Chapter Text
The plane lands without ceremony.
No grand announcement, no sense of return—just the subtle, jarring shift of wheels meeting ground, a quiet tremor running through the cabin as if the earth itself is reluctant to take him back.
Baekjin doesn’t move when everyone else does.
Seatbelts click open. Overhead compartments creak. Voices rise—relieved, impatient, alive.
He stays still.
For a moment, it almost feels like nothing has changed. Like if he closes his eyes, he can pretend this isn’t what it is. Not a return. Not a beginning.
Just a pause.
But then someone nudges past his shoulder, muttering an apology, and the illusion breaks.
He exhales.
Slow. Measured.
Korea.
The word settles somewhere deep in his chest, unfamiliar despite the way it used to live there.
Baekjin reaches for his bag only when the aisle begins to clear, fingers brushing against worn fabric. The motion is automatic. Practiced. He has learned, over the years, how to move without thinking too much about where he’s going.
It’s easier that way.
The airport is exactly how he remembers, and not at all.
Too bright. Too clean. Too loud in a way that feels distant, like sound filtered through water. People rush past him in blurs of color and purpose, reunion signs held high, laughter spilling freely into the air.
He watches them the way he always has, from the outside.
A child runs into someone’s arms near the gate exit, nearly knocking them over. The man laughs, lifting the kid up effortlessly, spinning them once before setting them down again. There’s something so easy about it, so certain.
Baekjin looks away.
He adjusts the strap of his bag against his shoulder and keeps walking.
One step. Then another.
The automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss.
Warm air greets him.
And just like that—
He’s back.
집
He doesn’t know why he came.
That thought has followed him across oceans, lingered through sleepless nights and long lectures, sat heavy in the quiet spaces between everything he’s built for himself.
There was no plan, no letter, no message sent ahead.
Only a ticket and a decision made in the kind of silence that doesn’t ask questions.
Even now, standing just outside the airport, Baekjin feels it again—that pull. Faint, but persistent. Like something just out of reach, tugging at him from somewhere deeper than logic.
He exhales through his nose.
It doesn’t make sense.
He had left for a reason.
No—reasons.
They had been clear back then, painfully necessary. Survival, distance, an ending.
His grip tightens slightly on the strap of his bag.
He had cut everything off cleanly, completely. No loose ends, no room for anything to follow him. That was the point. That was the only way he knew how to do it.
His gaze drifts, unfocused, to nothing in particular.
(or maybe to something very specific.)
An uninvited and persistent memory of a playground.
Not here. It smells like fresh rain instead of sterility. The swings creak against the wind and the leaves crunch under his feet (even then all he knew was to destroy.) The soft tug on his uniform sleeve, the faint smell of shampoo and fried food, the storm he wasn’t afraid of catching.
And loud and unrestrained laughter.
Annoying.
Baekjin’s fingers curl slightly.
He remembers the way it used to fill the space so easily, like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.
Like everything did.
Baku.
The name surfaces before he can stop it.
It feels the same.
That’s the worst part.
Years gone, and it still sits in his chest like something unchanged. Untouched by his own cruelty, though he knows that’s far from the truth.
Baekjin closes his eyes briefly.
Baku, who was always too much.
Too loud. Too honest. Too alive in a way Baekjin never knew how to be.
Baku, who stood in the middle of everything Baekjin tried to keep at arm’s length—and reached for him anyway. Who he pushed and drove away for reasons years of therapy had yet to explain to Baekjin.
Baku, who made Korea feel like…
His breath catches, just slightly.
…something worth staying for.
He opens his eyes again.
The feeling passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it just sinks deeper, settling into a place he’s learned not to look too closely at.
It doesn’t matter.
That was a long time ago.
People change. Places change. Whatever that was—it doesn’t exist anymore.
Baekjin adjusts his grip again, grounding himself in the present.
He takes a step forward.
Then another.
The city stretches out before him, familiar in shape but distant in feeling. Buildings he once knew now stand like strangers, watching him pass without recognition.
He tells himself that’s fine; that’s what he wanted.
The apartment is smaller than he expected.
Not unlivable—just… quiet.
Baekjin stands just inside the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, one hand still resting on the handle as it clicks shut behind him. The sound echoes faintly through the space, swallowed quickly by bare walls and empty corners.
It smells new, or maybe just unused.
A single window lets in the late afternoon light, stretching pale gold across the floor. Dust floats lazily in the air, undisturbed. There’s no clutter. No signs of life. Just a bed frame pushed against the wall, a narrow table, a kitchen that looks like it’s never been touched.
Temporary—that’s what it feels like.
Like a place someone passes through, not somewhere they stay.
Baekjin steps further inside.
His footsteps are soft, but in the silence, they sound louder than they should. He sets his bag down beside the bed, the fabric slumping against the frame with a dull thud.
And then nothing.
No voices. No movement. No one.
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.
This is fine.
It’s what he wanted.
A clean place. A fresh start. Something separate from everything that came before.
Something that doesn’t carry—
“You’re seriously just gonna stand there?”
Baekjin stills.
The voice is familiar.
Too familiar.
He doesn’t turn around.
“…You always do this,” it continues, casual, a little annoyed. “You get somewhere and just freeze like you forgot how to exist.”
There’s the faint sound of movement behind him. Shoes against the floor. The quiet shift of weight that Baekjin could recognize anywhere.
His throat tightens.
“You gonna unpack, or what?”
Baekjin closes his eyes.
It’s not real. He knows that. He’s known it for years.
He doesn’t mind this as much as he used to. He knows he can stop, that he has control over his own racing and cruel mind, but in some ways it feels nice to have him here. A reminder of his past, of the man he doesn’t want to be anymore. His only connection to the boy he left behind.
“…You’re loud,” Baekjin says quietly.
A pause.
Then, a scoff. “Yeah? And you’re annoying. Nothing new.”
The words come so easily. The rhythm of it. The familiarity.
Baekjin turns, slowly.
There’s no one there.
Of course there isn’t.
The room is just as empty as it was before.
The light hasn’t changed. The air hasn’t shifted.
Nothing.
He stares at the space for a moment longer before looking away.
“…Right.”
He bends down, unzipping his bag with careful precision, like if he focuses enough on the motion, the feeling in his chest will settle.
It doesn’t.
Because even as he pulls out folded clothes, even as he places them neatly on the bed, he can still hear it.
“Don’t put that there,” the voice says, immediately. “That’s a dumb spot.”
Baekjin’s hand pauses mid-motion.
“…It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You’re gonna hate it in like two days.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
A beat.
“…You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Baekjin exhales sharply through his nose, pressing his lips together.
Silence follows. Heavy. Lingering.
“…You’re still talking to me,” the voice says, quieter now.
Something in Baekjin’s chest twists.
He doesn’t respond.
“You said you wouldn’t.”
His grip tightens slightly around the fabric in his hands.
“I didn’t,” he says.
Another pause.
“…Then who are you talking to?”
Baekjin stops moving entirely.
The question hangs there, suspended in the stillness of the room.
There’s no answer to it.
Not one he wants to give.
So instead, he folds the shirt in his hands with deliberate care and sets it down on the bed.
The conversation ends the only way it ever does, with silence.
By the time the sun sets, the apartment looks marginally more lived in.
His clothes are put away. His books stacked neatly on the table. A few essentials placed where they’re easy to reach.
It’s functional. It's organized, optimal, empty.
Baekjin stands by the window, looking out at the city below.
Lights flicker on one by one, scattering across the streets like constellations. Cars move in slow, steady streams. People pass by in groups, in pairs, in lives that continue without interruption.
He watches them without really seeing.
“…You’re gonna go far.”
The words come back to him suddenly.
Baekjin’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his gaze sharpens.
They were lying on the roof of the school, middle school uniforms crumpled from all the running and shoving. Baku had a way of turning everything into a spar, and Baekjin hadn’t decided if he liked the challenge of a fight or just liked making Baku laugh.
“High school is scary,” Baekjin mumbled, younger than he was now, soft spoken in a way he had lost to yelling and anger.
Baku turned over, lying on his arm to look at him.
“You? Scared?” He chuckled. “Of school?”
Baekjin blushed, shoving him playfully. Baku caught his hands easily, laughing as they struggled for a bit.
“I’m being serious!” Baekjin insisted, still trying to release himself from Baku’s grasp.
“So am I!” Baku replied.
He finally let go, making Baekjin shove him playfully.
They calmed down, soft breaths against the crickets.
“You have nothing to be worried about,” Baku said, quieter, more sincere. “You’re the smartest person I know. If anyone is gonna make it, it’s gonna be you.”
Baekjin turned his head, cheek pressed against the cold ground.
“You really believe that?”
“A thousand percent!” Baku beamed. “I should be the one worried. I got a 3/10 on the last test, but hey! It’s better than the zero last time!”
Baekjin chuckled. “That is an improvement. I am proud of you.”
And he meant it. Back then, Baekjin always meant what he said.
Baku smiled; he knew this.
“Trust me, Baekjin-ah,” he said. “You’re way too good for this town.”
He looked back up at the stars, eyes trailing over each one, trying to find the secrets of the universe up there, but Baekjin was too busy looking at him to notice.
Baku seemed find them, when a small smile curled on his lips
“You’re gonna go far.”
It had been said so easily.
Like it was obvious. Like it was a good thing. His fingers curl slightly against the windowsill.
At the time, he hadn’t known what to do with it. Praise always sat strangely with him—uncomfortable, undeserved.
But that wasn’t what stayed. It was the tone, certain and steady, like Baku had already decided it was true, like there was no version of the future where Baekjin didn’t make it out.
His jaw tightens.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs, barely audible.
He did go far.
Far enough that nothing followed him. Far enough that everything he left behind became something else entirely.
He drags a hand down his face, exhaling slowly.
It doesn’t matter.
That was the point.
That was always the point.
People move on.
They build new lives, new routines, with new people.
The thought settles heavily.
Of course Baku would’ve changed.
He had been surrounded by people even back then: teammates, friends, allies, noise, life. It wouldn’t have taken long for that space to fill. Someone else would’ve stepped in, someone better, someone who actually stays.
Baekjin’s lips press into a thin line.
Maybe he’s…
The thought comes uninvited.
Married.
The word feels strange, distant, but not impossible.
Years have passed, enough time for everything to shift, to settle into something stable, something real.
A wife, a home, a good life, a happy end like all the fairytales Baku used to read. A life that Baekjin could never even dream of. A life that doesn’t have room for—
Baekjin exhales sharply, cutting the thought off before it can finish.
“…That’s good.”
The words sound wrong, but he says them anyway. It’s easier like that. Easier to believe that whatever existed before has been replaced. Or better yet, that it had never existed at all.
His gaze drops to the floor.
“…You should’ve moved on,” he mutters.
The room doesn’t answer.
It never does.
He leaves before he can think too much about it.
The streets are busier at night, alive in a way his apartment isn’t.
Neon signs flicker overhead, casting shifting colors across the pavement. Conversations overlap, blending into a steady hum. The smell of food drifts through the air. It’s familiar, grounding, just enough to make something in his chest ache.
Baekjin walks without direction.
Past places that look half-remembered. Past corners that feel like they should mean something.
Everything is almost recognizable.
He keeps his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze forward but distant. No one looks at him twice. There’s nothing about him that stands out here.
Just another person passing through.
A stranger, even in his homeland.
His steps slow slightly as he reaches an intersection.
The light turns red.
He stops.
Across the street, a group of students laughs loudly, one of them nearly dropping a drink as the others shove him playfully. The energy is bright and uncontained.
For a second, he imagines Baku and his friends, the ones Baekjin hurt and the new ones Baku made that will be taught to curse his name.
Screw that guy who did that to you. He’s a fucking psycho. What kind of asshole would stoop so low? I hope you never let him back into your life. He should have died all those years ago.
And Baekjin imagines them laughing just like after, pouring another round of beer, a happy chaos that Baku always found himself in the center of.
Baekjin looks away before it can fully form.
The light changes.
He moves again.
One step.
Maybe if Baku is happy, that’s enough.
Then another.
Deeper into a city that never really felt like home.
집
It starts small, so small he almost doesn’t notice it.
A figure across the street—broad shoulders, familiar stance. Someone laughing too loudly, head thrown back in a way that feels…
Baekjin’s gaze flicks up for a second.
The same posture. The same careless way of taking up space, like the world bends a little to make room.
His steps falter.
The light hasn’t changed yet, but the world narrows anyway. Sounds dull, movements slow.
Baku.
The name lands before he can stop it.
The figure turns... and it isn’t him. Not even close.
Different face, different eyes, a stranger wearing a shape Baekjin remembers too well.
The moment snaps—noise rushes back in, cars pass, someone brushes past his shoulder, muttering something he doesn’t catch.
Baekjin exhales.
“…Right.”
He looks away first, keeps walking, but it happens again a few blocks later.
A reflection this time—caught in the glass of a store window. Someone behind him, just out of focus. Tall, dark hair, shoulders used to carrying the weight of more than they should, standing still in the middle of everything else moving.
Baekjin stops.
His heartbeat stutters, just slightly.
Don’t.
He doesn’t turn immediately. He already knows, but still…
Slowly, he looks over his shoulder.
There’s no one there. Just passing strangers, a couple arguing quietly, a man checking his phone, no one looking at him.
No one waiting.
He stares for a second longer than necessary before facing forward again.
“I’m still jetlagged,” he murmurs under his breath and it sounds like a reasonable explanation.
By the third time, he doesn’t stop. He notices it—the outline, the movement, the almost-familiar rhythm of someone walking just ahead of him—but he doesn’t let himself look directly.
If he doesn’t check, it won’t be wrong. If he doesn’t confirm it, he can keep it suspended in that space between possibility and disappointment.
But he follows, not too obvious, not even intentionally. Just… a little faster. Just enough to keep that figure within reach.
It turns a corner.
Baekjin does too.
His steps echo faintly in the narrower street, the noise of the main road fading behind him.
The figure slows.
So does he.
Just ahead,
Close enough now that he can see the line of his shoulders, the way his hands rest at his sides.
Close enough that if it is him—
Baekjin’s throat tightens.
Don’t.
He stops walking.
The figure keeps going.
Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t notice him at all.
(Because it isn’t him.)
Baekjin stands there for a moment, staring at nothing. He lets out a quiet breath and drags a hand over the back of his neck.
“…Pathetic.”
The word is soft. Matter-of-fact. It doesn’t sting the way it should. Maybe because it’s true.
He doesn’t realize where he is until it’s too late.
The streets shifted from unfamiliar to something closer to memory. The buildings are older. The air is quieter in a way that feels specific. Almost like a memory and the present all at once.
Baekjin slows and his gaze drifts.
There’s a convenience store on the corner.
He knows that store, or he knew it.
The sign’s been replaced. The windows cleaner, but the shape of it, the position, the way it sits just slightly off from the rest of the block makes his chest tighten.
It’s as if something is pulling him forward. His feet move on their own and he doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t question it until a familiar entrance comes into view.
Eunjang.
He stops and his breath catches, just slightly.
The name settles heavy in his chest.
For a second, everything feels too still, too quiet.
Baekjin’s fingers curl slightly at his sides.
He hadn’t meant to come here. He hadn’t—
“…Of course you didn’t.”
The voice is back.
Right beside him.
“You just happened to walk all the way here by accident, right?”
Baekjin doesn’t look.
His jaw tightens.
“I wasn’t—”
“Thinking about it?” the voice cuts in. “Yeah. Sure.”
A pause.
“…You always lie about the dumbest things.”
His chest feels too tight.
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you here?”
Baekjin doesn’t answer.
Because he can’t. Because there isn’t one. Or maybe because there is and he just doesn’t want to say it out loud.
Silence stretches between them.
Then, quieter, the voice mumbles.
“…You missed it.”
The words land gently, not accusing, not mocking.
Baekjin’s throat tightens.
He stares at the fences, the plants, the chipped paint and the worn down roads. He stares at the space beyond it, at something he hasn’t let himself look at in years.
“…No,” the voice says, barely audible.
A pause.
“You missed me.”
Sharp. Immediate. Baekjin’s breath falters.
His fingers curl tighter, nails pressing faintly into his palms.
“Stop.” His voice sounds controlled, but it’s cracked at the edges.
The voice doesn’t respond.
Baekjin exhales slowly, forcing the tension out of his shoulders.
He straightens slightly.
Composes himself.
This is stupid.
Standing here like this, thinking like this, doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t bring anything back. Whatever was here before and whatever he left behind is gone.
It has to be. People move on. They always do.
He’s the only one who didn’t.
“…You should go,” he mutters.
This time, the voice agrees.
“Yeah.”
Baekjin nods, once, firm.
He turns,
and freezes.
There’s a sound.
Faint past the old hallways, barely there on the other side of the fence.
A basketball hitting the ground.
Once.
Twice.
Steady.
No.
It’s nothing. Just a school. Just students. Just—
“Again.”
A loud and encouraging voice echoes through the space. Older than Baekjin remembered, but still full of the same hope, unmistakable.
Baekjin’s heart stops.
He can’t move. He can’t think. He can’t breathe.
Somehow he forces his feet to walk away, carried by an aimless mind. Walk away. Leave. Like he did all those years ago.