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It had been quiet for days. Yunjae didn’t mind quiet—he’d lived most of his life inside it—but there was something different about this kind. It wasn’t the calm of solitude. It was the heavy, waiting kind. The kind that lingered when someone else’s emotions filled the air, too large to name.
Gon hadn’t spoken much since he came back. He’d crash on the futon beside Yunjae’s bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling until sleep took him. Sometimes he’d twitch, muttering things Yunjae couldn’t make out. Sometimes he’d wake up and press his hands to his face, breathing hard, the way someone does when they’re trying to make the world small enough to handle.
Yunjae didn’t say anything then. He’d just hand Gon a glass of water, or sit with him until the shaking eased. It seemed to help.
That evening, the rain had stopped but the pavement still shone wet. Gon sat by the window, knees pulled to his chest, staring at nothing.
“You keep looking out there,” Yunjae said quietly.
Gon didn’t turn around. “It’s easier than looking at people.” His voice was flat, but his jaw was tight. “They look at me like I’m something broken. Maybe they’re right.”
Yunjae thought about that. Then, softly, “You’re not broken. You just… feel too much.”
That made Gon laugh, the sound sharp but tired. “And you don’t feel enough.”
“Maybe that’s why we work,” Yunjae said.
For a moment, Gon didn’t answer. Then he turned, eyes dark and searching. “You think we work?”
Yunjae nodded. “You yell, I listen. You break things, I fix them. You fall asleep on the futon every night but never leave in the morning.”
The corners of Gon’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You notice everything, huh?”
“I try to,” Yunjae said. “It’s how I show that I care.”
Gon looked at him for a long time. Then, without warning, he crossed the room and sat beside him on the bed. Their shoulders touched. The contact was small but grounding—like proof that they existed here, together.
“You make it sound easy,” Gon muttered.
“It isn’t,” Yunjae said, voice steady. “But it’s… enough.”
For a while, they just sat there. The hum of the city seeped through the window, low and constant. Gon’s hand twitched, and for once, Yunjae didn’t pull away when Gon’s fingers brushed his.
Gon exhaled, a breath that carried more than words ever could. “You always make it less lonely,” he said.
Yunjae didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He just stayed still, feeling the quiet between them settle—not empty this time, but full.
—
The next morning, the air smelled faintly of rain and toast. Yunjae stood at the stove, watching butter melt into the pan, its edges hissing. Gon was still asleep—or pretending to be. Yunjae had learned that Gon sometimes stayed that way just to listen: the sound of footsteps, the soft clink of dishes, proof that someone was still here.
When Gon finally stirred, he looked half-dreaming, hair sticking out in every direction. He blinked blearily at the table, then at Yunjae. “You didn’t wake me.”
“You needed sleep.”
Gon’s mouth curved downward. “You always say that. Like you know.”
“I do.” Yunjae slid a plate toward him. “You talk in your sleep.”
Gon groaned, burying his face in his arms. “What do I say?”
Yunjae hesitated. “Just names. Sometimes mine.”
The words hung in the air like something fragile. Gon’s head lifted, eyes narrowing in quiet confusion. “Yours?”
Yunjae nodded. “Usually when you’re upset.”
Gon didn’t respond right away. His fingers tapped against the table, quick, nervous. Finally, he muttered, “You shouldn’t listen.”
“I don’t try to,” Yunjae said. “But I can’t help it.”
Something flickered in Gon’s face—embarrassment, maybe. Or something softer. He reached for his toast but didn’t eat it, just held it there. “I don’t mean to be like that,” he said quietly. “To need someone.”
“I don’t mind,” Yunjae replied simply. “I think we all need someone.”
Gon huffed a laugh, small and uneven. “You sound like my mom.”
“I’m not your mom.”
“No,” Gon said, finally taking a bite. “You’re worse. You actually care and don’t make me talk about it.”
Yunjae didn’t smile, but his gaze lingered a second longer before turning back to the pan.
—
That night, they walked to the park. The almond tree stood at the far end, leaves heavy with rain. Gon shoved his hands into his pockets, staring up at it. “It’s still here,” he said, voice unreadable.
“It always is,” Yunjae replied.
They stood under it, the damp air cool on their skin. Yunjae glanced at Gon, who was watching the branches sway. His eyes were quieter now, not empty—just tired.
“I used to think if I came back here, everything would feel the same,” Gon murmured. “But it doesn’t.”
“Maybe that’s okay,” Yunjae said.
“Yeah?”
“It means we changed.”
Gon was silent for a long moment. Then, almost a whisper: “Do you ever… feel different now? Since everything?”
Yunjae looked at his hands, the faint scars that never fully faded. “Sometimes. I think I feel things I didn’t before. Not all the time. But… enough to notice.”
Gon’s eyes softened. “Like what?”
“Like this,” Yunjae said. “You being here. It makes me feel… something. I don’t know the word for it yet.”
Gon swallowed, looking away quickly, as if it hurt to meet that honesty head-on. “You don’t have to name it,” he said.
“I know,” Yunjae replied. “But I like that I want to.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It was warm, alive. Gon reached up, brushing a wet leaf from Yunjae’s hair without thinking, and for a fleeting second, they both forgot how much it hurt to try and be human.