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you got power over me
It had happened more times than Ga On would like to admit. Or had done so consciously. But he didn’t think much before walking into Yo Han’s office, in their house, with an old urgency.
Now it wasn’t anger and distrust guiding him. Anger, yes—he could feel his temper rising, even as he tried to keep it beneath the surface. He wasn’t the same anymore. But some traits are harder to change.
But it wasn’t a lack of trust. It was almost the opposite.
Ga On felt his breath catch in his throat as he approached the desk. And him.
Yo Han raised his eyes slowly, like a delayed acknowledgment of the sharp bang of the door opening and the file being dropped in front of him. He never let himself look surprised.
That was all the indication Ga On needed to decide it had only been a matter of time. He fought against himself before speaking.
“When were you planning to tell me this?” And that tone had long since ceased to be habitual, but he still recognized himself in it all too well.
Yo Han had the bare decency to lock eyes with Ga On before giving the paper a quick glance. Too quick.
Of course he already knew what it was about. And once again, Ga On was the one who was late.
He felt his hands tighten, as if trying to maintain control. But he felt himself vibrating. Never a good sign.
“Your witness, Yo Han. He’s innocent.” he managed to continue. He saw the older man give the slightest drop of his shoulders. And the faintest sigh. One that hinted at exhaustion. One he wouldn’t have noticed years ago.
Yo Han leaned back in his chair before speaking for the first time in what felt like hours.
“A drug trafficker isn’t exactly what I would call innocent.” With the ghost of a smirk, almost lazy. With that old need to inflame everything.
“One who had nothing to do with Hee Yoo’s death!” And now his voice echoed off the walls. Control had already been abandoned. “You were going to use him as a scapegoat. You let me believe he was guilty.”
Even more irritating, perhaps, was seeing the man in front of him maintain the same façade. One that locked Ga On out of his own home.
“The evidence was right in front of you. You chose to believe what you wanted.” he continued, deliberate, punctuated. Same patterns. Drenched in disdain. And disdain was something Ga On would not accept. Especially not from him.
The accusation almost made Ga On let out a humorless laugh.
“In you, Yo Han.” he shot back, brow furrowed, eyes focused. The urgency remained, but his tone dropped. “I chose to believe in you.” And something else settled inside him.
The silence stretched. He could feel Yo Han’s gaze moving across his face. Analyzing him like the professional he was. He had expected to find a bit more softness than he would for other defendants. He didn’t know if it was his words or the expression he saw there that made Yo Han take a deep breath, as if changing course, and continue.
“He won’t be convicted. I just need their focus directed elsewhere.” he said, gesturing over the paper. An invisible chessboard. “A mere distraction.”
Ga On almost closed his eyes. Always that.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” and he felt frozen. Part of the anger, Ga On realized, was directed at himself, for allowing almost blind trust. Selectively blind.
“You wouldn’t have agreed.” It came too fast. Too ready an answer. Absolute certainty, already discussed, analyzed, and decided.
“No, I wouldn’t.” He shook his head, as if confirming. Still recognizable. And maybe that was what made everything worse. But Yo Han had never had scruples about going further.
So he continued.
“And I don’t need you to agree.” like twisting the knife. And knowing exactly where to twist. Physically, Ga On took a step back at how unnecessary that statement was. Now apprehension hung in the air, in an old tension that, this time, didn’t feel familiar.
The silence stretched once more. Yo Han seemed to have said everything he wanted. Ga On tried to process. Should he absorb the blow and accept it?
“After everything…” he tried, blinking, eyes unfocused, head lifting. Because it was a lot. They both knew it. Ga On shouldn’t have to point it out. “What I think doesn’t matter to you?”
“Don’t make this personal.” It came quickly and it was pure reprimand. And incredibly hypocritical. Ga On felt hurt and anger mix and bubble.
“How is this not personal?” And now he was shouting, eyes wide and red. Any restraint abandoned. “Am I supposed to endure your lies and manipulations during the day, and then sit at the table with you at night? Sleep in the same bed? Hm?”
He leaned closer over the desk, but his tone didn’t lower.
“Where do we draw the line, Yo Han?”
The other man remained seated. His thumbs betrayed the only emotion there. He let the words finish out of what seemed like pure whim, because there was no deliberation there. The answer had been there for a long time.
“You knew exactly who I was.” A beat. “Who I am.” he resumed in a deeper, controlled, impassive tone. Untouchable. His eyes met Ga On’s only for what seemed like a conclusion. “So stop pretending ignorance and acting conveniently.”
But it wasn’t.
“I thought we’d already gotten past your naivety.” he continued.
And it was blow number who-knows-what. After so many, it should have gone numb. But Yo Han seemed to hit in different places. So the pain echoed from different points, growing in intensity.
But more than pain or anger, Ga On now felt pure disappointment. And not only directed at Yo Han, because it wasn’t entirely untrue. His naivety had cost him dearly before, but he was tired of living at its expense.
Anger still brought out the worst in him. He knew that.
“You’re not a monster, Yo Han. So stop acting like one.”
The words came out before he could control them. Or take them back. The calm tone carried fact. And hurt.
And it was hurt he saw flash in Yo Han’s eyes. Reflected back at him.
He knew he had crossed the line. And that wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want ghosts in Yo Han’s life. Not even his own shadows.
“I…” came out as a weak attempt to take it back, because he recognized the unfairness in his own words. He didn’t want to cause pain, even as he radiated it.
But that small expression in Yo Han’s gaze disappeared before he could continue, replaced by a hard look he didn’t even recognize in courtrooms. It looked like apathy. But he knew better. He had to. Because the alternative was too cruel.
When they spoke again, after what felt like hours, the words came cold.
“We’re never going to agree.” Yo Han stated.
The shift in tone brought strangeness. And something else. Now Ga On frowned at how unsettling the change felt.
“What?” He stopped, surprised.
“In the beginning, it was fun.” Yo Han continued, the faintest lift of his lips, as if remembering. “Our disagreements. You challenged me, I challenged you back. Stimulating, even.”
His hands came together on the desk, an old expression of dominance. Ga On watched, stunned, as if waiting for something to fall. Too surprised to stop it. Struggling to recognize the scene.
“I told you I wouldn’t change. You made your choice.” and he looked back into Ga On’s eyes. He didn’t recognize that familiar look, the one that still warmed him. Everything was cold. Mortally cold.
“But even so…” Ga On saw him swallow, a slight tilt of his head, a single reminder of who he was. “You expect me to change. And that’s enough to make me fail every time.”
Ga On felt his mouth open, but the words wouldn’t come out. Yo Han was faster.
“Now… I’m tired, Ga On.”
And he recognized it, because it went beyond physical appearance. Yo Han truly looked exhausted, even beneath the cold mask.
For the first time that night, Ga On felt something close to fear.
He watched as Yo Han moved away from the desk and stood up, his eyes leaving his.
“You can spare yourself the effort.” The man wasn’t looking at Ga On as he continued. As if the conversation was no longer worth it.
“What does that mean?” equal parts anger, anxiety, and fear spilled out.
Ga On had to push the first down for his mind to clear. His own words and Yo Han’s swirled together. It came like an epiphany—horrible, one that only amplified the last.
“You don’t… you can’t be implying…” it came almost as a whisper, words spoken more to himself than to Yo Han.
Because Ga On was also good at reading between the lines.
Ga On remembered, right after they met, a time when he lived in apprehension about what he might discover about Yo Han. He had been afraid of him once or twice—afraid of what he was capable of, without knowing how far he would go.
He learned quickly, and the fear was discarded. He had anger, hurt, irritation—but not fear. Not anymore. He didn’t fear what was known.
Over the years, fear had become the most distant feeling when Yo Han was near. The only fear became not having him. Losing him. And that explained everything.
Because fear now bubbled beneath Ga On’s chest. Because in years, this was the closest he had come to it. It felt like something slipping through his fingers. Anxiety rising, as it always did when it came to this. It felt like standing in front of an explosion again.
He heard what wasn’t said. What Yo Han seemed unable to say. Giving up. And giving up meant separation.
Something must have passed from Ga On to Yo Han, because it made him respond.
“I didn’t say that.” came the rebuttal, the closest he seemed to regretful. Ga On saw the crack in the mask, but now it didn’t matter. Because he had just seen how far Yo Han was willing to go.
“But it’s what you’re implying.” Ga On didn’t notice when his eyes blurred, but he knew they were red now. Ironic how he felt the most restless now since walking into that room.
“You’re a professional manipulator, Yo Han. You know exactly what, how, and when to say things.” he recognized the acknowledgment in the other’s eyes, but his turn had passed. He had heard too much already. “So don’t tell me this conversation isn’t going exactly how you planned it.”
It was easy to hear the harshness even through the wet tone. He tasted salt.
“And I’ve heard many things from you…” Ga On hated how it came out shaky. “but none as cruel as this.”
The wet trail down Ga On’s face must have stirred some kind of pity or empathy. Again, it didn’t matter anymore.
“Ga On.” it came breathless, almost a whisper. With heavy eyes, Ga On didn’t see anything similar in Yo Han’s, who remained standing, distant.
“No… just don’t.” Already turning away from Yo Han, because he’d had enough. He didn’t want to see or hear it. The suggestion. The intention. The hurt. The distance. The abandonment.
None of that should echo in that house.
So he heard nothing except the click of the door closing.
Years ago he wouldn’t have been able to stay in that house. But now, the idea was unbearable. Because leaving felt like giving up. It would feel like agreeing with that absurd suggestion from Yo Han.
He needed to think, but he would do it there, surrounded by what was familiar. And maybe that was why it hurt more. The most he managed, however, was the guest room. It was the place with the fewest reminders.
Now exposed, Ga On found himself in a state of complete reassessment. How much more had he missed? How many clues had he ignored because he was happy? He didn’t know if he would prefer numbness over the throbbing pain rising inside him. He wanted to hate Yo Han for it. Part of him feared he might succeed.
And if Yo Han had said it out loud, it was because he had already thought it. Far more times than Ga On could imagine. How many times had he sat at the dinner table calculating how much time they had left? How many times had Ga On fallen asleep on his chest while Yo Han stayed awake, planning and accepting that it wouldn’t work out? Yo Han wasn’t impulsive—but he responded to impulsiveness.
Ga On hated himself for giving Yo Han so much power. For allowing him that much power over him. For feeling so viscerally close and connected that now it felt like something was missing from him. For letting the implication leave his eyes swollen, cheeks wet. And Ga On couldn’t handle more losses.
The worst part was that the suggestion had never crossed his mind. Not truly. Not after the ring he now turned between his fingers—and not long before that either. He had always known there was no turning back for them. He had never imagined Yo Han might think otherwise.
The truth was that Ga On didn’t know—and didn’t want to think about—what all of that implied. Nor the actions it would lead to, from both sides. The words kept echoing in his ears. He hated the thought of feeling nothing on his ring finger.
It was late. He should sleep. But he feared waking up.
His head throbbed, and the exhaustion had gone from mental to physical. He felt an added weight on his shoulders and a tightness threatening to suffocate him in that unfamiliar room. It didn’t help that he had been staring into the darkness for what felt like hours. And none of it seemed enough to make him fall asleep.
He knew it was late when he decided to go to the kitchen, in search of something familiar to himself. He got up barefoot through the corridors so much his own that he didn’t need much light to guide him.
It was so natural that he didn’t notice when he made his way to their bedroom. He only realized when he found himself in front of an open door, dim bedside light, and Yo Han completely absent. Automatically, he turned toward the office, its lights all off. So that feeling wasn’t imagined—Yo Han really wasn’t home.
It was natural to feel urgency rise, along with a sense of dread from deep within. Which he forced down. He took a deep breath and walked toward his original destination. Yo Han did this sometimes, disappeared in the mornings. It had nothing to do with earlier words—he forced himself to believe. It was past 4 a.m.
He made it to the fridge, filled a glass, and hoped the water would ease the persistent headache. He felt slightly adrift, in the worst way. He was pulled back to reality by a metallic sound.
He set the glass down on the sink before turning, gravity warning him of what he would find. Yo Han stared at him, dressed in a black hoodie set and running shoes, looking surprised.
Neither of them said anything for a long time. He didn’t know if it was fear of breaking the silence or of what would come next. They both knew it wasn’t the right time. But running, for some reason, didn’t seem like an option.
So Ga On gave in—not because he always did, but because he needed the pain to stop. And he couldn’t stand the echoes anymore.
At the same time, Yo Han seemed about to do something similar, but Ga On needed answers now. So he made sure to stop him when Yo Han’s lips began to part.
“Is that what you want?” He cut off any line of thought or hesitation, because that was the question keeping him from closing his eyes.
“Ga On—” came in a sigh, which Ga On didn’t want to interpret.
“Yes or no, Yo Han.” he cut in, resigned. He wanted to scream, to pound against Yo Han’s chest and say: you owe me this! But did he? Did Yo Han owe him anything? Or did he owe Yo Han? Their relationship had never been about transactions. “Don’t I at least deserve that?” Softer. Not the right word either, but it was the one he had.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“No.” came the sharp voice, firm now. It sounded like a decision. And it sounded like sincerity—something Ga On hoped he could still recognize.
The certainty in it was so calculated it almost made Ga On falter. He felt disoriented.
“You’re tired—” he tried again, quieter. His gaze dropping for a second. Not a reaction to earlier words—an observation.
“Not of you.” it cut through again. The voice sounded heavy, almost wet. He seemed to be restraining himself, standing there with clenched fists. “Never of you.”
Ga On felt something give, along with his shoulders. He let out a small breath, as if resetting the space. But the tension was still excruciating, palpable.
When he looked back at him, he tried to find something—anything.
“Of us, then.” he concluded. A certain impartiality was necessary when analyzing evidence.
“Our fights.” Yo Han corrected quickly. But it felt like he meant more. Ga On sensed something still hanging. “They always circle back to the same thing.”
He heard that conclusion and felt another surge in his veins, the dull pain threatening to ignite into old fire. He let out a humorless laugh when he answered, automatic.
“And whose fault is that?” And immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. Again.
Yo Han didn’t seem to react, remaining still. To recognize him, Ga On pulled himself back, noticing the apprehension. As quickly as the fire threatened to return, it faded. Only weight and exhaustion remained.
“Sometimes it’s exhausting, you know?” Ga On resumed in a whisper, in agreement. The meters between them weren’t an obstacle in the silence of near dawn. “Thinking twice about everything… was it my decision, or how much of it was shaped by you?”
Because it was about that too, wasn’t it? How far Yo Han’s influence extended. And how far Ga On was okay with that.
Yo Han seemed to have other ideas.
“Every human being is manipulated on some level.” his voice carried a different rasp now, but the usual firmness remained. “Some more actively than others.”
He seemed to study Ga On for a few moments, blinking as if realizing something.
“You think you don’t manipulate me?”
Part of Ga On recognized it wasn’t rhetorical, but he remained silent. Still, Yo Han continued.
“How many decisions have I made simply because I love you?” his brows furrowed the way they always did when he tried to make a point. The word caught Ga On’s attention. It seemed so small now, even in that context. “You manipulate me every day, Ga On. Just in a different way.”
“That’s not an excuse.” he replied simply, dismissive. Another part of him wanted to scream: and yet I’m the one you threaten to leave.
“I know. It wasn’t meant to be.”
Ga On let out another sigh, his body struggling to lose its rigidity. The exhaustion still weighed on him. Maybe there were things they would never truly agree on.
It felt like hours before either of them spoke again. Ga On could feel the warmth of Yo Han’s gaze, who simply waited. At the same time accepting the silence and stillness.
Ga On felt his throat scrape as he fought against the new words. Wasn’t that what Yo Han had asked for?
“There’s a pattern in our fights, since the beginning.” there was no hesitation now. “I explode at you, we say horrible things. Within days—even hours—I come back to you, as if nothing happened.” Ga On hated how his voice fractured with partiality.
“Because nothing stayed with me for long. Except once.” he threatened to conclude, staring at Yo Han.
He saw the slightest narrowing of Yo Han’s eyes, though the tension in his hands didn’t seem as strong anymore. He tried to steady his breathing, to stop his vision from blurring again.
“When you left, I understood why. I even agreed, but I dwelled on it. Constantly. Selfishly.” He felt proud of the firmness he managed. “Until you came back. Because I needed you.”
He saw Yo Han’s eyes glisten, noticed the weight there. But he didn’t want any of that.
“I don’t want to live without you anymore. And I hate myself for it.”
Part of him steadied when he realized he didn’t care how Yo Han reacted to those words. It was what it was. But he wasn’t finished.
“You don’t have the right to throw everything away because I’m asking for honesty.” Ga On concluded.
Yo Han seemed to absorb the words, processing them as the silence settled. Part of his face began to be illuminated by the light threatening through the window.
But he still didn’t move. Years ago, Ga On wouldn’t have noticed the shift in his shoulders, the tremor in his fingers, the unclenching of his jaw, or the softening of his gaze. He noticed all of it now.
He didn’t have to wait long to hear the answer. Still, it took time to sink in.
“I used what I knew would hurt.” he swallowed before saying it—now it was Yo Han who seemed to be breaking his own resistance.
“In me.” Ga On interrupted. “You used what would hurt me the most.”
And Yo Han understood the core of it—Ga On could see that. Even so, he felt the need to say it out loud.
“It shouldn’t hurt only me.” He felt the burn as he finished, feeling raw.
Yo Han took a deep breath. When the mask fell, Ga On recognized him again. In an overwhelming familiarity—and yet uncomfortable. There was exhaustion there, yes—and something worse. A slicing pain. And an unusual nervousness.
“You know me, Ga On. It’s what I do.” he finished in a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the silence. And Ga On understood. It was Yo Han’s pattern—simple, effective, methodical. Hurt those who hurt him. Ga On nodded, hesitant to agree.
“How long have you been thinking about this?” because Ga On also knew how to be greedy—and something was still stuck in his throat. And none of this was enough for him.
Yo Han seemed restless on his feet, tilting his head and shoulders, understanding the center of the other’s pain. Realizing he had gone deeper than even he expected. The answer came out like a grimace.
“Always.” it almost sounded like a question, catching Ga On off guard. It brought the opposite of the relief Ga On wanted—but he knew that was nearly impossible, given the situation. At least it was honest. Even if it hurt.
“I think about it because it’s a real possibility. And I think about all of them.” He continued, measured, deliberate in every syllable. Not artificial—factual, like a scientific case. “Even the ugly ones. Especially the ones that would destroy me the most.”
Ga On noticed the tremor in his voice, the force behind it. He felt struck, marked. He didn’t want to be affected by it.
Yo Han could be charmingly theatrical when he wanted. This didn’t seem like one of those times.
He seemed to notice Ga On’s hesitation, mapping the micro-expressions. He chose to continue, because he was good at that—and that was precisely what made it so disarming.
“Believe me when I say I won’t be the first to leave.” it came calm, simple, unembellished—and so true that Ga On desperately wanted to go back a few hours, to another state. Strangely, the sentence hit him like a blow, making him look away instantly.
When he heard the faintest sound of footsteps, he caught sight of Yo Han finally breaking his stillness, moving in a more active way—more like himself. Ga On felt a pull, despite the desk still between them. Yo Han had come a little closer.
“Ga On, look at me.” nothing more than a murmur, which in any other circumstance wouldn’t have been heard. In that moment, it echoed through the room. “Please.” he added, drawing Ga On’s gaze back to his. He held it there, as he always did—completed it, dominated it. “I could never get tired of you.”
Ga On felt the words wash over him, move through him without permission. He felt his shoulders finally drop, his breath catch properly. His eyes burned again—and Yo Han lost focus once more. He fought not to break.
And Yo Han, who had a weakness for those eyes—for him—continued.
“I’m sorry.” it carried seriousness, like an agreement with himself—a sentence, even. “That I don’t know how to play any other way. It’s this or nothing.” A brief release. “And I refuse to have nothing.”
It was easy for Ga On to understand that this wasn’t that kind of apology directed at him. In a way, it was more honest. He felt a fraction of relief—and the need to respond.
“You have me.” was all Ga On managed. And it wasn’t, in any way, a concession. With him, too, it was everything. They agreed on that.
Yo Han saw him, knew him—that was why some days were so easy. And others so difficult. Today felt like one of the latter. That didn’t stop Yo Han from walking around the desk and standing in front of him, only a few steps away. Ga On had to fight the knot in his throat.
“I trust you, and what you do.” because Ga On had never been good at lying. “If you don’t want me around—”
But Yo Han was faster.
“I do. I always have. I always will.” he cut in.
Ga On could only feel the sting deepen when the words didn’t bring the relief he needed. How could he trust Yo Han so much and still feel like something had broken beyond repair? He hated all that fragility. Especially in something that had always been so solid.
“I trust you. But I can’t do this. Not now.” and his own voice sounded awful to his ears—like a third person speaking.
“I can’t think about anything else.” Ga On continued as a single tear followed.
He noticed Yo Han’s blurred hand lifting to stop it. And he didn’t trust himself even to stop him. Not even when he felt those hands—hands that carried so much warmth—slide along his neck and cheek, wiping the mark away. He thought he heard Yo Han whisper, in a comforting tone no longer so rare in recent years, that he understood—that everything would be okay. Ga On didn’t pay much attention.
Because he realized that a third thing had taken a seat at the table with them.