Chapter Text
>Chan<
Morning light filtered through stained glass in fractured ribbons, scattering muted blues and reds across wooden pews. Dust drifted languidly through the beams as if it had nowhere urgent to be.
Chan stood near the altar, taper in hand, and lighting the row of candles one by one.
Wick. Flame. Wick. Flame.
The ritual steadied him. It always had. Small controlled fire. Predictable.
Behind him, metal scraped lightly against plaster.
"You're going to electrocute yourself," Chan warned without turning.
"I turned the breaker off," Jeongin replied from somewhere around the back corner, voice carrying easily through the open space. "Probably."
Chan paused mid-light. "Probably?"
"It's fine."
"That's not reassuring."
A soft huff of laughter echoed back as Chan moved to the next candle. The flame caught. Steadied. Held.
He extinguished the taper and drifted over to the back corner.
Jeongin stood on a borrowed ladder near one of the side sconces, t-shirt sleeves shoved up and a screwdriver balanced between his fingers. His hoodie had been abandoned in the back pew as he worked with surprising focus, tongue pressed lightly to the inside of his cheek.
Other than the remnants of a healing bruise on his cheekbone, he looked almost like an average guy fixing a light. Except there was nothing average about him, and Chan—purely against his will—wasn't able to keep one thought from drifting into his mind.
He enjoyed watching Jeongin like this. The slight furrow of his brow. The steadiness with which he held himself. Even the way his bottom lip sometimes found its way slightly between his teeth in concentration.
It was cute.
Chan pushed the thought away, scolding himself internally for the momentary slip-up.
It wasn't right. It wasn't just the fact he'd spent years acclimating to the traditional viewpoints of the town. Jeongin was young. Sure, he was an adult, but he was still young. Still at a liminal place in his life that Chan didn't want to interfere with.
"You don't have to do that," he said.
"It flickers," Jeongin replied, attention still on the light socket. "Distracting."
"You sit in the back. How would you even notice?"
"I notice things."
That landed.
Chan returned to the altar.
He believed him. Jeongin seemed to have a specialty for noticing the small, seemingly insignificant details.
There was something almost domestic about the scene. Maintenance and preparation. One tending the light, the other fixing it. The church felt lived in in a way it hadn't before.
The faint sound of a car door closing came from outside. Neither of them reacted at first.
Moments later, the heavy wooden doors at the entrance to the sanctuary creaked open.
Footsteps. Not parishioner-soft; measured, official.
Chan straightened automatically as a woman stepped into the aisle, uniform crisp, badge catching in the colored light as it shifted across her shoulder.
"Good morning," she called gently. "Sorry to interrupt."
Chan offered a polite smile. "Not at all, officer."
Behind him, metal stilled, but he didn't turn around.
The officer neared, and Chan stepped out from behind the altar, meeting her partway down the aisle.
"There's been a series of break-ins recently. Small businesses mostly," she started. "I'm looking for a young man. Early to mid-twenties. Dark hair." She held up a phone with an image pulled up. A grainy security still. A convenience store aisle. A figure in a dark hoodie.
A hoodie that looked vaguely familiar.
The sanctuary suddenly felt quiet. Too quiet. Empty.
"Have you seen anyone similar?"
Chan glanced at the photo.
It looked like Jeongin.
Same build. Same hair. Same way of standing slightly angled, as if he was always ready to step away.
The air had shifted. Behind him, there was nothing but silence. Stillness.
Chan felt it before he understood it.
The absence of motion. Absence of breath. Absence of someone who had been behind him moments earlier.
He tried to listen for any sign of movement.
There was none.
Silence stretched between him and the officer as he studied the image.
He could see a younger version of himself in the picture. Not literally. But in the shoulders. The set jaw. The desperation hidden in small acts.
"Is there anyone else here?" she repeated, gentler this time.
Chan glanced over at her and shook his head, smiling slightly as he collected himself. "No. Just me."
The officer studied him. "You sure?"
Something fragile shifted behind his ribs.
He thought of the kid who had just slipped out of the room instead of defending himself. Of how silently he had done so.
He nodded—casual—trying to ignore how easily the lie slipped from his lips. "I'm sure."
The officer lowered the phone. "Alright. If you see anyone matching the description, give us a call."
"Of course."
She turned; footsteps receded. The heavy doors shut with a soft thud, and the sanctuary seemed to exhale.
Chan stood in place a second too long before walking to the back, slowly, as if approaching a crime scene.
The screwdriver was still on the ladder, but otherwise? Empty.
He felt it fully now.
Not anger. Not suspicion. Fear.
Because Jeongin didn't argue. Didn't deny. Didn't even stay.
He left.
And Chan had no idea whether it was self-preservation or a final goodbye.
He hoped it was the first, but as he wandered through the church—through the hallways, checking every room he could think of—he tried to accept the fact he was alone once again.
As he extinguished the candles, Chan did his best to suppress his growing melancholy. It was harder than he expected—harder than it should've been—and he soon found himself wandering back home. The church wasn't a comfort at the moment. It felt like a reminder. Like it held final, departing whispers.
He didn't expect anyone inside, already bracing for emptiness as he pushed open the back door.
Instead, he found Jeongin in the kitchen. Back to him. Hands flat on the counter. Head slightly bowed. There were two mugs in the sink, abandoned mid-rinse, still partially covered in soap suds. The house was so still it felt almost staged.
For a moment, all Chan was able to do was just stand there.
Finally: "I checked the whole church."
Jeongin didn't turn. "I know."
Two words. Even. Controlled.
Chan stepped further inside, closing the door behind him. The floor creaked. Jeongin's shoulder shifted almost imperceptibly, as if he'd considered moving and decided against it.
"You think it's me."
It wasn't a question.
Chan answered too quickly. "It kind of looks like you. But I don't—"
"It is."
The words landed flat against tile.
"Jeongin—"
"It is me."
Not sharp. Not defensive. But resigned. Done.
His fingers tightened against the counter, muscles in his forearm flexing as if holding himself upright.
Chan swallowed. The air felt thin.
"I didn't tell her anything."
Silence. Not stunned silence; the kind that recalibrates.
Jeongin's shoulders went rigid. Then dropped. His breath stuttered once, faint. His grip tightened further, knuckles paling against the wood as he stared down at the mugs like they were a problem needing solving.
"You shouldn't have…" Low. Rough. Almost swallowed.
There was no accusation in the words. Only something dangerously close to regret.
Chan stepped closer but stopped short of touching him. "You were helping me." It was simple. Steady. No apology. "You were here."
That landed differently. Jeongin's head dipped further, and Chan just barely saw a shadow cross his face as his jaw tightened.
"I don't need saving…" his response was soft. Not defiant or even firm but just…tired.
Defeated enough to make Chan feel something twist in his chest. "This isn't about saving you." But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't the right sentence. The right sentence would require saying something bigger. Something riskier. He didn't.
Jeongin finally moved, not toward him but away. His fingers brushed the counter again, as if he needed one last anchor before stepping off an invisible edge.
"I'm sorry."
For what, Chan didn't know.
For the theft?
The lie?
For being there?
For leaving?
Jeongin turned just enough to pass him. Close enough for Chan to feel the brush of displaced air, but not skin. Careful. Always careful.
Instinctively, Chan followed him to the front door. He didn't say his name—he wanted to, but the word gathered in his throat, heavy and hot. He didn't know what would come after it, though. Stay? Don't go? It's fine? It's not fine?
The door opened, and late morning light spilled in, cutting Jeongin into a silhouette. For a second, it looked like the first night again. A tired figure framed by an aura that was ready for whatever came next, whether good or bad.
He stepped outside. Didn't look back.
Chan's hand lifted before he was aware of it. Just slightly. Like he could reach across the distance and pull him back with nothing but intent. It dropped almost instantly.
Instead, his fingers curled around the doorframe, wood pressing into his palm as he gripped it harder than he meant to.
Jeongin kept walking.
The road stretched long and indifferent.
And Chan watched. As if waiting was enough to bend the moment. It wasn't.
Eventually, the space where Jeongin was became nothing but air, and Chan had nothing left to do but close the door.
The click sounded too loud. The house felt bigger than it had before as he walked back into the kitchen. There was nowhere else to go.
The mugs were still in the sink. The kettle sat filled on the counter, the small red light glowing. Patient. Ready. Ready for tea that wouldn't be made.
Chan stared at it for a long time.
Then, reached out and switched it off with a soft beep. The remaining silence was heavier than the sanctuary ever was.