Chapter Text
The kitchen at the Liu estate had never been warmer.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in thick, honey-gold beams, catching on drifting flour and sugar and turning them into tiny floating constellations. The air smelled of freshly made dorayaki, vanilla, warm cream, and flowers newly gathered from the garden. Everything felt gently blurred at the edges, impossibly soft, safe, and brimming with a love that wrapped around the heart like a long-forgotten embrace.
Yangyang lay on his stomach across the thick blanket they had spread behind the marble counter, chin propped on one folded arm, legs crossed lazily at the ankles behind him. Shotaro sprawled in front of him in the same position, while Renjun sat cross-legged beside him, back resting comfortably against the cabinet.
Between the three of them, a warm plate of golden dorayaki sat like a small, shared treasure.
Shotaro took a slow, indulgent bite of the matcha cream-filled one, eyes fluttering closed in bliss. “I am simply saying,” he began gravely, “that the word dora refers to a gong. The shape is literally part of the etymology. If you alter the shape—”he gestured lazily with the half-eaten pastry “—and then also change the filling, it ceases to be a dorayaki.”
“Although—Lady Sayoko!” he called toward the stove, where Sayoko moved effortlessly between several tasks at once, “the matcha cream is divine, as always.”
A warm laugh drifted back to them. “Thank you, dear heart.”
Yangyang rolled his eyes. He had heard this exact speech at least a dozen times.
“Remarkable how confidently you critique something while actively stuffing your face with it.” He leaned forward with a spoon, dipping it without ceremony into the open half of Shotaro’s pastry to taste the vibrant green cream.
“In any case, Sayoko approved the name. Her word outweighs yours. And when it comes to matters of culinary heritage, darling, I will always defer to her judgement over yours.”
Renjun snorted softly, reaching for his cup of milk tea with elegant fingers. “First, we all know Lady Sayoko is biased toward you. Second, are you implying Shotaro is somehow less Japanese?”
That ignited banter instantly, their voices overlapping in a familiar, loud cacophony that only they could fully understand.
“I am merely observing that he has lived in Korea for over two decades now—”
“Oh, so that dismisses his entire heritage now—”
“You’re Taiwanese and have also spent most of your life in Korea—”
“—for precisely the same duration as you. Which means my understanding of Japanese confectionery history is likely equal to yours—”
“You cannot invoke history while disregarding factual accuracy for the sake of your own whims—”
“—arguing with an actual Japanese person about Japanese pastries—”
“—is not the argument you think it is—”
“I am simply pointing out that origin alone does not automatically confer expertise—”
“You are literally making things up—”
Their words tumbled over one another, growing more ridiculous by the second. Yangyang knew he was spewing absolute nonsense, but the joy of it—the effortless rhythm, the years of unbreakable friendship—made his chest feel light and full at once.
Laughter finally broke the debate. Shotaro looped a strong arm around Yangyang’s shoulders and dragged him into a playful headlock. Yangyang collapsed onto his back in a fit of helpless giggles, golden hair fanning across the blanket like spilled sunlight. Shotaro’s laughter vibrated warmly against his shoulder while Renjun tipped forward over his knees, shoulders shaking.
The kitchen filled with the bright, unrestrained sound of their happiness—full-bellied, overlapping, and achingly genuine.
“Fine,” Yangyang managed between gasps, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes sparkled with mischief. “As the only present party with actual standing—Gi.” He turned toward the counter. “Adjudicate for us. Tell these two philistines that what we are eating is, in fact, a Dorayaki pocket.”
He looked toward Giselle, who sat perched on a stool at the counter, phone in hand, thumbs moving rapidly over the screen. She had been smiling at that phone a great deal lately—a private sort of smile Yangyang fully intended to interrogate later.
Giselle glanced up at him over the rim of her pastry, one eyebrow lifting before she took a deliberate bite. “I could,” she said thoughtfully, “but then you would go to sleep tonight none the wiser.”
Shotaro and Renjun immediately dissolved into fresh waves of laughter. Giselle joined them, her shoulders shaking, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Mother’s invention!” Yangyang gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am defending your mother’s invention, and this is the gratitude I receive?”
“You children stop bullying him!” Sayoko called from the stove, though her voice was thick with amusement.
A chorus of playful protests rose in reply—He started it and We are educating him and Lady Sayoko, your favoritism is showing—though none of them could finish a sentence through their laughter.
For one perfect, suspended moment, the kitchen swelled with warmth, sunlight, and something deeper—a feeling that tasted like before. Like safety. Like home. Yangyang let the sensation wash over him, unable to remember the last time his heart had felt this light, this unburdened. The thought flickered through his mind and drifted away on the warm current of the air, too gentle to grasp.
“Yangyang!”
The voice cut through the joy like the clear ringing of a silver bell.
“Mother is calling,” he breathed, eyes lighting up with sudden, radiant happiness.
He was on his feet in an instant, the kitchen already fading behind him. “I have to go,” he called over his shoulder, legs carrying him forward before his mind had fully caught up.
“Mother is calling me!”
He did not look back.
-
The hallways stretched ahead, long and filled with light. Every curtain had been drawn back to its fullest, every window thrown open, inviting the outside world to breathe within—the sweet fragrance of the garden drifting in, the sound of wind moving through the trees beyond.
Yangyang ran through it all, and the light seemed to follow after him.
The long lilac-blue sleeves of his blouse lifted and streamed around him, catching the air, and the pearls at his ears swung gracefully, scattering tiny light—fleeting stars born and dying in each heartbeat.
He nearly barreled straight into René.
The old man caught him by both arms, steadying him mid-stride. Yangyang stopped inches from him, breathless, loose strands of hair falling across his face.
“Young Master,” René said with practiced patience, “please do not run in the corridors. It’s dangerous.”
“René.” Yangyang pushed the hair back from his face and settled his hands on his hips, the smile already forming. “You’ve been saying those exact words to me for over fifteen years now. Are you not yet weary of them?”
“I fear I shall never grow weary,” the old man replied, his eyes crinkling with quiet affection, “so long as the young master continues refusing to take proper care of himself.”
“And I’m the stubborn one.” Yangyang shook his head, his smile softening. “Alright, I’ll be more—”
“Yangyang!”
“—Oh!” The rest of his sentence vanished. He reached out and patted René’s arm twice in a quick, affectionate farewell. “Mother! I have to go, she’s calling me!”
And then he was off again, racing down the corridor with barely a pause between strides.
He didn’t hear René’s last call after him, pleading once more for caution.
-
The living room unfolded before him like the heart of a dream—radiant and breathing.
The grand chandelier overhead fractured the pouring sunlight into countless dancing rainbows that shimmered across every surface: the high ceiling, the polished marble floors, the walls lined with silver picture frames, the enormous crystal vase overflowing with fresh tulips from the garden, and the beveled mirrors that multiplied the light into infinite, ethereal patterns.
Everything glowed. Everything breathed.
A strong arm caught him mid-stride. Yangyang yelped as he was spun gently and pulled flush against a firm chest.
“Jaem?” he breathed, tilting his head up.
Deep, dark eyes looked down at him—eyes that always seemed to contain entire galaxies, quiet and endless. Jaemin’s gaze held him captive.
“And where do you think you’re going, hmm?” Jaemin asked, amusement curling warmly through his voice.
Coco rested comfortably in the crook of one arm, enormous blue eyes half-lidded and entirely unbothered by the sudden addition of another body. Jaemin’s free arm slid around Yangyang’s waist, pulling him closer, erasing the last few inches between them.
“I…” The words Yangyang meant to say dissolved on his tongue.
The light streaming through the tall windows behind Jaemin painted him in gold, tracing the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his shoulder. The way he looked at Yangyang—intense, reverent, and quietly hungry—made the air in the room feel thinner, sweeter, heavier.
“Play fair,” Yangyang murmured, his cheeks warming under that gaze. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” Jaemin asked, the picture of innocence, though mischief sparkled in his eyes.
“Like…” Yangyang trailed off helplessly, lost in the depth of that stare.
Jaemin’s hand squeezed his waist with gentle insistence. “Like I love you?” He leaned in, brushing their noses together in a slow, intimate caress. “Or like I want to devour you?” His voice dropped to a heated whisper against the shell of Yangyang’s ear.
Yangyang’s face burned scarlet.
“Coco is right here!” He shoved weakly at Jaemin’s chest in a way that only made Jaemin laugh.
Yangyang watched, deeply offended and deeply fond all at once, as Jaemin lifted Coco higher and rubbed his cheek against the cat’s soft fur. Coco responded with a pleased rumble, pressing himself into the curve of Jaemin’s neck with shameless affection. His grumpy cat had never adored anyone else this openly.
“He’s such a good boy—aren’t you, Coco-ya?” Jaemin’s voice pitched higher in that soft, cutesy tone reserved for small animals and babies. “He knows better than to interrupt his parents when they’re…”
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Yangyang snorted despite the flush still coloring his cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” The teasing softened out of Jaemin’s expression then, replaced by something quieter, more earnest. His arm tightened around Yangyang’s waist with quiet possessiveness. “Give me a kiss?” he asked, voice dropping softer still. “Please?”
The earnest plea sent a shiver racing down Yangyang’s spine.
He rose onto his toes, fingers slipping into the hair at Jaemin’s nape, and kissed him.
Slowly at first. Tenderly.
Jaemin melted into it with a soft exhale, his forehead brushing Yangyang’s as the kiss deepened just enough to turn warm and aching. His hand moved up the line of Yangyang’s spine, vertebra by vertebra, until it reached his nape and stayed there—warm and certain and not going anywhere.
Then another warmth settled at Yangyang’s back.
Broad. Steady. Known to him for even longer.
Yangyang leaned back into it without breaking away from Jaemin. His hand still cradled Yangyang’s nape as Jeno’s hands came to rest on his hips, leaving him caught—completely, impossibly—between them.
He and Jaemin parted with a small, wet sound. His lips felt swollen, tender, marked, and Yangyang’s cheeks flushed darker under Jaemin’s smoldering gaze.
He felt rather than heard Jeno’s voice, rumbling low against his shoulder blades. “Looks like I interrupted something.”
Yangyang glanced up in time to see Jaemin’s expression brighten instantly in the particular way it only ever did around Jeno. Jeno reached forward without hesitation, gently tucking a strand of dark hair behind Jaemin’s ear.
“Hi, baby,” Jaemin said softly, smiling.
And something inside Yangyang loosened.
A quiet tension he hadn’t even noticed himself carrying eased gently from his chest.
He turned within Jeno’s arms, his fingers finding the front of Jeno’s shirt and curling into the fabric. “Where were you?”
Surprise flickered across Jeno’s face for a fraction of a second before melting into unbearable gentleness. His hand came up to rub slow, soothing circles against Yangyang’s side.
“The next room,” he responded, voice warm and lilting, as if the answer should have been obvious. “I wasn’t far.”
“I didn’t see you.”
Jeno’s expression softened further still, gazing at him like something infinitely precious—something once lost and too fragile to risk losing again. “I’m here now.”
He guided them backward with careful steps until Yangyang felt the edge of the narrow console table press against his lower back. Jeno’s hands found his waist and lifted him effortlessly onto the surface, bringing them nearly eye-level. Strong arms framed him on either side as Jeno leaned in close.
“I’m right here,” he whispered against Yangyang’s lips—a promise, a plea, a prayer. “Yes?”
Yangyang nodded, though an inexplicable shadow of dread had begun to coil quietly in his chest. He didn’t understand it. He only knew the feeling eased slightly whenever Jeno touched him, the world seeming less likely to fracture whenever he was near.
He reached up, scratching gently at the back of Jeno’s head the way he knew Jeno loved best. Jeno’s hair was shorter than Jaemin’s now, too short for fingers to fully tangle through, but still soft beneath his touch.
It suited him. Made him look so impossibly handsome it almost hurt.
Jeno leaned in, catching Yangyang’s bottom lip between his own, lingering there—not quite a kiss, but a staying, a silent vow—before tucking his face into the curve of Yangyang’s neck. His breath was warm against sensitive skin as his arms wrapped fully around him, enveloping him completely.
“I missed you,” Jeno whispered against his pulse, the words muffled and vulnerable.
Yangyang frowned softly, fingers still tracing slow circles at Jeno’s nape. “I’m right here.”
“I know…” Jeno’s arms tightened, almost desperate. “I know. I just—I need you.”
The words landed strangely, carrying a weight that didn’t belong to the warm kitchen he’d just left, or the golden light wrapped around them, or anything about how this day had felt until this moment.
Yangyang’s hands paused.
He lifted his gaze to look at Jaemin over Jeno’s shoulder.
Jaemin was watching him.
All the teasing warmth from earlier had vanished. His brow was faintly drawn now, his expression touched by something achingly close to grief.
“Hey,” Yangyang called gently.
Jaemin crossed the space between them immediately.
His hand came up to cup the side of Yangyang’s face with heartbreaking tenderness. His thumb traced slow, soothing circles over his cheekbone. Yangyang leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. Jeno’s arms tightened around him in response, and for one fragile, perfect moment, the three of them simply existed together in the warm, rainbow-dappled light.
Yangyang covered Jaemin’s hand with his own while his other continued tracing gentle patterns at Jeno’s nape.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered, eyes moving worriedly between them. “Both of you. I’m right—”
“Yangyang!”
The voice came again—urgent now, though not unkind, carrying through the house like the distant tolling of a bell.
His mother.
Yangyang startled, pulling away from Jeno’s embrace and letting Jaemin’s hand slip from his face. He slid off the table in a rush, heart pounding with sudden, inexplicable urgency.
“Mother’s calling me,” he said breathlessly, already moving away. “I have to go.”
And before either of them could stop him, he was running again.
He never looked back.
-
The garden unfolded before him like a doorway into paradise itself.
It was brighter here, warmer, more vividly alive than anything he had ever known. The sun hung low in a golden sky, impossibly luminous, casting a soft, ethereal glow that made it impossible to tell whether this was dawn or dusk, a beginning or a tender farewell.
Beneath his bare feet—when had he removed his shoes?—the grass was velvet-soft and cool, dotted with delicate wildflowers in shades of white, buttercup yellow, and pale lavender that swayed gently in the breeze.
A tender wind moved through his golden hair, lifting and curling the strands like living flames. Butterflies danced around him as he spun, laughter bubbling freely from his chest like music. The wind seemed to laugh with him.
And there, seated gracefully at the edge of the sparkling pond, was his mother.
She was the most beautiful vision he had ever beheld. Her brown hair fell in soft, healthy waves to her shoulders. Her skin glowed with a warmth that seemed to come from within. She wore her favorite yellow dress—the one that made her look like summer itself—and around her neck hung the delicate pearl necklace he had gifted her for her fortieth birthday.
She sat with her legs tucked elegantly to the side, a familiar journal open in her lap. At the sound of his voice, she looked up, and her face bloomed into a smile so radiant that Yangyang felt his heart start beating again.
“Mom!” he cried, his voice cracking with joy. He dropped to his knees and threw himself into her open arms.
“I missed you,” he whispered into the yellow fabric of her dress. “I missed you so much.”
“Mom missed you too, my little lamb,” she murmured, her voice the gentlest melody. She guided his head into her lap, fingers threading tenderly through his hair.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said, eyes glistening. “Where have you been?”
The pond beside them was impossibly clear, its water a vivid green—the color of new leaves, of hope, of an emerald he felt he should remember but could not quite grasp.
“I’ve been right here, my darling. I was never far from you.”
He frowned, a small crease forming between his brows. “I don’t want you to be away at all. I want to remain with you forever.”
Her fingers stilled in his hair.
Immediately, his hands tightened desperately in the fabric of her dress, clutching at her as though she might vanish beneath his touch.
For one terrible moment, the world seemed to stop breathing.
Then her fingers resumed their gentle strokes, and air flowed back into his lungs.
“You do not truly want that, Yangyang-ah,” she said softly. The kindness in her voice hurt more than any cruelty could.
A sharp flash of anger surged through him—hot, unfamiliar, and painful, because he had never once been angry with his mother.
“Yes, I do.” His voice cracked, raw and childlike. “I cannot bear to be without you again. I want to stay right here, with you, forever.”
She sighed softly. “What of your friends? What of those who love you so deeply?”
He shook his head, gaze falling to the trembling wildflowers and his own pale feet against the grass. “I haven’t been easy to love. I doubt anyone would miss me for long.”
She pinched his ear.
“Ow—”
He turned, indignant, only to meet her disapproving gaze.
“I will not have my son speaking about himself that way,” she said sternly, though her eyes remained soft. “You are wholly deserving of love.”
Yangyang sighed. “Mother…”
“What is it I always say is my greatest joy?”
He pressed his lips together, stubborn.
“Liu Yangyang.”
He exhaled. Closed his eyes. “That I am happy.”
Then he sat up to look at her directly, matching her firmness. “And I am happiest with you.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Eventually, she released a soft breath, her expression melting back into tenderness. She cupped his face in both hands, letting her warmth seep into his skin.
“Do you remember,” she began gently, “how I used to become so very angry?”
“Those were never your fault,” he protested, brows drawing together. “None of it. You were ill, Mother. The illness spoke, not you.”
She smiled, small and sad. “I know. But thank you for always understanding.”
Her gaze drifted briefly to the pond before returning to him. “You had so few friends growing up.”
“Not because of you,” he interjected softly. “Because I did not trust just anyone near you.”
She nodded—a silent invitation. Tell me about them.
She had always done this—not because she didn’t know, but because she liked to hear it told, liked the evidence of love laid out and spoken aloud, the same way she had kept her journal.
So he leaned into her shoulder and let himself settle, the way he had when he was small and his mother was about to tell him a story. Now it was his turn.
“Renjun and Shotaro,” he began, smiling helplessly at their names alone. “They’ve been with me since we were kids. They know everything—the good, the terrible, the parts I’m proud of and the parts I wish I could forget—and they’ve never once pulled away. They came home so often they began calling you ‘Mom’ too. Do you remember?”
She hummed, stroking his hair. “Yes. The three of you were like brothers.”
“Like brothers,” he agreed.
“And Sayoko and René.” She made a small sound of reproof, and he laughed. “Yes, yes, I know. Honorifics. But you know I’ve always felt closer to them without all of that—and Giselle. They’ve been better to us than our own relatives—isn’t that strange?”
“It’s beautiful,” she corrected gently. “We were very fortunate.”
He was quiet for a moment before another name slipped out of him softly.
“Jeno.”
The tenderness in his voice made heat immediately rise into his cheeks.
“I think…” He smiled shyly to himself. “I think he decided very early on that if something belonged to me, he would love it automatically. That’s why he always cared for you so much as well.” A small laugh escaped him. “He was very smitten from the beginning.”
His mother’s hum was teasing. “As though you were not equally smitten.”
“Mom!”
She laughed, bright and musical, and patted his head in apology.
“Oh!” Yangyang sat up straighter, eyes sparkling. “And there is someone new you have not yet met.”
“Oh?”
“His name is Jaemin,” he said, unable to contain his smile. “He is terribly stubborn, Mother. He reminds me of you in the loveliest ways.”
“Does he?”
“He’s quietly relentless. No matter what I throw at him, he just smiles—this gentle, steady, infuriating smile that never wavers.” Yangyang traced a finger over a daisy, cheeks warming again. “It’s… endearing.”
His mother was silent for a moment. Then she shifted, pulling him into her arms.
“Do you hear yourself when you speak of them?” she whispered against his hair. “How much love you carry for them… and how much happiness they bring you.”
He stiffened, but she pressed on.
“Where is the keychain I gave you?”
He reached into his pocket—it was there, always there, it had never left him—and held it in his open palm. She closed her hand over his.
“This is Mom’s heart,” she said, thumb brushing his knuckles, “and Yangyang…”
“…completes it,” he finished, eyes beginning to sting.
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Does Mom complete Yangyang’s heart as well?”
The first tear fell. His shoulders began to tremble.
“Yes,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You do.”
She pressed her hand flat over his heart. His own hand came up and covered hers. “Then I am already with you, my love. I am in every room you enter. I am in every moment you allow yourself to be loved.”
Tears traced warm paths down his cheeks. “It’s not the same…”
“I know,” she soothed, pulling him closer. “But hear me, my little lamb. Those people love you with a depth you have not yet let yourself fully receive. I know this because I’ve been watching over you. I’m always watching over you.”
A broken sob tore from his throat.
“Hush now.” She pulled him close, sheltering him in her arms as he cried against her shoulder. She held him through every shudder, never loosening her embrace.
“Do you believe in Mom, Yangyang-ah?”
He nodded through the tears, because he did. He always had.
No matter how dark things had become, he had never stopped believing in one thing: his mother’s love for him.
Yangyang.
“Then trust me.” Her hand smoothed the hair back from his damp face. “As the person whose entire heart you are—you are loved, my little lamb. So much and without condition, and I have nothing to worry about.” She kissed the crown of his head. “Because they are there. And they are not going anywhere.”
The garden stirred around them.
“All you have to do,” she whispered when his sobs had quieted, “is reach back.”
Yangyang.
“And I will always be here as well.” She pressed her hand once more over his heart. “Always.”
Yangyang.
He frowned. Something tugged at the edges of his world.
“But there isn’t much time now.” Her voice shifted—still gentle, but carrying a quiet urgency. “Look, my darling.”
He lifted his head.
The light had changed.
The garden was dimming around them.
The grass beneath him had dulled to gray. The flowers folded shut one by one like mourning hands. The pond darkened until its bottom disappeared entirely, and the sky overhead turned heavy with the promise of rain.
A cold wind swept through the garden, and he shivered.
Yangyang.
She tilted his face up, both hands at his cheeks, making him look at her. “Mom doesn’t want her little lamb to be cold anymore.” Her eyes were steady and warm, they did not waver. “So you must go back. Do you hear them? They are calling for you.”
Yangyang.
A voice from somewhere else. Somewhere outside all of this.
Yangyang.
He turned his head sharply.
Yangyang!
Not her. Not her voice. Someone else’s—two voices, actually, braided together, coming from some other side of all of this, from a place he had almost stopped being able to reach—frightened, pleading, threaded with a desperation that made his chest ache.
“Go,” she urged, almost a whisper now, pressing one final pulse of warmth into his chest. “I’ll be here.”
Yangyang!
Yangyang!
His lips trembled.
“Jeno?” The name slipped out, small and uncertain. “Jaemin?”
Her hands fell away from his chest. Gently. Without grief.
The garden, the pond, and the last traces of her warmth began, ever so slowly, to release him.
And somewhere far away, in a world he had nearly left behind, two heartbroken boys held his cold body between them, begging him to stay.
End.