Chapter Text
Today was… exhausting.
My legs ached from running nonstop on the football field, the soles of my feet still throbbed from that last sprint toward the goalpost, and my brain? Completely fried from the math test this morning that seemed like it came straight from some twisted genius' personal hell.
The sun had already dipped behind the clouds by the time I walked down the stone path leading back to the place I was supposed to call home.
But can you even call it that?
Home is supposed to be warm. It's supposed to be the smell of someone cooking your favorite meal, or arms that wrap around you after a long day, or someone asking how your test went, even if they don’t understand the equations. It’s supposed to be a place that says: you belong here.
But this house? It doesn’t say that. It never has.
The gate loomed in front of me, tall, cold, iron bars. Towering like a wall between me and some unreachable happiness. With a quiet sigh, I stepped through as it creaked open, bowing politely to the guards at the entrance.
"Welcome back, young master," one of them said with a kind smile.
I smiled back out of habit. My father, Jihoon always reminded me, “Be kind to everyone, Jungwon. Status doesn’t make anyone more human than another.” And I always tried. I always listened to him.
Jihoon... he tried so hard to make this house feel like home. Always tucking me in when I was younger, always encouraging me before exams. But I saw the pain in his eyes when he thought I wasn't looking. Like he was constantly bracing himself for rejection. For silence. For cold.
And that coldness?
Was him.
Choi Seungcheol.
My other adoptive father.
He was standing by the main hall when I entered. His back, broad and straight, faced me as he stared silently at the painting hung above the fireplace. It was always that painting. Painted eyes, brown and soft like a cat’s, striking, even to someone like me who didn’t care much for art. There was so much detail in them, so much longing captured in every stroke, that even I, who had grown numb to beauty in this house, paused every time I passed it.
The maids whispered sometimes. They thought I wasn’t listening. But I always was.
They spoke of a boy, Seungcheol’s first love. Beautiful, they said. Someone he had cherished quietly, painfully. Someone who had died years ago. Someone who loved another man.
And Jihoon… the one Seungcheol married, the one who brought warmth to this icebox of a home... wasn’t that boy.
The story they whispered painted Jihoon as some replacement. A consolation prize. It made me sick to think about it.
Because Jihoon loved Seungcheol. That much was obvious. Even a child could see it. And Seungcheol? He couldn’t even look Jihoon in the eye, let alone give him a sliver of what he deserved.
And then there’s me.
I don’t know where I came from. I don’t remember a mother or a father before this house. I don’t even know if I was abandoned or if someone out there is still looking for me. Whenever I asked, they gave vague answers. Jihoon would always smile softly and say, “You will understand when the time is right.” And the maids would go quiet, as if they had seen ghosts.
But I do know this. Seungcheol was the one who adopted me. Not Jihoon. Him.
And yet, he can’t hold my gaze for more than ten seconds. Ten seconds, and he looks away like he has seen something painful. Something he regrets. His words to me are cold. Measured. Like a stranger trying to keep up appearances.
Why adopt me, then?
Why bring me here, if you weren’t going to love me?
I have asked him once. And I have asked Jihoon. Over and over.
Why did you take me in?
Why am I here?
And I never got an answer.
Don’t get me wrong.
My father, Jihoon, he loved me. With every breath in his small, tired body. He was the one who stayed up with me when I had fevers that burned like fire, his cold palms brushing across my forehead with a gentleness I could never forget. He knew every little thing about me, my favorite color (green, like the trees I always wanted to climb), my favorite animal (cats, of course), and even how I like my eggs cooked (runny yolk, crispy edges).
He helped me with math when numbers started to dance around my tired brain. He never missed a single school play, even when it meant leaving work early or showing up in a suit covered in blueprints. Jihoon was always there.
But still… sometimes, he would look at me with this complex swirl of emotions in his eyes. Something like pain, love, longing and something else I couldn’t name. Like he was holding a secret too big to tell. One he was afraid might break us both.
And then… there were other things.
Whispers. Rumors I overheard from the maids. Gossip that tasted like magic.
That my parents Jihoon and Seungcheol would never age.
And not just them.
When I turned ten, I started noticing it. The guards never looked older. The maids didn’t change. Not one new wrinkle. Not one new gray hair. Time stood still in this house like we were caught inside some fairytale except fairytales are supposed to be happy, aren’t they?
I shook the thoughts away, adjusting the weight of my bag higher on my shoulder. I was tired. I just wanted to eat dinner and rest.
As I walked toward the dining room, I passed by him.
Seungcheol.
I didn’t want to look at him. I tried to pass without saying anything. I could feel the weight of his gaze, like always but something was different today. I sighed quietly.
And then…
He sighed too.
I blinked. That… was new.
His lips curled slightly, like a flicker of amusement. Was he smiling? I didn’t dare check. I kept walking toward Jihoon, who stood by the doorway waiting for me, warm and familiar.
And then
“Are you back?”
I stopped mid-step.
Seungcheol never… ever spoke to me like that. Not first. Not like he cared.
I didn’t turn around. My voice was small. “Yes.”
Jihoon smiled at me, his eyes soft and full of something that felt like pride… and worry. Always worry.
And then Seungcheol said something that made Jihoon freeze, his expression crumpling like paper.
“Jungwon, do you want to know who your real parents are?”
My heart skipped.
What?
I turned around sharply. “What did you say?”
Seungcheol stood in front of the same painting he always did. The one with those cat-like brown eyes.
“I said, do you want to know who your real parents are?” Seungcheol repeated, still not looking at me, “you have his eyes. My love’s… pretty brown eyes.”
He turned.
And for the first time in years, maybe ever, he looked at me. Really looked at me.
His gaze didn’t waver.
“You have your birth father’s eyes,” he said slowly, softly, “the love of my life. And the face… of the man I will forever hate.”
My breath caught.
I didn’t know what to say. But my lips moved anyway. “Are those… his eyes? The lover? Your only love?”
Seungcheol nodded. “Hmm.”
“And your papa…”
He reached forward and pressed something near the painting. There was a click, a hidden mechanism unlocking.
The wall shifted.
And what I had thought was merely wallpaper peeled away, like a curtain being pulled back on a stage.
Behind it was the full portrait.
A young man. Ethereal. Cat-like brown eyes that shimmered with softness. Long, red-wine-colored hair falling past his shoulders. A white shirt, open at the collar. The face looked back at me like a ghost from my dreams. A face I had never seen but somehow… felt like I had known forever.
Underneath the painting, in gold lettering, were words:
"My greatest love, Shua."
And my whole world tilted.