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He doesn't remember his capture. Doesn't remember his plan, doesn't even remember the camera he'd had tucked into the stolen set of scrubs—though if he did, he would hope that it and Miss Han made it out alive. He doesn't remember anything other than these three walls, the blue curtain, and pain.
Oh, his old friend…
Something digs into his scalp when he tries to turn his head. One of the wires, probably. He doesn't remember when they put those on, or why, or why they had him lie on his back and breathe as normally as he could as they told him to move his eyes around or move his hands or do any number of things that he can't really remember anymore because everything just aches with that sort of weariness that comes from being in pain so long you forget what it's like to move.
He thinks he's sick. He thinks so. That's what the doctors keep saying to him.
His room has a light that flickers. There's something cold in it. He wants it to choose—either to stay off or stay on—he has a vivid nightmare one time that the light reaches down and paws at his chest when it's on and squeezes his hands too tight when it's off. At least he thinks he does. The doctors caught him babbling to himself one too many times and then there was a big needle—he thinks—and he doesn't try talking too much anymore.
He thinks he called for help, once.
He doesn't really remember, though.
There are no more things for him to remember, now. He doesn't have anything to remember for. He knows he's going to die here, it's just a manner of if the disease kills him or the treatment kills him.
He thinks a lot. There's not much else for him to do.
He thinks some of these might be him remembering, or trying to remember, of seeing Min Jungho's face and wondering what it would be like to step on it. Or maybe he's seeing Oh Jinjoo's horrified expression when she saw what her broadcast was doing and how badly he wished they talked to her more. Or maybe he's seeing dead bodies. He mostly sees dead bodies.
He thinks of Elijah.
He doesn't believe in gods or devils anymore. What good would it do? If there is one thing he has learned, if there is only one thing that made it through his stupid, thick skull, it was that there was nothing waiting on the other side of death. No omnipotent power waiting to grant absolution, no divine wrath, no great punishment or reward. It was only them. Them and their scrabbles for what power they could cling to and that was all and this is where he dies.
He thinks that whatever headline they came up with to explain his disappearance might have been funny. Poor Jinjoo. The last of the judges standing. He thinks that she deserves it, though, in some ways. She was the best judge of all of them.
He thinks he cries, sometimes. The only way he knows is because the thing in his nose gets all stuffed up and then an alarm goes off and a doctor has to come fix it. He thinks that sometimes they hold a tissue to his face while he blows his nose and sometimes he feels them wipe his cheeks with something. He doesn't know. He can't feel things other than pain very well.
He thinks about what sort of life this is. Is this life? Is this what money and funds and good will are for? Is this the sort of life worth fighting for? This half-dark of grogginess and pain and something that he doesn't remember, lost in a miasma of beeps and squeaks and numbers he doesn't know the meaning of. He thinks he's stuck, that the important parts of him died long ago and now he's here. He was never clever enough, never strategic enough, never enough, never enough to do anything. Not when it mattered.
The doctors don't bother with him much anymore. There are never any changes they write down. They just pull the curtain and look at him and then leave him alone with his thoughts again.
He thinks, and it makes him laugh, that he must not be a very good test subject either.
"And you're sure it's him?"
"Yes. It's definitely him."
"Is he safe to transport?"
"Yes. He's not contagious. It's the shit they put in him that's keeping him down."
"Aish. What have they done?"
"Doesn't matter. What matters is getting him out of here as fast as we can."
He wakes up.
Something is different.
It's dark. It's never dark.
He tries to turn his head—no wires. His cheek comes to rest on a pillow, cool and smooth and soft and it smells like lavender.
Smells. He never realized he wasn't smelling anything other than antiseptic.
Something is beeping. There's something still in his arm. There's still something stuck to his chest.
It's beeping faster now.
There is something on his face.
"—on-ah, Gaon-ah, calm down, it's okay, you're safe now, you have to calm down."
He's being touched. That's what's on his face. One of the doctors?
Light. A warm light. Not the cold harsh ones of his room. A warm light that gently chases the shadows from the bed—a bed, he's lying in a proper bed, what happened to him? The hand on his face is so warm. Is he cold? How long has he been cold?
"Gaon-ah," he hears again, "Kim Gaon!"
That's his name, isn't it? That's him? He doesn't remember.
"Kim Gaon," the voice pleads, "you have to look at me, you have to remember."
He blinks.
He looks.
He doesn't recognize the face in front of him before he's pulled back to sleep, but he thinks he must be dead. That's where Kang Yohan is, after all, so he couldn't have recognized his face if he were anywhere else.
He thinks this is a dream:
"Gaon-ah," Yohan murmurs, voice low and soft in the warm light of the room—it's daylight now, filtering gentle fingers through the drawn curtains, "you took your time waking up again."
It's fond and tender in a way Yohan never was in Korea. Gaon blinks, slow and stupid, and Yohan raises his hand to stroke careful fingers over his cheek. "You—you're here?"
"I'm here," he says again, thumb passing firmly over the arch of his cheekbone, "I'm here and so are you. You're out, Gaon-ah. You'll never have to go back there, ever again."
Gaon smiles. Because this is true: as long as he's here, with Yohan, nothing can hurt him. Nothing except his own stupidity and he's had too much time alone with his own thoughts to risk going back there again. So he grins, big and dumb and sniffling as Yohan's hand cups his face, his brows drawing lightly together.
"Yah," he says, still speaking quietly, gently, "I mean it. You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you."
"I believe you," he babbles, "I believe you."
"Are you just overwhelmed, is that it?" The hand begins to tuck stray bits of hair behind his ear. "This must be a lot, I know. I should have found you sooner."
He shakes his head. Yohan couldn't have come for him sooner. That isn't how this works. Yohan's mouth draws up into a thin line.
"You're too forgiving of me," he murmurs, more for himself than for Gaon's ears, "I wish you wouldn't be. Not this time."
Silly Yohan. Hasn't he learned by now?
"I'll always forgive you, Chief," Gaon whispers, "always."
He thinks this is a dream:
"Elijah wants to see you."
Elijah. Bile rises in the back of Gaon's throat. All he can see is Elijah's distraught face, hear her muffled cries, feel her rage as she screams at him for taking her last surviving family member away from her. The beeping to his left increases and he starts to get lightheaded.
"Kim Gaon."
That tone of voice could slam his heart back between his ribs from worlds away. He blinks and Yohan is right there, hands on his shoulders, eyes locked to his. He takes several gasping breaths, his hands trembling.
"Breathe," Yohan orders and Gaon is helpless to obey, mouth taking massive ugly swallows of air until his chest no longer feels as though it will burst.
"S-sorry."
Yohan waves away his apology. "Are you okay now?"
"I think so."
"She won't come in until you say it's alright," he says, voice gentle once more—is it wrong that he doesn't recognize it? Is it wrong that it hurts in a very different way? Is it wicked that he wants to deny himself tenderness?
Distantly, he recognizes that Yohan is waiting for some sort of response from him. He nods. Yohan hums, reaching out to pull his blankets up over his chest again.
"You should rest a little more, if you can. You still need your strength back."
"She—she won't see me like this, will she?"
Yohan's face is grave when he says: "I assure you, Kim Gaon, she's seen far worse."
He thinks this is a dream:
"You need to eat."
There's a bowl held up for him. Yohan's sitting much closer this time, one hand supporting the bowl, the other holding a steaming spoon aloft.
"What is it?"
"I've been learning how to cook. We both have." A small tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose it was our way of admitting how much we missed you."
"Should I be worried?"
"Yah, what happened to respecting your elders? It's good!"
"You're the person who claimed to not be able to taste things," he says, leaning back from the spoon, "are you sure—"
Yohan takes the chance to gently push the spoon into his open mouth. He lets out an affronted noise before realizing oh, this tastes wonderful.
"See?"
"I'm very sorry to have doubted your cooking skills. Please, can I have more?"
Yohan chuckles and feeds him until the bowl is empty.
"You're going to make me fat in this bed," Gaon mumbles as he relaxes back into the pillows.
"You've lost a lot of weight," Yohan says with no small amount of regret, "it'll be good for you to get some back."
"I should be the one cooking for you."
A little bit of light comes back to his face as he reaches out to ruffle Gaon's hair. "You'll get your chance."
He thinks this is a dream:
"It's funny, I almost missed it."
Darkness drapes itself over the corners of the room, the warm light catching just at the very edge of the bedcovers. Gold glows trace the contours of Yohan's figure, one leg crossed artfully over the other. He tilts his head and one of his eyes shines with the light, the other still shadowed.
"Did you hear me?"
"Huh?"
He chuckles, low and rich and smooth. "I said I had almost missed it."
"Missed what?"
"How you stare at me."
Gaon is only a man. His body is weak, shriveled, hollowed out by cruel hands and crueler circumstances and it is only flesh. His blood is only blood and he cannot control the way it rushes and surges through him.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Like that," comes Yohan's voice again, swathed in the darkness, "it's a wonder you were ever able to pay attention in court. Or were you simply so well disciplined then?"
"I—I don't—I wasn't—"
"Oh, come now, there's no need to pretend. It's alright, I didn't mind. You were supposed to look at me." The light catches on the edges of his teeth as he smiles. "Though I must admit, I didn't intend to be so distracting to you."
Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.
"I wasn't distracted," he lies as his hands start to bunch up in the sheets, the heart monitor pulsing against his ears, "I—I was paying attention."
Yohan just has to give him a look before heat rushes to his face. And yet the eye in shadow is a pit, drawing him in, in, in, down and down until he thinks he might fall into it and never emerge.
"Just like you are now?"
Caught, he can only splutter his defense as Yohan effortlessly tilts his head the other way. "I'm not doing anything!"
"You can't hide from me, Kim Gaon," comes the teasing lilt as Yohan gestures to the heart monitor, "if your face weren't giving you away, your pulse certainly would."
Beep beep beep, beep beep beep, beep beep beep.
"You seem awfully worked up," the teasing continues, "perhaps you should try and calm yourself. You shouldn't be putting so much stress on your system."
Beepbeepbeep. Beepbeepbeep. Beepbeepbeep.
The monitor is loud. It's so loud. The light is getting brighter. There are needles in his arms. There is something other than blood flowing through his veins. All he can hear is the monitor. All he can see is the light. All he can smell is the antiseptic and he still feels hot and sweaty and humiliated and afraid and—
Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep—
Hands. Warm hands, pinning his wrists to the soft bed. A shadow, fallen across his face, the faint smell of musk and spice and clean sweat.
He gasps.
The heart monitor is silent.
The only sound he can hear is his own panting breaths as Yohan stares at him.
Their faces are so close.
He watches the roll of Yohan's throat as he swallows heavily.
"That was reckless of me," he rasps, hands warm and worn on Gaon's, "you are far too fragile for such teasing right now."
His eyes close for a moment, head bowing, before he leans even closer. Gaon's heart is still racing but the monitor is silent. Yohan's breath curls around the shell of his ear.
"Forgive me, baby deer," he whispers, "I shouldn't have played so rough."
Gaon swallows through a wrecked throat. "P-please leave."
Yohan pulls back, startled, but Gaon has already shut his eyes and turned away.
The door closes with a near-silent click.
He thinks this is a dream:
"Elijah scolded me."
A rustle of clothing. The slight squeak of a chair.
"She told me that I'm a stupid old man—which is true, and that if I want you to stay with us, I need to be nice to you."
Another rustle.
"I've not been very nice to you before."
A long pause. The floorboards creak as weight shifts back and forth. A breath, not as steady as the ones that preceded it.
"I don't really know how to be nice to people. I knew how to give them what they wanted, or what they needed, even when they didn't want it. I know how to make people happy, but that isn't the same thing."
A pause.
"You taught me that."
A slight hum as the central heating kicks on. A rustle from the curtains.
"If you'd be willing to teach me more, I want to learn how to be nice to you. I want you to teach me. You taught Elijah how to cook breakfast foods, and how to play that card game she insists on. She wants to play it with you—she wants us to play it. In the living room, where the light is best. She wants you to come out there with us."
Another breath, shakier than the last.
"I…want that to. I don't like seeing you shut up in this room. It makes me think of that old house and all its wretched history. You don't belong in that place, Gaon-ah, you never did. You belong with us."
A pause. A pause. A pause. A rustle. A slow reach.
The tentative brush of fingertips along knuckles.
"I miss you. I miss…I miss the version of me you helped make. Come teach me and let me learn how to be him again."
He thinks this is a dream:
They're looking out the window.
The curtains sit neatly in their hooks, the thin gauzy ones still drifting back and forth along the panes of glass. Light slants through the window onto the bed, Yohan's legs outstretched on top of the covers.
Gaon's head rests on his shoulder. One of his hands cards gently through his hair, lingering on the spots where Gaon's breath shudders a little bit more. Every so often, his touch will drift down to scratch lightly at the space between his shoulder blades or at the nape of his neck, drawing pleased hums from his throat. His eyes blink slowly, lazily. Yohan stills from time to time and simply turns his nose into the thick of Gaon's hair, breathing him in.
They stay like that until the sunset comes.
He thinks this is a dream:
"Hyung."
Yohan stills, looking up from his cards. Gaon bites his lip, resisting the urge to shift.
"Is…that okay?"
Yohan just looks at him for a long moment. Then he takes a breath, puts down the cards, and props his weight on his arm. "That depends."
"On what?"
"Am I allowed to call you other names too?" Gaon nods, a little confused, and he smiles. Reaching up, he fits his hand snugly around the curve of Gaon's jaw. "Then yes, jagiya, it's okay."
"O-oh."
"Now pick up your cards, it's your turn."
He thinks this is a dream:
"I can stay, right?" he blurts out in the middle of a conversation.
Yohan looks at him, softly devastated, and brings their foreheads to rest together.
"You can stay forever."
Gaon wakes up.
His arms are clean. His chest is clear. There are no wires in his hair.
He sits up.
He swings his legs over.
For the first time in he has no idea how long, his bare feet rest against the floorboards.
The door opens.
He looks up.
Yohan stands in the doorway.
They stare at each other.
He swallows.
"Is…this real?"
Yohan walks over to him.
He kneels by the edge of the bed.
Slowly, so slowly, he takes Gaon's hands in his.
"Yes, jagiya," he murmurs, soft and tender and alive and devastating and sweet and worried and wonderful and terrible and hopeful and promising and regretful and guilty and relieved and so, so, so Gaon's, "it's real."
"Oh," Gaon says, and promptly bursts into tears.
Elijah scolds him for being dramatic while crying furiously into his shoulder. The house in Switzerland is bright and airy and full of light. The kitchen is warm and lively and they laugh as they cook and play card games as they eat. Kkomi sprawls across their laps as they watch a movie that's meant for kids but was the only thing they could agree on.
He kisses Yohan one morning as the sun rises. Yohan just breathes out a 'finally' and kisses him back until his legs give out. He gets teased—gently!—for still being a baby deer and he pouts until Yohan kisses it away.
It's real. It's all real.