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Yohan has been crying for nearly five minutes when he senses it. It’s like a rising of the hair on the back of his neck but not quite, a warning that something dangerous is there. He sniffles once and sits up, ignoring the pain of the lashes on his back. A sleeve, not his own, touches his cheek. “Hush, little one,” a soft voice soothes. The voice is kind, warm, and familiar. Yohan throws himself at the monster without a moment’s hesitation, sobs wracking his small body.
The monster—Yohan calls him Gaon—cocks his head but reaches around, picking up the boy to cradle in what would be his arms, if he had arms. Yohan calls them his arms, he supposes, so they must be arms. “Gaon?” Yohan asks. He stammers through the tears, through his attempts to try to catch his breath. Gaon tugs down on the sleeve of the shirt Yohan had given him and dabs away the new tears. He’s careful to dab, not wipe; he doesn’t want to hurt Yohan, and humans are so fragile, especially the young ones.
Yohan is a young one, nine or ten years old. Gaon doesn’t have a good grip on how their time passes; he spends most of his time in the shadows of the basement, feeding off of the fear that seems to thrive in the house. The few times he has stepped out of the shadows has been to care for the little boy named Yohan, who looks at him with wide, curious eyes, without fear, and asks him to tuck him into bed. (Yohan, then, has to explain what that means, to the best of his four-year-old ability, but Gaon appreciates the effort nonetheless).
Yohan never fears him, even as he gets older, still turning to him for help when he needs it. Gaon doesn’t understand human mathematics, but they’re not so different from the arithmetics of his shadowed home. He learns to read the language Yohan speaks alongside him and soon they take turns reading, Yohan until his eyes can’t make out the words anymore in the darkness, and Gaon with his vision impeccable in the darkness.
“Gaon?” Yohan sniffles again. Gaon tilts his head before reminding himself, again, that Yohan cannot see him in the darkness, that he must vocalise for Yohan to hear his reply. He hums. “Will you read to me?”
“Of course. What would you like me to read?” Gaon murmurs. Yohan reaches blindly to the side and grabs a book, thrusting it into Gaon’s hands. Or, rather, what would be his hands, had he hands. “Until you sleep?”
“Yes, please,” Yohan whispers. Those human manners he keeps close to his chest, Gaon knows, that are beaten into him.
Because that is why Yohan cries. He never says it aloud, but Gaon knows. The study has shadows too, and Gaon has seen it, the elder man raising the stick to his son. He’s seen the elder boy stop him once or twice. But the elder boy cannot always be there, and Gaon cannot bring himself to interfere in the human world. Not beyond what he does after, in soothing Yohan until he sleeps and caring for the worst of the wounds.
Yohan is alone. Gaon knows that feeling all too well, that overwhelming feeling of aloneness that suffocates rather than frees, until one cannot breathe at all. That is why Yohan turns to him. That is why Yohan asks him to read and asks him to tell him stories that Gaon tries to make up, to make human-appropriate. He tells him of his people’s history in the guise of fairytales and watches as Yohan lights up, seemingly unaware of the importance of these stories.
Yohan sleeps against what would be Gaon’s chest, had he a chest. Had he a corporeal body. He has been meaning to make a visit to the libraries, when he returns home, to look up whether it would be possible.
Gaon hopes, one day, to protect Yohan from all that would wish to harm him. Because Yohan doesn’t fear him. He doesn’t judge him or ask of him things Gaon would rather not do. Yohan simply accepts him for whatever Yohan’s mind can make him out to be. Yohan sees comfort in him, kinship, warmth. And Gaon intends to always deliver it.
—
The libraries don’t have the answers Gaon hopes for. He is unsurprised; it is far from common practice for his people to involve themselves in the lives of humans. They feed on their emotions, their memories, and simply exist.
It takes far more effort than Gaon cares to admit to avoid being seen. It is not as though he is an outlaw, quite the opposite, but he has been shirking his duties and he has no interest in returning to the palace to fulfil them.
Distantly he can hear the sounds of marching, of drums, and thinks it must be another practice. There is no war to defend against, no battle to prepare for. Gaon swallows down the brief moment of doubt, of guilt, at abandoning his people and focuses on his quest. Quests—a human invention, the word, but useful. Gaon has a goal and he must embark on a journey to reach that. Does that, not in itself, make his walk one of a quest? He poses the question to the old thing on the edge of the city. It garbles at him and Gaon listens closely and nods. He agrees with it entirely, each observation it makes and warbled comment it passes along to him.
It doesn’t have the answers he needs, but it, too, directs him to another place, and Gaon sets off once again to find his answers. He wonders, along the way, if perhaps time to him passes differently too. What seems like a blink to him is eternity to the young boy. He dismisses the thought, though, when he catches sight of the shrieking trees. It takes all of his focus to dodge through their branches and resists the calls of their desires.
In a clearing, in the middle of the forest, lies the pond. The pond, with the knowledge he desires. Gaon kneels before it and speaks in the Old Tongue, “may I please share your knowledge?” It ripples, grants access, and reaches up with its cool touch to pull him below the surface. He sinks into the oblivion, floating between nothing and everything, and when he takes a breath and looks down, he sees hands.
Hands, like the ones Yohan has. Hands, with fingers, attached to wrists, and arms. He looks up and feels the flop of hair—hair!—against his forehead. “Thank you,” Gaon whispers, the Old tongue rough in his mouth. It doesn’t quite form the vowels correctly, the consonants dipping in ways his lips cannot allow for. The pond ripples back at him, almost flirtatious, and Gaon laughs.
Laughter is warm, light. He feels as though he is floating as he laughs, until he is, his feet far from the ground. “Gaon,” Gaon says. It is his name, a gift to keep. He swallows what few fears he has and closes his eyes, to the darkness, and squeezes through the shadows until he returns to the human world.
—
The human world is different in a body. The experiences are different, and it is a startlingly overwhelming feeling, every touch lighting his skin up as though on fire, each sight new. Gaon has followed the pond’s advice and found a body close to death, a teenage boy beaten bloody in an alleyway. Gaon takes his identity and whispers soft, sweet things until the boy dies and Gaon, tearfully, covers him in the shadows. He will be welcome there, in the shadows, amongst others who will care for him and nurture him. And, Gaon hopes, the shrieking trees will not get him.
The boy is an orphan, Gaon learns, and works to keep himself afloat. Gaon accepts the challenge and searches, searches, for any which way to find information on his Yohan. Time has passed, he’s certain of it, and Gaon can feel an ache in his chest for the pain he’s sure Yohan has endured without him.
So much of the world is new to him but Gaon keeps it to himself, each new experience. Ice cream is so cold it hurts , and fires burn against him until he is numb and he watches his skin blister under the flames. It’s fascinating to watch the way human bodies are so resilient despite their fragility.
And their minds! Gaon swallows information eagerly, learning, reading, writing. The boy who he’s taken the place of was a terrible student; Gaon fixes that immediately. Gaon had not been raised in a palace of tutors to not know how to study, despite the differences so clear in their worlds. He devotes himself to the studies and furthermore, to their law. Their law is so much more fascinating than his own; his parents would scoff at his decision to remain in the human world, to learn their politics. “Unbecoming of a prince,” Gaon murmurs to himself delightedly when he thinks of it. He gets nothing but joy at the thought of irritating his parents.
“Gaon,” someone says. Min Jungho, Gaon remembers, a professor he had chosen to endear himself to for further access to information and studies. He has been placed on some court, to spy. Gaon assumes he is to spy. He doesn’t care, really, either way, it only gives him further time to look for Yohan.
Except he doesn’t need to.
He strides into the office the first day, and makes eye contact directly with the once-gentle brown eyes that would look imploringly to him to read. Yohan has grown up, truly grown up, and Gaon finds his breath taken away at Yohan’s beauty. Yohan, too, seems aware of it, if only partially, the way eyes follow him when he walks, the way his suits fit him.
Yohan’s mind screams. Gaon has not felt so much pain all at once in a long time. Not since before Yohan had even come to the house that he had come to know as home.
“Kim Gaon,” he introduces himself, as humans do, and Yohan’s head cocks at the sound of his name. His name , gifted to him by Yohan. Does he not recognise him? Does he not know? Gaon yearns for him to know.
Yohan picks at him, at the other judge, testing the boundaries. The other judge tries to remain unaffected. Gaon wants to hold Yohan in his arms again to see if he still fits against his chest.
There is no one in the office but them. Yohan holds the device he placed in his hand, tosses it up and down in the air. “Looking for this?” Yohan asks. Gaon yearns.
“No,” he says. Yohan raises an eyebrow, almost delicate, and Gaon breathes in the beauty of it. Doubt shadows the pain in Yohan’s mind and Gaon cannot help himself. “I was looking for you.”
He is still kneeling on the cold floor, by the corner of the desk on which he had placed the device.
“For me?” Yohan asks. He sounds distant, far away. Gaon wants to scream. He barely hears himself when he speaks.
“I left you.”
Yohan freezes. Every muscle in his body tenses and the hair on the back of his neck rises.
“Gaon?” he sounds foolishly hopeful. Like he can’t quite believe it. Like he doesn’t quite believe it.
Gaon rises to his feet. “Little one,” he says. The words feel different in his mouth now, more intimate.
Yohan stares at him, silent.
“Yohan?” Gaon tries again. He had never called the boy by his name, before. He had not thought the boy would like it. No one would say his name so softly, so gently. It was always a scolding, anger, hatred, fear. Yohan looks like he’s trying to not close his eyes, to not turn away.
“You’re real.” Yohan himself doesn’t seem to register he spoke. His eyes haven’t left Gaon’s face, eagerly taking him in. Like he’ll close his eyes and Gaon will disappear again.
Gaon takes a step towards him.
“I’m real,” he agrees. Yohan watches him, so utterly still. He doesn’t dare blink, doesn’t dare breathe, until Gaon’s hand touches his cheek, ever so gently, and Yohan crumbles into his arms at once. In that moment, he is once again five years old, ten years old, clinging to Gaon’s shadowy form. Gaon soothes his hand over Yohan’s back and feels the way Yohan shudders at the touch.
“You’re here,” Yohan says, finally, and pulls back to look at him. There are those wide eyes that Gaon loves, the meeting of critical thought and hopeful curiosity that Yohan could never quite hide from him.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” Gaon says softly. “I never intended to leave for that long.”
“Where did you go?” Yohan asks. He seems to struggle for a minute, as if deciding what words to say. Gaon waits patiently. “I thought maybe the ice had risen again and blocked the gates and you couldn’t-”
“You believed those stories?” Gaon interrupts, startled. The history he had presented as fairy tales for the young, curious ears of the boy. Yohan flushes. “They- are true, but I hadn’t thought you believed them.”
“You were a shadow person who lived next to my bed. I would believe anything you told me,” Yohan says. Gaon has to admit, Yohan does have a point. It was not as though Yohan hadn’t known he was merely a shadow until he was something more. “Where were you?” Yohan draws his attention again. But something else, something too…
It beeps, red. Gaon pieces it together and grabs Yohan, positioning himself to most of the explosion. He ignores the pain as he lands, and ignores the blood still as he rises to his feet, checking Yohan for injuries. There’s a small cut across his forehead, bleeding as any head wound bleeds, and Yohan seems dazed, but no further injury presents itself. “Yohan,” Gaon says. He repeats his name two, three more times before Yohan seems to hear him and focuses on him. “Yohan, we have to leave.”
“Okay,” Yohan says. He gets to his feet and immediately reaches for a nearby shelf to hold himself. Not too far outside the office, Gaon can hear security rushing towards the office. He doesn’t think, doesn’t allow himself time to think.
He grabs Yohan and concentrates on the house, moving forcefully towards the shadows. He nearly loses his grip on Yohan more than once, but pulls him, harshly, until they stumble together into the basement. Yohan is breathing heavily against him, shaking, and sinks down to the cot when he realises where they are.
“Are you okay?” Gaon asks. Yohan closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths.
“That’s how you move?” Yohan asks when he opens his eyes. Gaon can’t help but give him a slight, sheepish grin. “That was awful .”
“And I don’t like your race’s cars, but you don’t hear me complaining,” Gaon mutters under his breath. Yohan scoffs and Gaon can’t help but love him, this older Yohan, who straddles the line between too much and not enough at once.
“Stay,” Yohan says before Gaon can so much as turn. Yohan’s hand finds his wrist and, much like the child he once was, holds onto him tightly. “Please. Don’t go again.”
“I’ll always stay, little one,” Gaon promises. When he meets Yohan’s eyes, there is no doubt in them. Only promise.