s chest, his hand trailing over the faded scar along his cheek. His blind eyes were closed, but his expression was open, softer than it usually dared to be.

“Do you think” he had asked quietly, “that in another life….we would’ve met anyway?”

Seongje blinked slowly, arms tightening around him.

“We did” he said.

Sieun tilted his head, amused. “You sound so sure.”

Seongje kissed the top of his hair. “Because if souls are real, if we’re anything more than flesh and blood….then I’ve known you before. I know your voice. I know your hands.”

Sieun chuckled under his breath. “That’s so romantic.”

“Maybe” Seongje admitted. “But I’ll still find you. No matter how many lives I have to crawl through. Even if I had to be born a monster every time, I’d look for you.”

Sieun didn’t answer for a while. Just smiled faintly, as if holding something too beautiful in his mouth.

“Then I guess I’ll wait for you.”

And now—
after.

After the smoke has faded and the last embers have died. After headlines have run their course and silence has taken root again.

The culprits were caught. Every last one. Witnesses spoke, evidence was found, and justice, slow and imperfect, was served. They went to prison not for what they took, but for who they tried to destroy.

And the community, broken but breathing, rebuilt.

The school was raised again from the ash, room by room, brick by brick, held together not just by hands, but by memory. By mourning. By love.

In the front hall, there is a mural. It stretches high on the east wall, painted in soft golds and muted blues. Two boys sit side by side, one smiling, one listening, beneath a tree full of musical notes.

In the music classroom, beside a restored upright piano, hangs a frame. A braille music sheet. The very one Sieun had composed. His fingers had bled through those notes. His heart had sung them to Seongje.

No plaque explains the story. There doesn’t need to be one.

Because every child who enters that room feels it, that ache in the walls, that warmth in the air.

And sometimes, in the late afternoons, when the light hits just right, the braille dots seem to shimmer.

As if someone’s still playing them.

As if someone never stopped listening.

Love like theirs doesn’t burn away. It becomes the fire that rebuilds.