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In the end, Junho had made a smart call. A damn smart call.
The dive packs hidden in the cavern meant for emergency evacuations or delivering organs weren’t supposed to be common knowledge. But Junho had found them. Of course he had. That stubborn, relentless mind of his, always digging, always probing for a way out.
By the time Inho stormed into his office and discovered the emergency chute under the table ajar, his heart had already sunk not out of fear, but frustration that he has to chase Junho like cat and mouse.
He opened the hatch and peered down into the narrow, dark shaft.
And there he was.
Junho.
Standing at the bottom, gaze locked upward. Their eyes met for the briefest second, and even though Junho didn’t know who was behind the black geometrical mask, it didn’t matter.
Junho didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.
He just turned and ran.
“This little brat.” Inho muttered under his breath, the words a strange mix of anger, awe, and something almost like pride. Even now, Junho was still one step ahead.
But he wouldn't stay ahead for long.
Within minutes, Inho had assembled a small pursuit team of trusted guards who wouldn’t ask questions. A quick track of the dive pack meant his brother had made it off the island, likely surfacing on one of the smaller neighboring islands used for surveillance and supply drops.
The ride was short, but for Inho, it felt like it stretched across years.
He stood at the bow of the boat, masked and silent, wind whipping against his coat as the jagged silhouette of the islet came into view. The sea foamed at its edges, crashing against the cliffs like some ancient warning.
They were close.
When they reached the shore, it wasn’t subtle. Inho had shot the oxygen tank Junho had used to surface, partly to prevent any chance of another escape route.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
Some part of him, the part that still remembered late nights sneaking snacks to Junho as kids, or dragging him out of trouble before their mom found out, wanted Junho to know.
I’m here.
And I’m not letting you disappear again.
Junho ran.
Of course he ran.
They chased him through the trees, across rocks slick with ocean spray, higher and higher until there was nowhere left to go but up. And then, finally, there was only sky and stone and the roaring sea below.
The cliff.
Inho slowed his pace, gesturing for his guards to hold back as Junho turned, cornered and breathless, at the edge. He had that same look in his eyes that Inho remembered from childhood. Wide, desperate, and defiant. A trapped animal. A little brother who knew the odds were against him but refused to surrender.
They exchanged words, harsh, bitter things layered with years of silence and betrayal.
Then, it happened.
The gunshot rang out sharp and sudden.
Junho had pulled the trigger.
Pain exploded in Inho’s shoulder, and he staggered a step backward, hand flying to the wound. His guards raised their weapons instantly, reflexes primed to eliminate threats. But Inho forced them to stand down.
His breath came heavy, shallow from pain. He stepped forward anyway, one slow movement at a time, blood dripping from his shoulder and mixing with the dirt at his feet.
And then, in a single motion, he raised his hands to remove the mask.
Junho’s expression cracked for a second.
Beneath the hard lines of resistance, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition. Hesitation. Maybe even grief. His grip on the pistol wavered.
Then came the word, soft and barely carried over the roaring wind:
“Hyung.”
It hit Inho harder than the bullet Junho had lodged in his shoulder. That single word. So small, so familiar, punched straight through the layers of masks, uniforms, and years of silence.
When was the last time he’d heard it? When Junho still looked up to him? When they were still brothers and not… this?
Inho’s lips parted, breath catching in his throat.
Slowly, he raised his uninjured hand. Open. Unarmed. Reaching.
“Let’s go,” He said quietly, like he was offering more than just safety. “Make this easy.”
For a second, Junho didn’t move.
Then, he exhaled sharply, like the breath carried the weight of something too heavy to keep inside and shook his head. His lips parted, trying to form something but no words came. Just silence and salt air.
His feet edged back again, gravel kicking over the edge.
Inho’s stomach twisted.
Too close.
The guards behind him couldn’t hear what was said over the howl of wind and waves. But they were watching. Dozens of masked eyes, waiting to see how their leader handled an armed intruder. If Inho let his brother walk away unharmed, even injured, someone would notice. Questions would be asked. Whispers would grow.
It wouldn’t take long for rumors to rise. And in a place like this, rumors were as dangerous as bullets.
Inho’s hand dropped from the air.
And then slowly, reluctantly, he raised the other. The one holding the gun.
His finger trembled over the trigger. Not from fear. From everything else.
The thought alone made him nauseous. Pointing a weapon at Junho? The boy he used to carry on his back? The one who used to fall asleep on the couch during crime dramas, clinging to him like he was some kind of hero?
But this wasn’t about heroism.
This was about survival.
Then Junho spoke again, low, steady, and devastating.
“If you don’t let me come back… I’ll end my own life.”
The words landed like a blade sliding clean between Inho’s ribs.
For a moment, everything went still.
Junho was standing at the edge, his posture rigid, but his eyes... they were soft now. Tired. Like he’d been carrying this threat with him long before this moment like it wasn’t a bluff, but a plan. A last resort folded neatly in the back of his mind.
And he’d pulled it out not as a weapon against Inho, but as a mirror.
Because this wasn’t just about escaping the island.
This was Junho telling him: You left me no other way out.
Inho’s throat closed. His hand trembled slightly at his side, the one still holding the gun. He wanted to tell him don’t be stupid. Don’t say that. Don’t do this, but his voice wouldn’t come.
He shifted the gun slightly and squeezed the trigger.
The shot rang out, echoing across the cliffside. Junho jerked as the bullet tore into his shoulder, stumbling backward, his balance lost to gravity and shock.
Junho hadn’t expected the threat to actually work.
When he’d said the words “I’ll end my own life”, he’d been bluffing. Or at least, that’s what he told himself afterward. He hadn’t expected Inho to react, hadn’t expected that flicker of pain across his brother’s usually unreadable face. And he definitely hadn’t expected permission.
Yet he was here.
The boat engine sputtered into silence behind him as he stepped onto the dock. The weathered planks groaned under his boots, damp with sea spray and age. The wind curled around him, sharp with the scent of salt, seaweed, and distant rain. Waves lapped against the pylons in an endless hush-hush whisper, like they knew secrets they’d never share.
Ahead, the mouth of the cave yawned open in the cliffside, a dark gash in the rock that looked far too familiar.
More familiar than he was comfortable admitting.
With a steady breath, Junho adjusted the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder and ducked into the cave. His steps were automatic, like muscle memory guiding him through a place he hadn’t visited in a long time but had never quite forgotten.
The tunnel twisted like a vein through the stone, its walls slick with condensation. Eventually, it led him to the narrow steel ladder.
Junho grabbed the first rung. The climb was slow, each pull of his arms echoing in the dead silence. No footsteps but his own. No cameras buzzing that he could see. But he knew better. Eyes were always watching here.
At the top, the chute door came into view, heavy, rectangular, and industrial. It wasn’t locked.
He pushed it open with a grunt, his muscles aching from the effort, and pulled himself up into the room beyond. His breath caught slightly as he stood.
It was exactly the same.
A sleek couch in soft gray sat dead center, the cushions slightly indented. The glass coffee table gleamed under the low ceiling light. The TV screen was black. The old music box on the side table remained shut, dustless.
Junho closed the hatch with a soft thud, the sound swallowed instantly by the suffocating quiet of the office.
And then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft and unhurried, but distinct against the smooth flooring. The door down the hall creaked open, and there he was.
Inho.
His hair hung loose, damp from a recent shower, dark strands clinging to his forehead and neck. Droplets trailed down the collar of his black sweater, soaking into the fabric like rain. His eyes met Junho’s and for a moment, they widened slightly.
“Junh—” Inho started.
But Junho was already moving.
The space between them vanished in a heartbeat. Three fast, angry strides and Junho was in front of him, fists clenched, eyes burning. Before Inho could say another word, Junho grabbed a fistful of his damp sweater near the collar and yanked him forward.
“Why?” Junho spat. His voice was sharp, jagged. “Why are you doing this?”
Inho opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come fast enough, not before Junho’s fist drove hard into his shoulder.
The hit wasn’t clean, but it was enough. Inho staggered back a step, one hand catching the edge of the wall to steady himself. He didn’t raise his fists, didn’t flinch. He just looked at Junho with this maddening, quiet expression. Like he expected this.
That only made Junho angrier.
“Say something!” Junho barked. He lunged again, shoving Inho with both hands this time. “Or does the great leader only kill people from behind a mask now?”
Inho’s back hit the hallway wall with a dull thud, his breath catching. Still, he didn’t retaliate. He stood there, jaw tight, hair dripping, eyes unreadable.
Junho’s chest heaved. His voice broke, “What are you even doing, hyung? Why are you running the Games?”
He slammed his hand into Inho’s chest again, “Did you know the hell I went through? When I infiltrated this place? When I watched people beg for their lives in a room you controlled?”
Silence. Still no answer.
Junho pulled back his arm, fists clenched again and swung.
This one connected.
A clean right hook across Inho’s cheek, the kind of punch Junho had been holding onto since the day he hit the water. Inho’s head snapped to the side. He swayed, hand brushing his face, but he didn’t fall. He didn’t even raise a hand to block the next one.
Junho pushed him again, breath ragged.
“You made me think you were dead,” He said, voice cracking. “You disappeared. Then I find out you’re alive and running this. And when I got too close, what did you do? You shot me.”
Finally, Inho spoke. Quiet. Low. Like dragging words through gravel.
“You weren’t supposed to find me.”
“That’s bullshit!” Junho exploded, his voice echoing off the steel and stone. “You don’t get to disappear and expect me not to look for you!”
He was trembling not with fear, but with years of frustration and grief boiling over.
“You don’t get to disappear and expect me not to look for you! I’m your brother! I looked for you every goddamn day after you vanished.” He stared at Inho, chest rising and falling, breathing like he’d just come out of a warzone.
Inho remained leaning against the wall, cheek swelling, a faint smear of blood trailing from the corner of his lip. He slowly wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Then he looked up.
“If you’re here to ask why I did what I did,” Inho said, voice level and cold. “You should leave.”
The words landed like a blade between them.
“And don’t come back looking for me.”
Junho didn’t flinch, but his body stilled. The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was heavy with everything Inho didn’t say. The cliff. The gunshot. The years Junho had spent combing through the dark trying to find a ghost in a brother-shaped hole.
He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste iron. That same old wall, built brick by brick after Inho’s wife died, was still there. Junho had bruised himself against it too many times. But this time… this time, he could see the fractures.
He saw the way Inho didn’t meet his eyes. The way his jaw tensed just slightly when he said “don’t come back.” The way his hand, still stained from Junho’s punch, didn’t tremble but hovered, like it wanted to reach out again.
Junho’s voice, when it finally came, was softer.
“So if we don’t talk about this…” Junho said slowly, the words fragile as glass. “If we leave it alone—”
He trailed off, eyes locked on Inho’s, searching. For what, he wasn’t sure. Regret, maybe. Guilt. Or some buried flicker of the brother he used to know, the one who used to sneak him snacks past bedtime and walk him to school when it rained.
“…You’ll let me visit?”
It wasn’t a demand. Not an accusation. Just a quiet offering. A plea dressed up in detachment.
The air between them stretched tight and thin. Junho could feel his pulse in his throat. He knew what he was asking, knew what he was willing to trade for it. Truth, justice, answers… all things he had once fought for. But none of them could fill the ache that opened up every time he remembered that he used to have a brother.
Inho didn’t speak at first.
He just turned his head slightly, eyes drifting toward the far wall. A blank space, pale in the dim overhead light. It wasn’t avoidance. Junho recognized that now. It was restraint. It was the kind of silence that came from not knowing how to be known anymore.
When Inho finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Lower.
“You follow the rules,” he said. “You stay out of the lower levels. You don’t snoop. You don’t ask questions.”
A pause.
“…Then you can visit.”
Junho blinked, processing the words as they settled into him. Simple. Conditional. But not impossible.
It was a deal. A line in the sand.
Keep your head down, don’t dig, and in return, you get a few stolen hours with your brother. That selfish, desperate part of Junho clung to the offer like it was air.
He told himself he could pretend. He’d done it before at the cemetery, in interrogation rooms, in empty apartments where the only thing louder than the silence was the hope that maybe Inho was still alive.
So now that he was… how could Junho walk away?
He let out a slow breath, felt it shake on the way out. His shoulders dropped just slightly, the fight beginning to drain from his limbs. The ache in his fists softened into a dull pulse.
“Okay,” He murmured, the word catching in his throat. “I can do that.”
And just like that, the air shifted. It didn’t get warmer, but it was… looser. Less brittle. A silent agreement hung between them like a thread pulled tight: no questions, no digging, only silence.
Just two brothers in a room that felt more like a bunker than a home.
The next few hours passed in a quiet that bordered on unbearable.
Junho sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, arms folded, shoulders hunched slightly as he watched Inho from across the room. His older brother was seated at his desk, hunched over a clutter of papers and files. The soft hum of the tablet pen sliding across the surface and the occasional sound of paper rustling were the only things breaking the silence.
Junho shifted. The bed creaked beneath him. He cleared his throat.
“What’s that?” He asked, nodding toward the stack Inho was working through.
Inho didn’t look up, “Paperwork.”
“For the Games?”
Inho’s head lifted sharply.
His eyes cut across the room, flat and unreadable. Junho immediately regretted it.
“Sorry,” Junho muttered, looking away, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. His voice was quieter this time. “Force of habit.”
Inho’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, then he exhaled a slow, tired breath. He reached into the drawer beside the desk, pulling out a sleek tablet and tossed it in a clean arc across the room.
Junho caught it by reflex, startled.
“Go watch a show or something.” Inho said, already turning back to his files. Like that was enough to erase the moment. Like the weight of everything could be muted with streaming services.
Junho looked down at the tablet in his hands. The screen lit up with a quiet chime. It was simple and minimalistic. The background was the default gray-blue, no custom photos, no personality. It had the cold efficiency of a device designed only to serve, not to belong.
He swiped through it slowly.
No KakaoTalk. No app store. No browser. Just a few pre-installed entertainment apps, dramas, old movies, and a puzzle game that looked like it hadn’t been touched.
He almost laughed. Of course, Inho had given him a locked-down, scrubbed-clean tablet. Even his distractions came with rules.
Junho leaned back against the headboard; knees drawn up slightly as he settled in. He wasn’t really in the mood to watch anything, but he opened a random show anyway. Just to fill the room with some kind of noise.
Not a word was exchanged for the next hour.
The flickering light from the tablet cast soft shadows against the ceiling. Inho scribbled on and off, occasionally pausing to flip a page, type something, or glance at the monitor. Junho didn’t push again. He knew the lines now, knew not to cross them.
But he noticed the way Inho’s gaze flicked toward him now and then. Just for a second. Just to check.
It wasn’t trust.
But it wasn’t distance either.
The second time Junho visited was a week later. He had bombarded Captain Park into giving him a time to head to the island, practically wearing the man down with his relentless talking.
“I know you are in contact with the leader!”
“Tell him Junho wants to see him!”
Junho had insisted, but Captain Park kept insisting he had no idea, shrugging and shaking his head.
Finally on a Friday evening, Captain Park texted him back, telling him to meet at the pier the next morning.
Junho didn’t waste a second, barely able to contain his nervousness. Before he knew it, he was already standing in front of the snack aisle at the convenience store, scrutinizing the shelves as if it were a matter of life and death.
He tossed a few bags of chips into his basket, hesitated over some microwaveable meals, then grabbed a couple of instant ramen cups, adding them to his haul. There was something about the idea of sharing food with Inho that seemed... familiar. Like a small piece of their past, before everything had fallen apart.
When Saturday morning came, Junho was practically running to the pier. His heart beat faster with each step, the cool wind whipping past him as the distant island came into view.
Once on the island, Junho followed the usual path, climbing the familiar ladder to Inho’s office. He was met by the same muted light and quiet space. But this time, when he stepped through the door, he wasn’t met with the cold, mechanical atmosphere.
Inho was sitting on the couch, a blanket draped over his lap, a book opened in front of him. He didn’t look up when Junho entered, lost in whatever pages he was reading. The sight of his brother like this, so unexpectedly normal had thrown Junho off guard.
“Hyung?” Junho’s voice was quieter than usual. His heart was still pounding in his chest, but the rush of adrenaline was now mingled with something softer.
Inho didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge his presence right away. He simply turned a page, eyes still fixed on the text. Junho hesitated in the room, feeling awkward again.
Finally, Inho’s voice broke the silence, calm and indifferent, “Pour me a glass of whiskey.”
Junho’s stomach tightened at the request.
"What?" His voice was a little sharper now, edged with disbelief. “Alcohol this early in the morning? Absolutely not.”
He stormed over to the wet bar, his movements quick. His fingers fumbled for a glass, but he couldn’t focus. His mind kept drifting back to the coldness in Inho’s tone, to the way his brother hadn’t even looked at him, let alone greeted him.
Junho grabbed a glass and opened the mini fridge, pulling out a pitcher of water. He filled the glass, the sound of the liquid oddly loud in the quiet room. Then, he carried it over to Inho and handed it to him.
Inho’s eyes flickered toward the glass for a moment before he took it without a word, his hand brushing against Junho’s as he accepted it. Junho exhaled through his nose, frustrated but unwilling to give up. He dropped the bag of snacks onto the table in front of Inho, watching as his brother glanced down at them, not with interest, but with the faintest of dismissive glances.
"I brought some snacks," Junho said, carrying an undercurrent of hope. "Thought we could… eat something together."
Inho didn’t look up, “Not hungry.”
Junho’s jaw clenched. He had expected resistance, sure, but this? This cold indifference? It hit him harder than he’d anticipated. He tried to push it down, but the disappointment gnawed at him. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Inho, maybe just a sign that they could still be something close to brothers, but this wasn’t it. And it stung.
He pouted slightly but tried to hide it behind a forced nonchalance as he grabbed a bag of chips. He opened it with a sharp rip, the crinkle of the bag loud in the otherwise quiet room. Junho tossed the bag onto his lap and flopped down onto the other side of the couch, careful to maintain a distance that wasn’t too close but also not too far.
With a sigh, he grabbed the remote and started flipping through the channels, his mind not really on the TV. He could feel Inho’s eyes on him for a brief second, but when he looked up, his brother was back to his book, not even acknowledging his presence.
He shoved a chip into his mouth, chewing slowly, the crunching sound too loud against the tension. He kept his focus on the TV, but it was clear that his mind was elsewhere.
After a few minutes, he turned the volume down a bit, looking over at Inho. The book was still in his hands, but his eyes were a little less focused now, a little more distant.
“You still read these days?” Junho asked, his voice quieter than before. It was a silly question, he knew, but it was the first thing that came to his mind, and maybe the first small piece of normal they could hold onto.
“Yeah,” Inho answered, his voice low but not unkind. “Keeps my mind busy.”
Junho nodded, though the response didn’t satisfy him. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He didn’t want to hear about keeping busy. He wanted to hear that Inho had been thinking about him, even if just a little, over the years.
But there was nothing more to say about that, at least not now. The silence fell again, thick and heavy, but Junho didn’t want to press it further.
So, with a quiet sigh, he decided it was time to go. He pushed himself off the couch, the momentary relief of the conversation leaving him only to be replaced by the familiar ache of distance.
As Junho stood up, he started to reach for the snacks to pack them back into his bag. But just as his fingers touched the edges of the snack bags, Inho’s voice sliced through the quiet.
“Leave it there.”
Junho froze for a moment, the words hanging in the air. His eyes flicked over to Inho, who hadn’t even looked up from his book. Inho’s gaze was still fixed on the pages, but Junho could see his brother’s focus wasn’t on the book anymore. His posture, stiff and unyielding a moment ago, had softened just enough for Junho to notice the subtle change.
He hesitated, then slowly set the snacks back down on the table. A small, almost reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his lips, one he quickly suppressed. It was a small victory, a tiny concession, but it felt significant, like Inho was quietly acknowledging him without saying it outright.
"Alright." Junho replied, his voice quieter than he intended. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and moved to the chute under the table.
Before he could lower himself into the narrow tunnel, Inho’s voice cut through the silence again, low but steady.
“And bring some spicy ramen next time.”
The words hit Junho like a wave of surprise, and he stopped mid-step. A small laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He glanced up at Inho, who still hadn’t looked up from his book. Junho shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Fine.” He said, his tone half-exasperated, half-amused. It was such a small, absurd thing to ask for, but it felt like an unspoken invitation to come back, a gesture of connection, even if it was wrapped in his brother’s usual gruffness.
With a final glance at his brother, Junho descended into the chute, the door clicking shut behind him.
The following visits became routine. At first, the silence between Junho and Inho was thick, awkward, and stifling, but over time, it settled into something more familiar, if not entirely comfortable. Junho would arrive early, always eager but uncertain, and find Inho in one of two places: either the bedroom where he seemed most at ease, or the living room.
Every time, Junho would knock lightly before entering, making sure he didn’t intrude too abruptly. He didn’t ask questions; there was no need. Inho didn’t offer much in the way of conversation either, his responses clipped and reserved.
But Junho wasn’t about to let the silence crush the small connection he was trying to rebuild. The visits were nothing like what he’d imagined in his mind, though he knew this was all he could expect for now. It was a start.
Each visit, Junho brought something. Mostly snacks in the form of chips, fruit, and little packaged treats he picked up at the convenience store. Sometimes, when he wanted to be more thoughtful, he brought leftovers from their mother’s cooking. A stew or rice cakes, whatever was left from the dinner table, neatly packed and wrapped in the tupperware.
He’d set the food on the table carefully arranging everything like it mattered. Inho rarely commented on it, but Junho didn’t expect him to. What mattered was the quiet ritual of it. Junho didn’t press Inho to acknowledge the gesture, but he kept bringing the leftovers, sometimes even the dishes that Inho had favored the most when they were younger.
It wasn’t long before Junho began to notice a pattern. Inho never said anything directly, but when he was alone, he would pick up the same food over and over again, small signs that showed Inho still enjoyed their mother’s cooking, that the taste of home hadn’t entirely faded from his memory.
One evening, Junho brought a small box of rice cakes, still warm from the stove. He placed them on the table between them, setting down a few bowls of kimchi as well. It was the kind of meal their mother had often made, and Junho could almost hear her voice in the back of his mind, reminding them to eat properly, to finish their meals.
Inho glanced at the food but didn’t say anything at first. He picked up a rice cake with his chopsticks, the movement slow and deliberate, as though he was savoring it, even if he didn’t admit it. Junho watched him, quiet, his heart thumping lightly in his chest.
Then, Inho met his gaze for a moment before muttering, “Thanks.”
Junho blinked, surprised by the words. He hadn’t expected his brother to speak, let alone thank him for the small gesture. His throat tightened, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he picked up his own chopsticks and dug into the food.
Over the weeks that followed, Junho began to feel a quiet sense of ownership over his visits, like he was carving out a small space for himself in a place that had felt so foreign just a short time ago.
He had started off hesitant, unsure of how to approach his brother, but now he was getting bolder, more determined to bridge the gap between them, even if it was through small, often silly gestures.
One afternoon, while walking through a shopping mall on his way to the pier, Junho found himself in front of an arcade. He hadn’t even planned to stop, but something about the bright colors of the machines and the sound of the prizes clinking together caught his attention. He walked in, curiosity getting the better of him, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of a claw machine, dropping in coins without a second thought.
It was a ridiculous thing, really. He hadn’t played an arcade game in years, not since he was younger. But the idea of winning anything that might bring a little bit of warmth to Inho’s somber existence felt strangely right.
He pulled the joystick in time with the machine’s mechanical click, and after a few tries, the claw successfully grabbed a plush bear. Then a dog. And then, a penguin. By the time he was done, Junho had a small stack of plush toys, his arms full of colorful, fluffy animals.
Junho didn’t even hesitate. He knew exactly what he was going to do.
The next morning, when he showed up at Inho’s island hideout, he placed the plush toys carefully on the couch, one by one. The bear landed on the corner, the penguin nestled between the cushions, and the dog sat proudly on the armrest. Junho stepped back and grinned, feeling a rush of satisfaction.
Inho didn’t react right away when he entered the living room and saw the plushies on his couch. Junho, undeterred, tossed a casual comment in the air.
“Hey, I got you some new friends,” He said, grinning. “Hope they’re not too much of a bother.”
“Junho, this is ridiculous,” Inho said, his tone flat. “You’re wasting your money.”
But Junho wasn’t discouraged. The toys stayed where he put them, untouched by Inho’s dismissal. In fact, when he returned the next time, they were still there.
The next time Junho brought a small potted plant, something green and low maintenance. He placed it next to Inho’s desk, the tiny leaves contrasting sharply against the sterile surroundings. He also found a few colorful coasters at the store and added them to the coffee table in the living room.
“Brought a little nature for you,” Junho said as he set the plant down, his voice light. “You know, to brighten up the place.”
Inho glanced over but didn’t comment. He simply sighed, pushing a few files to the side on the desk.
“You’re unbelievable.” He muttered.
But still, everything remained. Junho felt a little thrill every time he saw the toys and the plant and with each visit, he started adding more random things that seemed like they'd bring some warmth into Inho’s isolated world. A framed photo of a beach they had once visited together, a small figurine of a bear he found at a flea market, a tiny snow globe he had found on sale that he placed on the shelf by the door.
And, most importantly, every time he added something new, it felt like he was slowly chipping away at the walls Inho had built up around himself, one ridiculous plush toy at a time.
Finally, one night, Junho decided to be a bit braver. He stopped in front of Inho’s bedroom, glancing at his brother who was head buried in paperwork as usual.
“Hyung?” Junho’s voice was softer than usual, a nervousness creeping in. “Do you want to watch a movie tonight?”
Inho didn’t respond immediately. For a moment, it was as though he hadn’t heard at all, his focus still locked on whatever was in front of him. Junho shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling awkward in the stillness. He half expected Inho to brush him off, to tell him to leave him alone, as he often did. After all, why would Inho want to watch a movie with him? He could hardly remember the last time they had done something like that
But then, surprisingly, Inho lowered his tablet, eyes flicking toward Junho.
“Sure,” He said, seemingly unbothered, but the lack of dismissiveness took Junho off guard.
“Really?” Junho blinked, not fully processing the answer for a moment.
Inho gave him a look, “I’m going to change my mind.”
“Nope, this is fine. I’ll pour you some whiskey!” Junho said, quickly hurrying to the wet bar to pour a drink. His mind was already racing with excitement. This is real, he thought to himself. We’re actually going to do something together. He fumbled with the remote, flipping through the options as Inho leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed, observing.
The movie Junho finally settled on was a random action-thriller, something light and distracting, hoping that the action scenes might make things feel less awkward between them. He threw himself onto the couch, grabbing a handful of chips he’d brought along, and gestured to the empty spot beside him.
“Come on, hyung.” Junho said, a small, playful smirk on his face.
Inho didn’t argue. With a soft sigh, he slid onto the couch, but he kept a decent amount of distance between them. Junho’s heart fluttered at the small victory. They were actually sitting side by side, watching a movie. They hadn’t done that in so long.
The movie began, and for the first few minutes, neither of them spoke. The sounds of action on the screen filled the room, but Junho noticed how Inho kept glancing at the screen more than he had expected. Was he actually interested? Or was he just humoring Junho?
It wasn’t until a pivotal scene came on, one where the main character was forced into a dangerous chase through a crumbling city, that Inho spoke.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, not exactly in a derogatory way, but more out of observation. “They’re just throwing logic out the window.”
Junho couldn’t help but laugh. “What do you mean? It’s supposed to be fun. I don’t think the movie’s supposed to be realistic.”
Inho glanced at him, an eyebrow raised, “Fun? You can’t watch a movie like this without thinking about the plot holes.”
“No, no, no!” Junho protested, waving his hand. “You’ve got to shut your brain off for movies like these. Just let it happen.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t just awkward silence between them. They were actually talking. About a movie, of all things.
But still, it felt like the kind of conversation brothers would have. They bantered about the ridiculousness of the plot, joked about the actors' performances, and even commented on the special effects, which Junho thought were absolutely absurd but incredibly fun.
Soon enough, Inho was engaging more than Junho had expected, offering his own sarcastic remarks about the characters’ decisions. Junho couldn’t remember the last time they had shared something so normal, so easy. His excitement only grew as they discussed the movie, and he realized that he was happy, even if it was fleeting. This was what he had wanted all along.
As the movie neared its climax, Junho’s eyelids began to droop. The exhaustion from the long day finally catching up to him, he yawned, stretching out slightly on the couch, unable to fight the pull of sleep.
He was dimly aware of Inho still sitting beside him, his posture relaxed but not entirely comfortable. But before he knew it, the last thing Junho heard was the sound of an explosion in the movie, and then... nothing.
Inho barely moved in time as Junho's body slumped sideways, the weight of his little brother’s tiredness pulling him off balance.
Without thinking, Inho quickly reached out, his arm instinctively finding its way around Junho’s back. He steadied him, guiding him gently onto his shoulder as Junho’s head came to rest there, soft and warm.
Inho let out a quiet sigh, his chest heavy with emotions he hadn’t expected. His thumb brushed lightly over Junho’s forehead, pushing stray strands of hair back. The gesture, so small, felt familiar. It reminded him of when Junho was a child, always seeking comfort in the simplest ways. And now, as an adult, still seeking it, though this time it was in the form of silence rather than words.
After everything that had happened, the years of distance, the scars they both carried, Inho had assumed their relationship was beyond repair. Even when Junho had shown up, Inho hadn’t expected this quiet persistence, this willingness to follow the unspoken rules Inho had set up. No questions. No pushing for answers.
But Junho had agreed. And there was something in that agreement, in the way Junho had silently accepted the boundaries Inho had laid out, that softened something inside of him.
The truth was simpler than Inho had been willing to admit for a long time. He had missed Junho too. More than he cared to acknowledge, more than he was willing to say out loud. The years of running the Games, of overseeing every detail of the operation, had consumed him. He'd become buried in paperwork, budget reviews, meetings with various officials, and preparations for the Games' next season.
And now Junho was here, sitting beside him, leaning into him in a way that Inho hadn’t thought possible.
For years, Inho had been alone in this place, hiding behind his responsibilities, burying the feeling of loss under layers of duty. But in this moment, with Junho resting his head on his shoulder, Inho was reminded that they still had each other.
With a soft exhale, Inho slowly shifted his body, mindful not to disturb Junho. He turned the TV off with a quiet click, the sound of the screen fading into the background. He stood up carefully, the familiar heaviness of Junho in his arms almost making him falter. His little brother had always been heavier than he looked, and tonight was no exception.
Inho adjusted his grip and began the slow, careful process of carrying him to the bedroom, trying not to jostle Junho too much.
It took a moment to get to the bedroom, but Inho didn’t mind. He had all the time in the world for this. When he finally reached the bed, Inho carefully set Junho down, easing him onto the soft mattress. His little brother’s body curled slightly as Inho gently shifted him, making sure he was comfortable. Junho didn’t stir.
For a long while, he just stood there lingering by the bedside, lost in thought. His emotions were a jumble of grief and longing, emotions that he thought weren’t possible for someone like him anymore. There was so much he’d buried, so many things he’d pushed aside.
It was then that Inho allowed himself to feel something that had been missing for so long. For the first time in what felt like years, he let go of the unyielding tension in his chest. He allowed himself to be human again.
In a rare and quiet moment of vulnerability, Inho leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Junho’s forehead.
“Goodnight, Junho-ah.”
With a final exhale, Inho reached for the switch, turning the lights off.
By morning, Junho was gone.
Inho found the the living space too quiet, too empty. But on the counter, beneath a bottle of water and beside an unopened spicy ramen cup, lay a simple sticky note written in Junho’s rushed scrawl:
Don’t forget to eat.
There was no mention of when he’d be back. No promise, no date.
But Inho didn’t need one.
He knew.
Junho would come through that chute, backpack full of snacks, maybe a stray plushie from a claw machine, and that same stubborn grin he wore. The same one Inho hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for all this time.
Inho picked up the note, his fingers running over the paper like it might fade if he didn’t hold on to it. He walked back into the bedroom. Junho’s side of the bed neatly made, the folds crisp, the blankets tucked in the way he used to when they were kids, and their mother made them redo it three times.
Inho sat at his desk, the silence not quite as heavy now. Still holding the note, Inho reached forward and pressed it to the side of his monitor. Let it stick, let it stay, let it remind him:
Junho would always find his way back...
... And Inho would always be here waiting for him.