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Red is a cruel, cruel colour.
This is perhaps the first true lesson Choi Han ever learned. His years in the Forest of Darkness have taught him many things, mostly of blood and grit and despair, and this is one of them. In the depths of the forest, he was surrounded by either the darkness of night or the red of his own blood.
Red, for rage.
Red, for grief.
Red, for loss.
Choi Han had clawed his way out of that hellscape bruised and bleeding and broken in a way that didn’t leave him fragile, but dangerous. His once boyish naivety had sharpened into blades, turning curiosity into distrust and kindness to violence. He bore his teeth with all the ferocity of a stray dog, too young to bear such anguish and yet bones heavy with the weight of it.
The villagers at Harris Village took it in stride, when he stumbled upon their quaint home after decades of loneliness. They did not flinch at his brutishness, nor shy away from his grief. They saw him, him, a boy with the hidden tenderness of youth and a soldier who had seen horrors beyond his years. They saw him as Choi Han, inside and out, and gave him kindness anyway.
For the first time in years, Choi Han let himself breathe.
It was a strange thing, to be surrounded by so many people after decades of being alone with only his thoughts and the monsters he once thought only existed under his bed. Even in a village so calm, he drew his blade at every slight movement, sprang to his feet at every loud noise. Choi Han had slept on the floor for his first few weeks at Harris Village, too unused to the alien feeling of a warm bed.
When the kind old lady who had housed him found out, she had only asked him if he wanted a sleeping bag instead. She did not judge when he made a mess of himself while eating, nor when he fumbled at basic household chores. Instead, she had only soothed him with placating words, guided his scarred hands when they trembled.
“No one can say they’ve gone through what you have, boy.” she had said to him. Her voice was unflappable, but not unkind. She did not pity his past or his seemingly eternal youth. She had only seen him as a boy who needed a little more patience than the rest. “But everyone here has struggled with folding laundry. Here, let me show you.”
It wasn’t just her; the kids giggled mischievously when Choi Han forgot how to use utensils, but instructed him pridefully, eager to help. When he wandered aimlessly about the village, unsure of what to do when his only objective wasn't survival, the children would take his hand and make him play games with them. They taught him to make flower crowns, to sew, that not every moving animal was an enemy to be killed. Their childish naivety was what taught Choi Han of kindness, once more.
It took time, much of it, but Choi Han began to see Harris Village as home. What need was there to fear sharp-toothed beasts when there were people to return to, family to laugh with? He learned of a few more lessons he was blind to in the Forest of Darkness, of warmth and care and home. The villagers’ presence reminded him of love.
Subsequently, their absence reminded him of rage.
It was a different sort of grief to have his family ripped away from him as soon as he began to open up his heart. Similarly, it was a different sort of rage than Choi Han had ever felt before, bubbling and brewing in his chest like a beast waiting to be freed from the restraints of humanity. He saw those who had mercilessly taken the lives of the ones he had found comfort in, laughing at their limp bodies, and was overcome by fury so strong that it left his memory murky with the weight of it.
He painted what was left of the village in their blood. It ended, as it always did, in red.
When Choi Han came back to himself, every last intruder was dead. He still can’t quite remember how he did it; perhaps he had taken to simply slitting their throats. Or maybe, he had taken the time to skewer them one by one. Time blended together and fell apart, twisting his thoughts mercilessly, poking at the temperamental wrath of a human beast. Either way, they were all dead, and Choi Han alone was left standing.
Alone.
He wasn’t sure of what to think, really. He had taken so many lives in one evening. But did they not deserve it? They might have had parents and lovers and children waiting for them somewhere, but didn’t he as well? Hadn’t he returned to Harris Village that fateful night hoping for a good dinner and kind hands?
Was it so wrong for him to want a family?
(Before, some part of him had thought it was. If such loss had happened to him not once, but twice, was it that he simply wasn’t meant for such human comforts? It wasn't an unfounded belief, no matter how cruel.)
Unsure of what else to do, Choi Han busied his shaking hands with burying his family one by one. He dug their graves painstakingly with a half-burnt shovel he found abandoned by a shed, with no less effort for any one resting place. He lowered his family with a tenderness reserved for no one else, closing their eyes and folding their arms over their chests. He dug through what was left of their houses and retrieved the childrens’ toys, tucking burnt plushies and dolls beneath their frail, limp hands.
Choi Han slumped to the ground pitifully when he was done, hands caked with blood and dirt and ash. The dying embers of flames flickered behind him, lighting up the pitiful scenery of their final resting places.
He tried not to let his tears soil their graves. He failed, anyway.
By the time Choi Han picked himself off the floor, he was certain of two things: First, that his family deserved better graves than this. It would have been an injustice to them, after all that they’d done for him. The very least he could do was give them proper tombstones.
Second, Choi Han would flay everyone involved in the massacre one by one, even if his life depended on it. He had spent most of his life at the very bottom of the food chain; why would he offer forgiveness now, being near the top? He had never said he was merciful, and he most certainly wasn't lenient to his enemies.
And so, like he had learned many, many moons ago, he ran. He ran from the blood and gore of the land he once called home, from crushed flower petals and abandoned meals and lost love. For days, he ran, shoving down bubbling fury for the guards who refused his entrance into their city, for the merchants who glanced at him in pity but offered no help. He tamped down his rage helplessly, ignored his grief when it had no use.
Finally, Choi Han had grown tired of abiding by a law that served as an obstacle and took to climbing the large wall surrounding Rain City, all too aware of the way his hands trembled from malnourishment and fatigue. When his hands faltered on the way down, he didn’t fight it. He collapsed like a dead weight on the wet ground, as if taking the burden of his sorrow with him. He knew it was a useless feeling; anything that would slow him down needed to be thrown away, so why not this? He was able to rid himself of food and sleep and other such necessities for decades, so why was this so difficult to give up?
(Choi Han had known the answer even then, however much he wanted to be ignorant of it. With love comes, inevitably, heartache impossible to get rid of. He knows the feeling intimately, now.)
Two kittens meowed pitifully beside Choi Han, soaked tails lashing back and forth as if they could sense the misery pouring off of him in waves. He could not bring himself to raise his head, though a small, kinder part of him wanted to offer them shelter from the rain. He shifted slightly towards them, only to feel a throb of pain pulse from his twisted ankle. Choi Han shuddered even though he had faced agony much more intense, closing his eyes in resignation. He might have given up, right then. He might have let himself waste away, drown under a thundering sky with cold hands and an even colder heart, if not for–
“Hey, are you hungry?”
Choi Han meets a man with hair as red as a dying flame.
Cale Henituse, Choi Han decides, is an anomaly. He carries all the grace of a dignified noble, but also the air of a trained soldier. He feigns ignorance, but has a wealth of knowledge that serves against him, more often than not. Most especially, for all that he claims to be trash, he’s one of the kindest people Choi Han has ever known.
Cale draws attention to himself like a moth to a very reluctant flame, capturing people's attention when he would very much prefer to lock himself away from shying eyes. His appearance is already eye-catching; silky red hair, close to the color of dried blood, pale, unblemished skin, and eyes that hold wisdom unbefitting of a man so young. Cale is undeniably beautiful, though his personality often makes people do a double take. A shoddy facade that anyone could see past if they bothered to try.
Trashy, Choi Han finds himself considering sometimes, though not a thought he entertains for much longer afterwards. It’s an easy conclusion to come to if meeting someone like Cale for the first time. He seems indifferent, blunt, carries an air that shows he doesn’t care much for what others think. It’s a convincing facade, but a frail one, nonetheless. It’s not difficult to worm behind the glass wall of his cold demeanor to see the warmth beneath. After all, trash wouldn’t give Choi Han family to protect, wouldn’t pick strays off the streets, wouldn’t save young children purely because he ‘hates seeing kids in pain’.
If there is anyone who deserves the peace that so few people have, it is Cale. Cale, who had given Choi Han a purpose beyond reckless destruction. Cale, who opened the doors to a family he could keep. Cale, who looked at Choi Han and saw more than a beast.
For the first time, Choi Han sees red and thinks of something warm.
Red is for Hong’s silk smooth fur, no longer matted with dirt and muck from his time on the streets. Red is for Rosalyn’s dominating mana, bold and bright and everything that she is in the best way possible. Red is for the setting sun they witness after long days, curled into each other for warmth like a den of foxes. Red is for the curl of silken hair, for Cale.
Oh, Cale.
Cale is reckless and persistent and quite possibly the most oxymoronic existence on the planet, and Choi Han cannot help but adore him both for it and regardless of it. It had begun as a simple admiration for a noble person so humble, then sparked into something akin to fondness.
From there, that spark grew into an all-consuming flame.
Choi Han’s affection grew untameably, a seed in his heart that bloomed much faster than he expected. The two of them could not be more different from each other; Cale, of higher standing and oblivious of his own virtuous nature, and Choi Han, whose strength had grown from losing himself to blood and gore.
He knows intimately that they are on two ends of the same spectrum. Despite this, Choi Han doesn’t want Cale to see the beast curled beneath his skin, the gloom under layers of flesh and blood. For him, Choi Han wants to be something good, something pure, something kinder than the boy he was. Cale deserves nothing less.
If Cale needs someone soft, then Choi Han will be the wolf in sheep's clothing. He will make himself smaller, not to trick the shepherd, only to feel the warmth of his hands in a way unattainable as the beast of the woods. His years have changed his long gone purity into something much crueler, unbefitting of a family born from kindness, so he will pretend. He wants to keep this just a little while longer.
Choi Han can be kind. He can. He can–
(Sometimes, he wonders what he does it all for. There are no deaths, but there is always red, either way. Somehow, it’s crueler than eternal sleep could ever be.)
He keeps up the act for a surprisingly long time, considering his less-than-average ability to lie. Perhaps it’s because it is less of a facade and more of a masquerade, pretending to be something that has long since been lost to the passages of time. Not all of it is false, either. The laughter he shares with the kids and sparring with Locke and the soft smiles he gives Cale–every bit of it is real. But there is grief within him that he has never relived, that he has pushed down time and time again in favour of something lighter.
“Why do you do that?” Cale asks one evening. He and Choi Han are sitting out by the front of the Henituse Household, watching the sun set over the tall, foreboding wall surrounding the territory. The commander’s hair is tousled gently by the light wind, the ribbon in his hair flicking back and forth. The warm glow of the sun passing through the shield in the sky highlights his porcelain skin, making him look like the saint that so many people claim him to be.
“Do what?” Choi Han asks belatedly.
“You’re not,” Cale says, then pauses, turning the words over in his head. The silence settles between them comfortably once more; heavy, but not unwelcomed. “You’re not…being truthful. To yourself.” he adds as an afterthought, because honesty is one of Choi Han’s defining virtues.
The swordsman chews at his lip, not so much as worried at being caught as having the worst parts of his soul pointed out.
“I’m happy,” Choi Han answers. “I like how it is now.”
Cale looks at him for the first time, tearing his eyes away from the view to meet his knight’s gaze. His eyes are the colour of Earth, warm and solid, boring through his companion like he can see right through him.
“Yes,” he agrees, “But you don’t talk about anything else. I’m sure you miss Harris Village.”
Choi Han must have made a face, because Cale softens his words instantly. “What I mean is that you must feel a lot more than just happy.” He curls a strand of hair around his finger absentmindedly, a habit that the noble had picked up as his hair grew. “You grieve for them, do you not? I know you’re angry at Arm.”
Choi Han recalls red soaking the end of his blade as he cut down the members of Arm one by one, the cold fury that had settled over his skin like a solemn fog. He recalls the red dripping down Cale’s mouth and clothes back at the elf village, how he had comforted his loyal knight despite the pain painted clearly across his features.
“Yes,” Choi Han says, never one to beat around the bush. “I am. I do.”
A beat.
“You can be angry.” Cale says, making a gesture when the swordsman opens his mouth to refute. “Truly angry. Or sad, or whatever suits you. We want to see you at peace, not just happy.” he finishes, never looking away. His eyes are soft, kind, never once faltering even when staring into the abyss of Choi Han’s soul.
Cale had known all along, hadn’t he?
Choi Han opens his mouth, closes it, repeats the process twice more and is still not quite able to look away from Cale the whole while. The commander sees the curdling rot in his soul, the darkness coiled around his heart like armor, and doesn’t look away. He doesn’t flinch away from him or shy away from the grief gone ignored; in fact, he only inches imperceptibly closer, enough for the swordsman to feel the warmth radiating off of his skin.
“Be you,” Cale says, softly. Choi Han’s breath stutters at the words, fingers loosening where they had tightened around his cloak. “That’s all we need from you.”
(In the future, Choi Han will find himself with a sharper attribute, both new and old. Half despair, half happiness. It is strange, unnatural, but it is him, in every sense of the word. He will look back at the person who had never been far behind and greet him with a smile, because it had always been the two of them from the very start, because now he can finally show who he is right down to the very bone.
As always, that person will smile right back.)
In the face of his bewilderment, Cale only laughs lightly. Not fake or overly-done, like the one he offers the crown prince and the people he scams. It’s pure and it’s real and a sight that Choi Han gets to see and he–
Oh.
Oh.
“Thank you,” Choi Han whispers, a reverence in his voice that can’t be faked. It takes Cale aback for a moment, eyes widening in surprise at the tone before his face falls back into his usual stoic expression.
“Don’t say such stupid things,” he murmurs, looking back towards the sunset. Choi Han doesn’t bother to look away, his eyes firmly planted on Cale’s figure, tracing the curve of his brow, his lips, the rise and fall of his chest with his eyes.
I love you, he thinks, recklessly and irrationally and sincerely. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Love, like many other things, is red.
War is not kind.
Though, with Cale’s extensive planning, they manage to reduce the expected number of casualties immensely. A great feat, considering the wyverns and the dragon half-blood and such. Though Choi Han would much prefer peace instead of the battlefield spreading like poison throughout the continent, he can’t deny that he’s in his element chopping enemies down left and right. He also can’t deny that he takes great pleasure in ruthlessly beating down Adin, as his Sword Art warps and changes to fit the skin that he’s grown into.
No, it is not the battles itself that makes war so cruel; it is the effects.
Since the attack on Rain City, Cale had done nothing but drive himself into the ground, again and again, chasing after a fantasy of peace and family. He is always pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion, pushing his ancient powers to their limits repeatedly until he is coughing up blood and crumpling to his knees.
It is, of course, always a noble act. Choi Han can admire it, but more than anything, he fears. He fears for the man who seems to hold his own life with such little regard for it, letting his youth slip between his fingers like sand as he fights for his so-called ‘slacker life’. He fears for his liege that assures him of victory that they achieve at the cost of his own well-being. He fears for the commander who can keep every promise except for the ones that keep him by his family’s side.
But in the end, as always, Cale comes back alive. He is bloodied and bruised, sometimes unconscious, but he wakes with a beating heart and another victory under his belt. He is warm and alive, and for Choi Han, that is enough.
Isn’t it?
(Sometimes, Choi Han looks at Cale and can only see a dead man walking. Sometimes, he wonders how long it will be before they’re clasping their hands in grief rather than joy.)
As the continent's rising heroes, it is their duty to fight, to defend. They are the blades and the shields of the world, symbols of protection for every being that graces their land. They are meant to be figures of kindness, of altruism, willing to do whatever it takes to win.
But Choi Han is only human, and he is so very selfish.
Choi Han, more than a soldier, more than a fighter, is a man who loves deeply. For someone like Cale, that love knows no bounds. He is Choi Han’s liege, after all. Despite Cale’s weak constitution, he had opened up the sky for him, had soothed his aches, had assured him silently of safety. The knight had made a vow to protect him, and it was a vow he planned to keep for the rest of his long, long life.
But here is another lesson Choi Han has learned; no amount of love can prevent the growth of resentment.
He hates how he can’t stop the sharp, bitter feeling from rising in his throat, like thorns tearing him apart from the inside out. He hates how he wants to scream and yell and feel something break beneath his fingers when he comes too close to losing someone again. Most of all, he hates how much of his grievances are caused by the very man he considers his savior.
Cale doesn’t seem to notice at all, the way his endeavors wrack everyone with grief. Not surprising, considering time he isn’t unconscious is spent working, planning, scheming until his next collapse. He doesn’t even see it in his kids, whom he adores more than anything, no matter what his stoic demeanor suggests. The noble had told Choi Han once before that he wished for the children to have kind childhoods, to live peacefully. That swordsman wonders how Cale hasn’t realized that peace includes him too.
Ohn, Choi Han notices, holds the same sort of uneasy contempt. Though she’s incredibly mature for her age, she is also a young girl rapidly approaching her teens, in need of someone to rely on, a constant figure. Cale should've been that person, but how can someone who is more often closer to dead than alive be a reliable pillar?
But much like Choi Han, Ohn can’t blame him. She understands him well–more than the swordsman himself does, even–and whatever she sees in him keeps her from spilling her heart’s true desire. The intention is kind, but it only puts a wall between them. Ohn has loved and will always love Cale dearly, but there is still a growing bitterness that she refuses to acknowledge.
Can’t you see? Choi Han wants to scream. Look what you do to us. Can you call this peace? Is this love?
The worst part is that this is Cale’s love, right down to its rotten core. Every dangerous scheme and destructive rampage is for none other than them, even if it is just as much of a kindness as it is cruelty.
How can you help a person whose love is both their power and their poison?
It is this that makes Choi Han see how high of a pedestal he placed Cale on, how the distance had warped his vision. Cale is no less human than he is, no less selfish than any other man. Choi Han had mistaken intentional ignorance for innocence, self-destruction for virtue. He had thought that the strategic, almost clinical way Cale handled things was a sign of the humanity Choi Han lacked, but it was survival in its own way, as well.
Maybe Choi Han had made the decision to be ignorant of it, too. It was easier to see Cale as something greater, as the object of his devotion, too pure to be tainted by his hands. But devotion is not any kinder than contempt, not to Cale, and Choi Han had been crueler still in holding his liege as a relic rather than a man of blood and flesh.
Cale is no god, nor a saint. His hands are as dirty as Choi Han’s, his heart just as armoured. His anger isn’t the same as Choi Han’s, but that isn’t to say it doesn’t exist. Cale’s fury is something akin to ice, a slow suffocation, a winding anaconda disguised as reassuring comfort. The difference is almost indistinguishable, if only because his rage and his kindness are so alike–Cale wields both like a precious dagger.
It’s only been a matter of which way the blade is pointed.
Somehow, the realization just makes Choi Han fall deeper, kindling the flames of both his love and resentment. It is a constant pressure, pushing and pushing and pushing every time Cale toes the line between life and death until he just can’t take it anymore.
“Aren’t you tired of this?” Choi Han asks wearily. Not unlike that night so long ago, the sun is setting, casting a warm, orange light through the tall, arched windows. It envelops the serene atmosphere of Cale’s room, devoid of the usual boisterous energy that the kids provide. The man himself is tucked at the center of his bed, dried blood on his collar and caked beneath his fingernails, the same colour as his silken hair. The light illuminates his pale skin, his soft lips, the weariness in his frame he’s too exhausted to disguise.
He looks beautiful, even half dead.
“Of what?” Cale replies, far too late to be genuine. The cup of lemon tea in his hands has long since gone cold, but he keeps it cupped in his hands anyways.
“Of this.” Choi Han insists uncharacteristically, stepping closer. It’s easier to see the gentle rise and fall of Cale’s chest this way, a sign that he’s alive, that his heart beats against all odds.
Cale furrows his brows like he doesn’t understand, delicate skin pinched at his forehead. Choi Han can’t quite tell if it’s true confusion or not; Cale’s intelligence always seems to fall short when it comes to things like this, whenever the concern is directed to him.
“Cale-nim,” Choi Han begins, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “Are you tired?”
The commander blinks slowly, then nods. “A little, yes.” he agrees. “It’s been a long week. There’s a lot of work to be done.”
“Then why don’t you rest?” The knight asks pleadingly. His voice bleeds with anguish, as though the thorns of bittersweet love had finally cut up his throat from the inside out, letting human blood slip out from the cracks instead of heavy ichor. It’s not a tone he’s had since that fateful night so many years ago, slumped against the ground after he’d lost it all.
Cale seems to hear it too, his back straightening as he registers the desperation behind Choi Han’s plea. “But, I am?” he responds, gesturing vaguely to his figure, tucked snugly under a blanket atop of silk sheets. He certainly looks to be living a life of lavishment. “Why would I not be?”
Choi Han shakes his head, his blade clicking against his scabbard rhythmically. “You never rest, Cale-nim.” he answers. “You only ever seem to stop when you collapse. Or get hurt. Or–”
Cale lets out an awkward cough, which the knight takes as a sign to cut himself off.
“You never rest, Cale-nim.” Choi han repeats, voice barely a whisper. “Why?”
He receives no answer.
The silence weighs heavy between them, thick enough to cut through with a knife. It’s not a burden that belongs there, between them, when they’ve stood side by side with unspoken comfort for so long. From the very beginning of their misadventure, it had been the two of them, together, always. Cale and Choi Han. Choi Han and Cale.
When it becomes clear that Cale will not grant him a response, Choi Han steps forwards until he’s standing at the foot of Cale’s bed, and unceremoniously drops to one knee. The action startles the redhead enough to make him lose his grip on his teacup, which the swordsman carefully pries away from his grip to set on the nightstand.
Cale blinks down at Choi Han, who stays knelt at his bedside with a look that can’t be described as anything but reverent, even as he moves with the grace of a trained soldier. His hands are calloused, but move with tender certainty as he takes his liege’s hand and presses his lips to the knuckle.
Cale’s hand is soft against Choi Han’s chapped lips, as one would expect from a noble. But still, there is red beneath his cracked nails, a slight tremble to his fingers. He looks akin to an angel, but more closely resembles a child of charnel house.
Choi Han looks up at Cale to meet his eyes, tar black to warm earth.
“Cale-nim,” he whispers again, breath running over cool skin. It is said the same way that one would chant a prayer, something terribly akin to deference. The noble shivers slightly at the feeling of such loyalty, of something else that can’t quite be put into words. He’s not sure what it is, but some part of him fears the weight of it.
“Han-ah,” Cale returns, voice shaky and soft. Perhaps it’s a little cruel, but Choi Han is glad to be the one to evoke such a reaction. Maybe it’s his own revenge, to see someone to angelic falter, to see the pink dusting his cheeks and the joints of his fingers. It’s addicting to know that he at least holds this bit of power over Cale, when the man has Choi Han’s heart tucked away with his own. A selfish trade, but one they submit to easily, because it’s the two of them. Cale and Choi Han. Choi Han and Cale. A knight and a liege, a beast and a saint.
A loyal sinner and an untouched god.
“You do too much,” Choi Han begins, now that Cale is finally, truly looking at him. “How can you bring yourself to the verge of death and expect us to be okay with it? It’s suicide, Cale-nim. We couldn’t bear to see you die. I couldn't bear it.”
Cale remains attentive, but his posture gives away his vague discomfort. It must be disconcerting, to be suddenly faced with the consequences of his kindness, of his love. He looks terribly torn. The monstrous part of Choi Han that had followed him out of the Forest of Darkness is glad for it.
“I don’t mean to. Hurt you, I mean.” Cale adds as an afterthought, something like an apology threaded between each word, even if he’s not quite sure what he’s apologizing for. It’s an innocence that Choi Han is fond of, even as it feeds the festering resentment that grows like poison ivy.
“I know,” Choi Han murmurs. “But we worry. We all worry.” Embarrassingly, he can’t hide the way his voice cracks, as though he was a child once more. A boy, alone, unable to fight, to do anything more than run. His hand tightens around Cale’s at the thought of being like that child, again.
“How much longer can you last before you’re dead?”
“I won’t die,” Cale responds with a stern, misleaded determination. “Being alive is the best. I have no desire to die so soon.”
He means every word of it. Choi Han knows he does. But words only mean so much, even when coming from a man as earnest as Cale. Words wouldn’t protect their family, wouldn’t keep his liege away from suffering at his own hands.
“You won’t die,” the knight agrees reluctantly. “But what else? Can you say you won't hurt anymore? Can you say that you’ll stay safe, for our sake? Can you promise that you’ll choose yourself, over them?”
A beat.
Neither of them say anything.
Choi Han sighs, weary, but not surprised. Cale is many things; silver-tongued with the slyness of a fox, capable of generosity and brutality like no other, but he is not one to make false promises. He carries his oaths like he swore them upon the river Styx itself, as though breaking them was an unforgivable crime.
To not be able to promise this was perhaps the cruelest thing Cale had ever done.
But that is their fate, as heroes. They do not have the privilege to rest, to breathe, to do anything but give themselves up for a country that would never truly know them. The saint and the soldier, the shield and the sword; far enough to worship and praise, but never to see. Too many times, they’ve saved the world.
They will never be able to save themselves.
Cale will remain forever out of reach, destroying himself for unattainable peace. His bleeding heart will be his doom, with no one there to reassure him that he need not lose himself to keep what he loves. His love is one too vast to understand, too distant to cherish in return; a star they can wish upon but never follow for long.
Choi Han will be doomed to watch, never close enough to cradle Cale’s delicate vulnerability, forced to watch as he hurts himself over and over and over again. A knight who cannot defend his liege, a man who cannot hold the one he loves. He can pray all he wants, but nothing can stop a shooting star from falling.
And still, neither of them have the willpower to pull away. Cale is selfish in keeping everyone in his orbit, and Choi Han equally so in his desire to be eternally by his side, in any way possible. Their jagged edges slot together perfectly, even as they tear each other apart.
“I won’t die,” Cale repeats softly.
“I know,” Choi Han returns once more.
Over the years, Choi Han has learned many things. He has learned of love and rage, of grief and acceptance. He has been taught how to be kind, to protect in the same way he was once taught to fight. He has learned things from every corner of the world, teachings he holds close to his heart.
But as Choi Han presses his lips to the knuckles of a dead man walking, he remembers a lesson he had almost forgotten.
Red is a cruel, cruel colour.