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Glass shards glinted in the air like falling stars. Flames curled hungrily along the cracked floor. The sharp scent of smoke filled Yohan’s lungs, and the only thing louder than the roaring flames was the thunder of his heart as he dragged an unconscious Gaon out of the collapsed office.
Later, Yohan would insist he only had a minor head wound—a clean slice above his eyebrow. Gaon, however, hadn’t stirred once.
He hadn’t stirred when the paramedics arrived.
Hadn’t stirred in the hospital bed while Yohan watched from the corner, shirt bloodied at the back from a deep gash near his shoulder.
And when the doctors finally allowed discharge, Gaon still hadn’t woken up.
So Yohan brought him home.
The sun was already dipping when Yohan laid Gaon gently in one of the mansion’s guest beds. His white button-up shirts hung loose on Gaon’s frame, sleeves falling to his knuckles. Black slacks sat a little low on his hips. Yohan paused for a second after dressing him, gaze lingering, then walked out without a word.
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Yohan stepped into the room with a tray. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim lighting, and his gaze dropped to the bed where Gaon lay fast asleep.
He was still wearing Yohan’s shirt. It had wrinkled during sleep, the top two buttons open, collar slipping slightly.
Yohan sighed.
"Can't let that wound fester," he muttered, placing the tray on the nightstand.
Carefully, he sat down and reached for the shirt buttons. He'd only undone two when Gaon’s eyes snapped open.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Gaon's voice was sharp, confused.
Yohan didn’t flinch. “What do you think I’m doing?” he answered coolly. “Can you sit up?”
He slid a hand behind Gaon’s back and helped him into a seated position. Gaon groaned but let it happen, his hand tightening over the blanket.
Yohan began peeling the shirt down one side, exposing the gauze covering the gash at his back.
“You’ve been moving too much. The bandage's shifted,” Yohan murmured, his voice more clinical now. “I’ll redo it.”
Gaon didn’t speak at first. Then, as Yohan reached for the antiseptic, something caught his eye.
A bird tattoo. Faint, inked just below the shoulder.
“What’s this?” Yohan asked, touching the edge of the wing.
Gaon winced at the contact. “That happened when I was young and childish.”
“That’s… unexpected,” Yohan muttered.
Gaon gave a dry laugh. “Are you an old fogey?”
Yohan paused, puzzled. “What?”
“It’s typical for old fogeys to judge others as they please.”
Yohan merely arched a brow and continued wrapping the fresh gauze around Gaon’s shoulder with sharp precision. No response.
As he finished, he patted Gaon’s back firmly, right on the wound.
“Ah—damn, that really hurt!” Gaon hissed, bending forward slightly in pain.
Yohan stood and picked up the tray of bloodied gauze. “It’s typical of the younger generation to be crybabies.”
“What? Crybaby?”
Yohan didn’t turn around. At the door, he paused and said over his shoulder, “Tomorrow, you can go to my room. Pick any clothes you want and wear them.”
Then he was gone.
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1.
Yohan had been up since dawn.
The coffee machine hissed as he leaned against the counter in his silk pajamas, phone in hand, scanning news headlines.
Footsteps padded into the kitchen.
He looked up.
Gaon stood in the doorway, yawning, his hair tousled and sticking up in all directions. More notably, he was wearing Yohan’s black silk robe.
It swished at his knees, cinched loosely around the waist, but kept slipping off one shoulder. Pale skin peeked through the gap, his collarbone prominent.
Yohan choked silently on his coffee.
“You could’ve told me your house is freezing,” Gaon muttered as he began rummaging for tea. “Do you not believe in heating?”
Yohan didn’t answer.
Gaon reached up toward a top cabinet, and the robe parted even more.
Yohan turned fully away, studying his coffee like it had secrets. “There’s a second kettle on the left.”
“Found it,” Gaon mumbled. He tugged the robe tighter but failed, the fabric gaping open again as he reached for a mug.
Yohan breathed in slowly.
He needed to leave. Right now.
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2.
Late afternoon sun spilled through the mansion’s windows. Yohan sat in the library, poring over thick law volumes, marking notes in the margins.
He heard soft footsteps. Looked up.
Gaon entered wearing one of Yohan’s oversized hoodies, dark gray and swallowing his frame. The sleeves drooped past his hands. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling a little around his temples.
He yawned, not even noticing Yohan.
Then curled up into an armchair, knees tucked under him, hoodie sleeves bunched in his fists.
Yohan’s brain stuttered.
He’s wearing my clothes. Again. He’s sitting in my chair. He smells like—
Gaon turned a page in a law book and sighed. “This one’s boring.”
Yohan looked away before his thoughts spiraled. He cleared his throat. “You’re creasing the spine.”
Gaon looked up. “Seriously?”
Yohan didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when Gaon looked like domestic sin incarnate.
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3.
Gaon had just showered and was midway through changing the bandages himself.
He’d found another one of Yohan’s shirts—a white dress shirt, crisp and slightly fitted and tried to put it on with one arm still stiff.
Buttons were misaligned. The shirt was half-tucked. And somehow, it clung at the waist and gaped at the collar.
Yohan walked in.
Stopped dead.
Gaon froze.
They locked eyes.
“I—was just trying to—”
Yohan turned on his heel, walked out, and closed the door behind him.
He didn’t move for a full minute. Eyes shut. Hands clenched.
He went back in after composing himself.
"Let me help," he said, voice low.
Gaon didn’t protest.
But when Yohan buttoned the shirt correctly and smoothed it over Gaon’s waist, his hands lingered just a second too long.
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4.
It was evening. Gaon had gotten frustrated with the sling—it chafed, irritated, useless. He tore it off and found a black sleeveless undershirt among Yohan’s drawer.
It was soft, cool, and fit him just right.
Stretching with a soft sigh, Gaon reached both arms over his head, back arching slightly.
Behind him, a door creaked.
He turned.
Yohan stood frozen in the hallway holding a wine glass.
The moment their eyes met, the glass slipped from his hand and shattered.
Yohan looked at the floor. "I’ll… clean that."
Gaon blinked. “I didn’t even hear you coming.”
“You never do,” Yohan muttered.
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5.
The terrace was chilly. Gaon grabbed a jacket from a nearby hook without thinking.
It was Yohan’s leather jacket—well-worn, lined with subtle silver hardware, collar stiff.
Over joggers and a black tee, it looked absurdly good.
Gaon ran a hand through his hair and muttered to himself, “This actually looks kinda cool, huh?”
Yohan stepped out with a drink and froze.
Gaon glanced over. “What?”
Yohan didn’t speak for ten seconds. His eyes flicked from the collar brushing Gaon’s neck to the way the sleeves gathered near his wrists.
Gaon raised a brow. “Too much?”
Yohan swallowed thickly. “No."
He disappeared back inside.
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+1
The house was quiet.
Gaon returned from a walk, cheeks flushed. He was smiling more lately, the bruise near his shoulder had faded. The shirt he wore was one of Yohan’s again—a white turtleneck, slightly oversized, soft around the neck.
He looked… like something Yohan wanted to protect and ruin all at once.
Yohan spotted him in the hallway and stepped forward.
“Yohan?” Gaon blinked. “You okay?”
Yohan didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped in close. Gaon backed instinctively into the wall, startled but not afraid.
Yohan raised one arm, resting it beside Gaon’s head. His other hand reached up, lightly brushing the turtleneck's collar with his thumb.
“You’ve been walking around looking like you belong to me,” Yohan said quietly. “Do you even know what you’re doing to me?”
Gaon’s breath caught.
“You're the one who let me them.”
“That's true.” Yohan’s voice was rougher now. “And it’s been driving me insane in ways I don’t even want to admit.”
Gaon’s hand curled at his side, trembling slightly. “Yohan…”
“I’ve been patient,” Yohan murmured. “But every time you wear me, every time you breathe in my space like it’s your own—I forget how to be careful.”
Gaon’s blush reached his ears. “Then don’t be.”
That was all it took.
Yohan surged forward, kissing him like a man starved, like the pressure had finally broken and the dam had cracked wide open. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t practiced.
It was real.
Gaon clung to him, fist curling in the front of the shirt Yohan wore, and pulled him closer.
And when they finally broke apart, breathless, foreheads touching Yohan whispered, “Tomorrow, wear the robe again.”
Gaon laughed.