Beom Seok was rhythmically scrubbing a robe against the washboard when he saw Taekyun approach, a bundle of his own dirty clothes held awkwardly in his arms. A slow, predatory smirk spread across Beom Seok's face.
"Well, well. Look who they sent to help," he sneered. "Don't tell me you got lost on the way to the kitchen, too."
Before Taekyun could retort, Beom Seok dropped the robe back into the soapy water and stood up. "Wait here. I'll get you something... more suitable."
He hurried inside and returned moments later, his arms piled high with heavy, dusty curtains and a thick stack of bed sheets. With a grunt, he dumped the entire load unceremoniously at Taekyun's feet, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
"Here," Beom Seok said, brushing his hands off with a satisfied look. "You can handle these. They're easy. Just soak and scrub. I'll take care of the clothes." He then reached over and snatched the bundle of Taekyun's own clothes from his arms. "I'll even be nice and wash these for you."
A flicker of confusion crossed Taekyun's face. The pile of curtains and sheets looked significantly smaller and simpler than the large basket of robes and tunics Beom Seok was now tackling. For a brief, foolish moment, he thought Beom Seok was actually cutting him a break.
"Fine," Taekyun said, his voice tight.
Beom Seok's smirk widened as he turned back to his own work, humming a mocking little tune.
Taekyun hauled the curtains and sheets over to an empty washtub and turned on the water. He picked up the first curtain, a thick, velvet drape meant for the shrine's main hall. Dry, it was manageable. The moment it hit the water, it transformed. It became a sopping, dead weight, impossibly heavy and unwieldy. He struggled to lift it, his muscles straining. The waterlogged fabric sucked up the soapy water, becoming even heavier.
A grunt of effort escaped him. He tried to scrub it against the washboard, but the thick material just slid uselessly against the ridges.
From the other tub, Beom Seok chuckled, not even looking up as he easily scrubbed a light linen shirt. "Having trouble, Your Highness? I thought curtains were easy."
Taekyun's knuckles were white where he gripped the sopping velvet. He glanced over at Beom Seok's basket. The clothes, while numerous, were all made of light, manageable fabrics. He had been completely duped. Beom Seok had given him the single most back-breaking, time-consuming task possible, all while making it look like a favor.
"The weight..." Taekyun muttered, more to himself than anyone.
Beom Seok finally looked over, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "Oh? Are they a bit heavy? My mistake. I forgot someone like you isn't used to real work." He wrung out his shirt with a sharp, efficient twist. "Don't worry. Take your time. I'm sure you'll get the hang of it... by sunset."
Taekyun stared down at the waterlogged monstrosity in his hands, then at the enormous pile still waiting. He had been outmaneuvered by a piece of interior decorating. Jaw clenched in frustration and his back already beginning to ache, he resigned himself to a long, humiliating morning, the sound of Beom Seok's mocking hum a constant soundtrack to his suffering.
The morning tea with Master Hwang was a serene affair, a calm that Rinwoo hadn't felt in a long time. But a small, persistent thought kept nagging at him, disrupting the peace. He hadn't seen Taekyun. Not a glimpse, not a sound. It was unusual, and despite his anger and resolve, a thread of curiosity—and perhaps a flicker of concern—pulled at him.
He took a sip of tea, hesitating. "Grandfather..." he started, then quickly changed tack. "The tea is very good today."
He tried again a moment later. "The weather seems... clear."
Master Hwang watched him over the rim of his own cup, his ancient eyes seeing right through the flimsy attempts. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. He decided to put the boy out of his misery.
"You're wondering about Taekyun," Master Hwang stated calmly, setting his cup down.
Rinwoo froze, the teacup halfway to his lips. He slowly placed it back on the table, unable to deny it.
"He is outside," Master Hwang continued, his tone conversational. "In the back yard. Beom Seok has him helping with the laundry."
The words were so mundane, yet so utterly unbelievable, that Rinwoo could only stare. Lee Taekyun? Doing laundry? The image was so absurd it was almost comical. The man who had servants for everything, who had never so much as picked up his own socks, was now hunched over a washtub?
A strange, almost uncontrollable urge seized Rinwoo. He had to see this for himself.
He quickly stood up, a slightly forced smile on his face. "Ah, Grandfather, it's almost time for your medicine. Let me go and get it for you."
It was a flimsy excuse—Master Hwang's medicine wasn't due for another hour—but the old monk simply nodded, his smile deepening. "Of course, my boy. Take your time."
Rinwoo practically fled the room, his heart beating a little faster than usual. He didn't head for the medicine cabinet. Instead, he moved quietly toward the back of the shrine, drawn by an irresistible need to witness the impossible spectacle of his estranged husband, the mighty Lee Taekyun, being defeated by a basket of dirty clothes.
From the shadow of a wooden pillar, Rinwoo watched the scene unfold in the sun-drenched yard. The sight was so surreal it felt like a dream. There was Lee Taekyun, heir to an empire, kneeling on the hard ground. His expensive trousers were soaked, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms straining against the weight of a waterlogged velvet curtain. His movements were clumsy and inefficient, his face a mask of intense, frustrated concentration as he fought a losing battle against the heavy fabric.
A soft, involuntary chuckle escaped Rinwoo's lips. It was a strange sound, one he hadn't heard from himself in a long time. The sheer absurdity of it was genuinely funny.
But the chuckle quickly died away, replaced by a wave of profound surprise. He had been certain. He had bet everything on the fact that a man like Taekyun, coddled by luxury his entire life, would never last more than a day in this harsh, simple world. He expected him to flee back to his penthouse and his company at the first sign of real hardship.
Yet, here he was. Not just staying, but kneeling in the dirt, doing a servant's work, and stubbornly refusing to be defeated by a curtain. He wasn't just here to apologize; he was here to endure. The realization sent an unexpected, unwelcome warmth spreading through Rinwoo's chest.
Immediately, he felt a surge of self-directed anger. No. Don't you dare.
He raised his hand and slapped his own cheek lightly, the sting a sharp, necessary reminder.
"Stay firm," he whispered to himself, his voice a harsh command in the quiet. "He's just doing this to manipulate you. He hasn't changed. He can't change."
He tore his gaze away from the struggling figure in the yard, forcing his feet to carry him back inside, away from the confusing spectacle. But the image was already seared into his mind: Taekyun, drenched and determined, a king humbled not by an army, but by a piece of cloth. And despite his best efforts, the ice around Rinwoo's heart had developed a hairline crack.
Rinwoo hurried away from the distracting scene in the yard, his mind a whirlwind. He needed to focus on his task—getting Master Hwang's medicine. As he moved down the hallway, a sliver of light from a usually closed door caught his eye. Curiosity, a feeling he'd long suppressed, prickled at him. He slowed his steps and peered inside.
It was a small, serene room, sparsely furnished but immaculately clean. And there, hanging on the far wall, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
It was a light orange kimono, the color of a soft sunrise. Delicate golden threads were embroidered across the fabric in an intricate pattern of cranes and clouds, shimmering even in the dim light. It seemed to hold a quiet, sacred energy. Drawn by an force he didn't understand, Rinwoo stepped fully into the room. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the silken fabric. It was softer than anything he had ever felt.
He was so lost in the moment, in the strange, comforting feeling the kimono evoked, that he didn't hear the soft footsteps approaching.
"Rinwoo."
The sound of his name, spoken so suddenly, made him flinch violently. The medicine box he was holding slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly onto the wooden floor, its contents scattering.
He spun around, his face pale with panic. "Grandfather! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to! The door was open, I was just... I was curious. I shouldn't have come in. I'm sorry!" he stammered, rushing to pick up the spilled medicine, his movements frantic with guilt.
Master Hwang stood in the doorway, his expression not one of anger, but of a deep, gentle sadness. He waved a dismissive hand. "It's okay, Rinwoo. It's alright."
He walked fully into the room, his gaze settling on the kimono with a profound tenderness. He was silent for a long moment, the only sound Rinwoo's hurried breaths as he gathered the bottles.
"Rinwoo," Master Hwang said again, his voice soft. He gestured toward the beautiful garment. "That... that was your mother's kimono."
The words landed not as a sound, but as a physical feeling, a deep resonance in Rinwoo's very soul. His hands stilled. He slowly looked up from the floor, his eyes wide, moving from his grandfather's sorrowful face back to the exquisite, sunrise-colored silk. His mother.
Master Hwang moved to stand beside Rinwoo, his gaze also fixed on the beautiful garment. The air in the room grew heavy with memory.
"My wife brought that back from Japan, a long time ago," the old monk began, his voice a soft, nostalgic murmur. "She always dreamed of seeing our daughter in it. She said the color would make her glow." He reached out, his aged fingers not touching the fabric, but hovering near it with a reverent tenderness. "It was meant for her wedding day. But... she ran away with your father before that day ever came. My wife never got to see her in it."
Rinwoo's vision blurred with tears. He gently creased the silken sleeve between his fingers, the material impossibly soft. A bittersweet smile touched his lips.
"It's beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. In his mind's eye, he tried to superimpose the vibrant, sunrise orange onto the only image he had of his mother: a faded memory of a woman in drab, colorless maid's clothing, her shoulders perpetually slumped with weariness, serving in the Lee estate. The two images refused to merge. This kimono belonged to a different person, a vibrant young woman full of hope, a woman he had never known.
He quickly wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, trying to compose himself.
Then, to his utter astonishment, Master Hwang reached up and carefully lifted the kimono from its hook on the wall. The delicate fabric whispered as it was moved.
Rinwoo's eyes widened. "Grandfather, what are you—"
"Here," Master Hwang said, his voice firm yet gentle as he turned and held the kimono out to Rinwoo. "You should have this."
Rinwoo stumbled back a step, his hands flying up in refusal. "No! I can't! This is... this is too precious. I shouldn't."
"Take it," Master Hwang insisted, pushing it gently into his arms. The weight of the silk and the history it carried was immense. The old man looked into Rinwoo's tear-filled eyes, a sad, knowing smile on his face. "You have her eyes. The same shape, the same light in them. I'm sure it would have looked beautiful on her... and I am certain it will look just as beautiful on you."
Before Rinwoo could form another protest, Master Hwang gave a soft, final nod and turned away. "Ah, I almost forgot. Some villagers down the mountain asked me to visit them today. I should be going."
And with that, he left the room, leaving Rinwoo standing alone, clutching his mother's unworn wedding kimono. He was holding a ghost, a dream, a life that could have been, all folded into a bundle of sunrise-orange silk in his trembling arms. The gift felt less like an object and more like a key, unlocking a door to a part of his identity he had never been allowed to touch.
The sleek black car glided away from the Lee estate, the silence inside it heavier than any traffic noise. Eunjae sat stiffly in the passenger seat, staring out the window without seeing the passing city. His head was a chaotic echo chamber, replaying Daon's devastating proposal on a loop. 'You could date someone else…'
Daon, his hands perfectly positioned at ten and two on the steering wheel, broke the silence. His voice was carefully neutral, the voice he used for business meetings.
"Let's just forget everything that happened this morning, Eunjae," he said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "We need to focus on Taemin's wedding. We're going to the tailor. We need to be… presentable."
Forget. The word was a spark on dry tinder. Eunjae slowly turned his head from the window, his eyes, usually so expressive, now flat and cold.
"Forget?" Eunjae repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. "Forget that you offered to pimp me out to make yourself feel less guilty? Is that what we're supposed to just 'forget,' Daon?"
Daon's jaw tightened. "That is not what I meant, and you know it. I was trying to find a solution—"
"A solution?" Eunjae let out a sharp, brittle laugh. "To what? The 'problem' of me loving you too much? The 'problem' of me wanting a real husband and not a… a business partner who shares my bed?"
"Eunjae, lower your voice," Daon said, a flicker of unease crossing his face as he glanced in the rearview mirror.
"Why? Are you afraid others will hear? Afraid people will find out that the perfect Lee Daon has a husband he doesn't know how to love?" Eunjae's voice was rising, fueled by a week's worth of pain and frustration. "You can't just sweep this under the rug with a shopping trip, Daon! You can't tell me to 'move on' from you telling me to go find love elsewhere!"
"What do you want from me?" Daon finally snapped, his composure cracking. "I apologized! I held you! What more do you want?"
"I WANT YOU TO FIGHT FOR ME!" Eunjae shouted, the words tearing out of him. "Just once! I want you to look at me and feel even a fraction of the panic I felt this morning! I want you to feel jealous at the mere thought of me with someone else! I want you to be messy and irrational and human, Daon, not this… this robot who sees my heart as a logistical issue to be solved!"
The car fell into a thick, suffocating silence. Daon stared straight ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, completely unable to formulate a response to Eunjae's raw, emotional plea. He had no framework for that kind of passion. Eunjae turned back to the window, the hope in his heart finally, completely extinguished. They spent the rest of the drive to the tailor in a silence that screamed louder than any argument.
Daon's hands, which had been gripping the steering wheel, came up to gently grasp Eunjae's shoulders. "Eunjae, please, I'm sorry. Just calm down. Let's talk about this rationally—"
"Stop the car." Eunjae's voice was a low, trembling command, cutting him off.
Daon hesitated for only a second before his instincts took over. He signaled and pulled the luxury sedan to a smooth stop on the deserted shoulder of the road. The engine idled softly. "Eunjae, what are you—?"
He never finished the question. In one swift, desperate motion, Eunjae unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed the front of Daon's perfectly pressed shirt, and pulled him across the center console, crushing their lips together.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was firm, angry, and full of a raw, aching need. It was a kiss meant to shatter Daon's icy composure, to force a reaction.
Daon froze for a moment, stunned by the suddenness and the force of it. But then, something primal broke through. His hands, which had been trying to push Eunjae away, instead tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. He kissed him back, his own control dissolving in the heat of the moment. The world outside the car—the empty road, the risk of being seen—vanished. There was only the taste of Eunjae, the feel of his body, the overwhelming intensity of the connection.
Just as Daon was fully surrendering, getting lost in the sensation, Eunjae broke the kiss with a sharp, ragged gasp. He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing.
"Do you feel it?" Eunjae growled, his voice raw. He didn't wait for an answer. He pressed his palm flat against Daon's chest, right over his heart, which was hammering against his ribs like a wild drum. "Do you feel that?"
Daon's breath hitched. He could feel it—the frantic, pounding rhythm beneath his own ribs. It was undeniable. His heart was racing.
But his mind, trained for a lifetime in logic and denial, instantly supplied a rational, safe explanation. He looked into Eunjae's desperate, hopeful eyes, and the words came out calm, detached, a complete betrayal of the frantic beat beneath Eunjae's hand.
"It's just adrenaline," Daon said, his voice even, though his pulse hadn't slowed. "From the sudden stop. From… from the fear of kissing in the middle of the road."
The light in Eunjae's eyes didn't just dim; it was extinguished, replaced by a hollow, devastated acceptance. He slowly pulled his hand back from Daon's chest as if it were burned. He had given him physical, undeniable proof, and Daon had still found a way to explain it away. Without another word, Eunjae turned, re-buckled his seatbelt, and stared straight ahead at the empty road, the final, fragile bridge between them collapsing into absolute silence.
The quiet of the shrine's dining hall was broken only by the soft clink of bowls. Rinwoo and Beom Seok were finishing their meal when a figure stumbled past the doorway. It was Taekyun, his clothes still damp and clinging to him, his hair a mess. He moved with a heavy, swaying gait, every line of his body screaming of exhaustion. He didn't even glance into the room, heading straight for the sanctuary of his own, as if desperate to avoid being seen in such a state.
But Rinwoo had seen. A flicker of something—concern, pity—crossed his face before he could school his features back to neutrality.
Beom Seok noticed it instantly. The brief softening in Rinwoo's eyes was like a needle in his heart. He quickly swallowed his mouthful of rice and changed the subject.
"Has Master Hwang returned yet?" Beom Seok asked, his tone deliberately light.
Rinwoo blinked, pulled from his thoughts. "Hmm? Oh, no. He went down the mountain to visit the villagers this afternoon."
A moment of silence passed as they both processed this. Then, Rinwoo's eyes widened slightly. "He… he didn't take a torch with him," he realized aloud. The mountain paths were treacherous and pitch black after sundown. "How is he going to find his way back?"
Beom Seok immediately put his chopsticks down and stood up. "I should go and meet him," he said, his voice firm. "Bring him back."
Rinwoo hesitated, looking from Beom Seok's determined face to the darkening world outside the window. A part of him didn't want Beom Seok to go out into the dark, especially after the day's tensions. But the thought of their elderly grandfather navigating the dangerous path alone was worse.
"Alright," Rinwoo finally agreed, his voice soft with concern. "But please, be careful."
Beom Seok nodded, a small, reassuring smile touching his lips. "I will."
As Beom Seok turned to leave, Rinwoo was left alone at the table, the image of Taekyun's exhausted stumble now competing with a new worry for Beom Seok's safety in the encroaching night. The shrine, once a place of peace, was now a nexus of so many tangled, anxious threads.
Rinwoo moved through the quiet shrine, the remains of dinner cleared away. A small, persistent sense of duty—or perhaps something else he refused to name—compelled him to prepare a tray of food. He walked down the hall to the abandoned guest room, steeling himself for another scene of dusty neglect.
He slid the door open without knocking, and the sight that greeted him made him pause.
The room was clean. Not just superficially, but genuinely clean. The dust was gone, the floors showed their original wood grain, and the air smelled faintly of soap and water instead of mildew. And in the center of it all, lying on the futon still in his soaking, dirt-stained clothes, was Taekyun. He was utterly spent, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest rising and falling with deep, exhausted breaths. He hadn't even had the energy to change.
Rinwoo's breath caught. The contrast between the immaculate room and the man lying broken in the middle of it was stark and strangely poignant. He had actually done it. He had endured.
Setting the tray down with a soft clatter, Rinwoo turned to leave, wanting to escape the complicated feelings the scene evoked.
The sound roused Taekyun. His arm slid away from his face, his eyes fluttering open. When they landed on Rinwoo, he jolted upright as if electrocuted, scrambling back against the wall, his exhaustion forgotten in a wave of shock and shame.
"Rinwoo!" he gasped, his voice rough. He looked down at his own filthy state, then around the clean room, as if realizing how pathetic he must appear. "I... I was just resting. I'll change. I—"
"Why?" Rinwoo interrupted, his voice cold, cutting through Taekyun's flustered excuses. He didn't turn around. He stood with his back to him, his posture rigid. "Why are you doing this? The cleaning. The laundry. Staying in this... this hovel. What is this, Taekyun? A new form of self-punishment? Do you think getting your hands dirty for a few days will erase everything?"
Taekyun stared at his back, the words lashing at him. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, his body aching. "No," he said, his voice low but clear. "It won't erase anything. I know that." He took a hesitant step forward. "I'm not doing it for absolution, Rinwoo. I'm doing it because... because for the first time, there is no one else. There is no assistant, no servant, no company to hide behind. It's just me. And the dirt. And the consequences."
He gestured weakly around the clean room. "This... this is all I have to offer right now. It's not an apology. It's just... all of me. The useless, incompetent parts you always saw, but now there's no one to clean them up for me."
Rinwoo finally turned, his eyes sweeping over the clean room, then over Taekyun's disheveled, weary form. The tension between them was a live wire—a mixture of old bitterness, shocking perseverance, and a painful, dawning acknowledgment that the man before him was fundamentally different from the one who had left.
Rinwoo took a sharp, steadying breath, building a wall of ice around his heart. "Just leave," he said, his voice flat and final. "As soon as possible. That's the only thing I want from you."
But instead of retreating, Taekyun stumbled forward, his hand shooting out to grasp Rinwoo's wrist. "No, please, wait!" he begged, his composure shattering completely. "I'm sorry! For all of it! For every cold word, every ignored birthday, every second I made you feel invisible! It was me! It was all my fault! I'll do anything, Rinwoo, anything you want, just tell me what to do!"
Rinwoo tried to yank his hand back, but Taekyun's grip was desperate. "Let go of me!"
"Punish me!" Taekyun cried, his voice breaking as he dropped to his knees on the clean floor, his dirty clothes a stark contrast to the spotless wood. He clung to Rinwoo's hand like a lifeline, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the grime. "Hit me! Yell at me! Do something! But don't just... don't just look through me like I'm nothing! I'll be a good boy, I promise! I'll do all the chores, I'll cook, I'll clean, I'll never complain! Please, don't push me away! I'm willing to be your slave for the rest of my life, just don't make me leave!"
The raw, desperate pleading was a far cry from the proud, arrogant man Rinwoo had known. It was pathetic. And it made Rinwoo's chest ache with a pain he didn't want to feel.
He finally wrenched his hand free, looking down at the man groveling at his feet with a mixture of pity and simmering anger.
"Taekyun," Rinwoo said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You don't love me. You never did." He took a step back, creating a chasm between them. "You're just desperate for love. Now that Yuna is gone, and I'm gone, you have no one. You're like a child who broke his only toy and is suddenly crying because he has nothing left to play with. Is that it? Is that why you're here? Because you're lonely?"
Taekyun looked up, his tear-filled eyes wide with a devastation so profound it seemed to swallow the whole room. The words hit their mark with brutal accuracy. For a moment, he was silent, his body trembling.
Then, a broken whisper escaped him, so raw and honest it was barely audible.
"...Is it so wrong," he choked out, "to finally realize what that toy meant... only after you've broken it beyond repair?"
He wasn't denying it. He was admitting it. He was a lonely, broken man who had taken love for granted until the silence of its absence had nearly driven him mad. The confession was more heartbreaking than any denial could ever have been. It was the ugly, undeniable truth.
The silence after Taekyun's whispered confession was heavier than any shout. It was filled with the echo of his own worthlessness, ringing in his ears. He saw the truth of Rinwoo's words reflected back at him in those tired, hurt eyes, and it was a judgment more final than any court's.
Driven by a panic that felt like dying, he scrambled forward on his knees, his hands clutching at the empty air near Rinwoo's feet, not daring to touch him again.
"You're right. You're right," he babbled, the words tumbling out in a chaotic, broken stream. "I am a child. A stupid, spoiled, worthless child who didn't know what he had. I don't know what love is supposed to feel like, Rinwoo. My father never loved anyone. My mother was too scared to try. I thought... with Yuna... it was just a feeling that didn't hurt. But this? This feeling now? This is like my ribs are being cracked open every time you look at me with those dead eyes. Is this love? This agony? Because if it is, I understand now. I understand why people go mad for it."
He pressed his forehead against the cold floor, his body wracked with silent sobs for a moment before he forced his head up again, his vision blurred.
"Lonely? Yes. I am so lonely I think my soul is rotting inside me. But it's not just anyone's absence. It's yours." His voice rose, desperate and sharp. "It's the way no one else looks at me and sees me, even when they're looking right at me! You did. You saw the monster I was, and you stayed. And I... I broke you for it."
Rinwoo stood frozen, his fist clenched so tightly. His knuckles were white. "Stop it," he said, his voice low and strained. "Stop saying these things. They don't change what happened."
"But they're true!" Taekyun cried out, the sound raw and animal. "What do you want from me? Blood? I'll give it to you. My name? My fortune? It's already yours. My pride? You're looking at it, it's gone, it's nothing but dust on your floor! Tell me what piece of me to carve out and I will do it with my own hands, just please, please, don't let that be the end of my sentence!"
He reached out, his trembling fingers hovering just an inch from the hem of Rinwoo's pants, a silent plea for a connection, any connection.
"Don't make me leave. I'll stay in this room. I'll never speak to you again. You can forget I'm here. Just... let me exist in the same world as you. Let me breathe the same air. Let me know that somewhere, you are safe, and maybe, in some small way, I am helping to keep you that way by being your slave. That's all I'm fit for now. To be a tool for your comfort. A shadow. Please, Rinwoo. Don't cast out your shadow."
Rinwoo felt the ice around his heart splinter. The raw, unfiltered need was a vortex, threatening to pull him back into the pain he was only just beginning to escape. This wasn't the cold, calculated man who had hurt him. This was something else, something broken and dangerous in its honesty.
"Taekyun..." Rinwoo's voice was a whisper, frayed at the edges. "You can't be my shadow. A shadow is a constant reminder of the light that's being blocked. You're asking me to live in your darkness forever."
Taekyun looked up, a final, devastating hope dying in his eyes, leaving only a vast, empty despair.
"Then let me be the ground you walk on," he whispered, his voice utterly shattered. "Let me be the dirt beneath your feet. Unseen. Trodden upon. Necessary only for you to move forward. I don't need to be remembered. I just need to be used. Is that too much to ask? For a man who has nothing left to give but his own obliteration?"
The air grew thick, suffocating. Rinwoo stumbled back a step. The walls of ice he had built were cracking under the torrent of Taekyun's despair, and it terrified him. Tears he had sworn he would never shed for this man again welled in his eyes, blurring the pathetic figure on the floor.
"You don't get it," Rinwoo's voice was a strained, venomous whisper, each word a shard of glass meant to wound. "You think this... this performance of yours changes anything? You think groveling erases two years? It just makes you look pathetic. The great Lee Taekyun, brought to his knees. I don't want your blood or your name. I don't want a slave. I want the two years you stole from me! I want the man I was before I met you! Can you give him back to me? Can you?"
He was shaking now, tears tracing hot paths down his cheeks. "You broke something inside me that can't be fixed. I see you in the shadows when I sleep. I hear your voice in the wind telling me I'm nothing. You are a sickness in my blood, Taekyun, and you're asking me to let the infection stay!"
Taekyun flinched as if physically struck, but his eyes, pools of liquid agony, held fast. "Then let me be the medicine!" he begged, his voice raw and breaking. "Let me spend the rest of my life trying to heal the wound I made. I know I can't give you those years back. But I can give you every second that comes after. I can give you my future. All of it."
"Your future?" Rinwoo let out a broken, hysterical laugh that was half a sob. "What future? A future where I have to look at your face every day and remember the humiliation? The loneliness? Watching you come home with her scent on your clothes? Do you know what that does to a person? It kills them slowly, Taekyun. You were my executioner, and now you want to be my nurse?"
"Then let me die instead!" Taekyun cried out, the words tearing from his throat. He crawled forward, his hands clasped together in a desperate, prayer-like gesture. "If my existence is your poison, then let my death be your cure. Tell me to jump from this mountain and I will do it without a sound. My last breath will be a thank you for giving me a purpose—to finally, finally, give you peace."
The sheer, terrifying sincerity in his words froze the venom in Rinwoo's throat. He meant it. Every word.
"Stop it..." Rinwoo whispered, his defiance crumbling into sheer, panicked horror.
"Or what?" Taekyun pressed, his voice a shattered whisper. "You'll hate me more? You can't hate me more than I hate myself. You can't punish me more than I am already punished. Every moment without you is a lifetime in hell. So tell me, Rinwoo. Give me my sentence. Is it life in this agony? Or is it death? Just... please. Don't leave me here in this in-between. I can't bear it."
He looked up, his face a mask of utter devastation, completely laid bare. "You were the only real thing I ever had. The only thing that wasn't a transaction or a lie. And I... I threw you away like garbage. I know. I know what I am. I am the fool who set paradise on fire because he was too cold to feel its warmth. So if you want me to burn with it, just say the word."
Rinwoo could no longer hold. He was openly crying now, his body trembling, the harsh words he had weaponized now turning to ash in his mouth. He had wanted to hurt him, to push him away, to make him feel a fraction of the pain he felt.
But this... this was a bottomless abyss of regret. This wasn't a plea for forgiveness. It was a suicide note spoken aloud.
He looked at the man who had destroyed him, now offering to destroy himself completely for the chance to simply be near the ruins. And the most heartbreaking part, the part that shattered Rinwoo's soul into a million unrecognizable pieces, was the realization that in all his cruel, venomous words...
...he had never once said, "I don't love you anymore."
And the silence that screamed that truth between them was the most devastating sound of all.
The world tilted on its axis. Rinwoo stumbled back, a wave of dizziness washing over him so violently he couldn't tell up from down. The venom, the tears, the raw, gut-wrenching confession—it had all become a toxic whirlwind in his head, pressing against the inside of his skull. A familiar, warm trickle dripped onto his lip. He swiped at it with the back of his hand, his vision swimming.
No. Not now. Not here in front of him.
The smear on his skin was a bright, shocking crimson.
He had to get out. He had to escape the suffocating pressure of Taekyun's despair and his own crumbling resolve. He turned, a hand flying out to brace himself against the doorframe, his legs feeling like water.
"Rinwoo?"
Taekyun's voice was a sharp, panicked gasp. He had seen it. The blood, the unsteadiness.
But Rinwoo was already moving, propelled by a desperate need for solitude. He took one step into the hallway, and then his legs gave way entirely. The world went dark at the edges, swallowing the light, and he crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.
"RINWOO!"
The scream was torn from Taekyun's throat, raw with a terror that eclipsed his own self-loathing. In an instant, he was on his feet, his exhaustion forgotten. He surged forward, catching Rinwoo's limp body before it could hit the hard wooden floor. He was so light, so frighteningly fragile in his arms.
"No, no, no, please, no," Taekyun chanted, a frantic mantra as he gathered Rinwoo close. He could feel the warm blood seeping from Rinwoo's nose, staining the collar of his own dirty shirt. The sight of it, this physical manifestation of the pain he had caused, sent a fresh wave of pure, undiluted horror through him.
He lifted him with a strength born of sheer panic, cradling his head, and hurried back into the room. He laid Rinwoo down gently on the futon where he himself had collapsed just moments before, his hands trembling so badly he could barely function.
"Rinwoo? Can you hear me?" he whispered, his voice cracking. He brushed the hair from Rinwoo's pale, clammy forehead, his touch feather-light and desperate. He looked around wildly, as if help might materialize from the bare walls. Finding nothing, he ripped the cleanest part of the sleeve from his own already-filthy shirt, pressing the soft cotton gently beneath Rinwoo's nose to stem the flow of blood.
He knelt beside the futon, one hand applying the faint pressure, the other clutching Rinwoo's limp, cold hand.
"Please," he begged, his tears falling freely now, dripping onto their joined hands. "Please, open your eyes. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll go. I'll leave right now, I swear it. Just be okay. Please, just be okay."
All his pleas for himself, his desperate offers of servitude and obliteration, were gone. In their place was a single, pure, terrifying prayer. The man who had just offered to die for him was now begging for him to live.
He bent his head, pressing his forehead against the back of Rinwoo's hand, his entire body shaking with silent, wretched sobs. The grand, tragic romance he had imagined in his desperation had evaporated, leaving only the stark, terrifying reality of the person he loved broken and bleeding because of his words, because of his very presence.
He was the sickness. And he was making the patient sicker.