Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were few times when Wonbin remembered feeling in love in his short life. Among his fleeting memories came recollections of partners who managed to invade him: some girls in high school with whom he had forgettable encounters, and boys in bars who promised him the sky and the stars. None of those times felt like love.

They loved him, but it wasn’t reciprocal.

He had never felt the need to confess feelings he did not carry in his heart. He had never felt the weight of romantic rejection.

Never.

Until he met Song Eunseok.

After finishing high school, he had a violent conflict with his parents, a shouting match in which years of familial bonds were thrown away like trash. It was Wonbin’s fault; he was painfully aware of his failings as a son. He knew he hadn’t done well: terrible grades, terrible attitude, returning home at dawn reeking of cheap alcohol and the perfume of the men and women he had spent time with. He was a disaster. One his parents refused to fix. So they disposed of him.

As if he were garbage.

It was then that he arrived at Sungchan’s door, his lifelong friend. Well, “lifelong” was an exaggeration. Sungchan was, in truth, the only person who had more or less tolerated him—and, of course, hadn’t made any advances while he was dead drunk. They had known each other since high school, back when Sungchan had been the complete opposite of what he appeared to be now.

It amused him to see the guy who had once helped him forge a fake ID now studying law at one of the country’s most prestigious universities. Sungchan lived in a shared apartment a few minutes from campus. Wonbin hadn’t called ahead; he simply arrived at the door carrying a backpack full of clothes, bottles of alcohol, and a guitar he hadn’t touched in five years in his right hand. He hadn’t even noticed he had brought it until he boarded a bus and accidentally hit someone in the face while turning to sit down. It had been slightly comical.

He knocked on the door more than once, but nobody answered. Sungchan was his only option to avoid sleeping on the streets like a beggar; he had no other contacts to turn to. No friends, no partner, and his uncles were just like his parents—he doubted they would welcome him with open arms. So he decided to lie down on the floor, lean against the wall, and open a beer to pass the time. Maybe Sungchan was spending the night with a beautiful woman and hadn’t returned yet; it was the only explanation he could conceive.

He didn’t know when he lost consciousness.

He only knew that the dream he had was not pleasant. All the memories of that day returned like a specter. His father scolded him, pointing at the bottles of alcohol hidden in his closet, while his mother called him a drunk and a libertine. He hadn’t defended himself in real life, and he certainly didn’t in the dream. He could only focus on the sternness of their faces as they unleashed all that pent-up fury on him. They truly hated him.

It had been two years since he left high school, and he admitted that he had done nothing to begin his life as an independent adult. He hadn’t pursued higher education, nor had he sought work; he had only drowned himself in the rainbow-colored world offered by alcohol. He barely remembered how his addiction had begun. Perhaps he discovered the shelf of aged wines his father hid in the basement, or maybe the idiot Sungchan offered him a can of beer during one of his emotional lows. Either seemed plausible.

He would have liked to continue searching through his fractured memories, but a hand pressing on his shoulder brought him back to the present.

"Hey, excuse me. Are you a resident of this apartment complex?" a man shook his shoulder.

Wonbin was lying on his side against the floor, hugging a bottle of alcohol like a baby clinging to its favorite stuffed toy. He looked both tender and terribly pathetic.

"Are you a cop?" The man shook his head, puzzled by the question. "Then fuck off. It’s none of your business."

When he focused his gaze, he realized there were two men: one leaning toward him, and the other standing with a key in his hand, staring at him with narrowed eyes. Neither looked angry, more curious than anything.

"The landlord doesn’t allow vagrants in the hallways," the crouching one complained before removing his hand from Wonbin’s shoulder.

Okay, that annoyed Wonbin. Perhaps he was a mediocre drunk, but he was not a vagrant. He sat up, fury boiling inside him, and shut his eyes tightly as the room spun around him. The man stood and stepped back at the sight of his rage. Wonbin wondered whether he looked intimidating, or more like a clown about to start his act.

Before he could fully stand, the man near the door shouted, pointing at him like he had discovered a new continent.

"I know you!" he admitted, eyes wide like a puppy’s. "You’re in Sungchan’s graduation photo!"

Leaning against the wall to steady himself, Wonbin noticed both men were tall—especially the one with puppy-like eyes—so he had to tilt his head slightly to meet their gaze.

"Of course I’m in his graduation photo, we were classmates," he said, realizing how slurred his voice sounded. "Who the hell are you?"

The two reacted differently: one laughed at his language, the other watched him seriously, suspiciously.

"We’re Sungchan’s roommates," clarified the taller one, taking the sullen companion by the shoulders. "I’m Chanyoung, and this is Eunseok."

He remembered that day in vague detail, clouded by drunkenness. What he could say for certain was that his first impression of Eunseok was of an insufferable man who wouldn’t smile even if paid a million dollars. He would never have imagined that in a few months he would be obsessed with that sour expression.

Eunseok was like a spoiled, aloof cat—evasive with strangers.

Chanyoung was like a dog.

A big, happy dog.

His arms were strong, his chest comforting. Wonbin knew this because Chanyoung carried him inside the apartment, asking softly every few seconds if he needed anything. That was the last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him. He had fallen asleep in the arms of a complete stranger—something he had done before, though rarely so tenderly.

"I’m not sure it’s a good idea to let him sleep here," said a flat voice. It was Eunseok.

"We can’t leave him outside; the cold is unbearable at night," insisted Chanyoung, his voice echoing in Wonbin’s ears despite the quiet murmur.

That night, Wonbin slept like a baby. No dreams, which he found strange, as he usually battled nightmares that tore him from his sleep in the middle of the night. His body rested between soft sheets, his face sinking into a pillow that molded to its shape. It was paradise.

Unfortunately, sharp stomach pains and a pounding headache dragged him back to reality. Wonbin opened his eyes groaning, disoriented, unsure where he was. He had never been good at waking up, especially after nights at the bar. He couldn’t remember how much he had drunk the day before—maybe all day, letting alcohol flood his system until it erased his memory. He hated the emptiness of it, hated even more falling back into the same vice, night after night.

He got up from the lower bunk and staggered down the hall in search of a bathroom, covering his mouth to stave off nausea. No one was around. A glance at the walls revealed a familiar frame.

The graduation photo.

His parents had lost theirs in the last move.

He stepped closer to admire it.

Sungchan stared nervously at the camera, his tie strangling his neck, the bowl-cut haircut memorable. Wonbin might have laughed if he had been more lucid.

In the group photo, he found himself at the edge of the crowd: dead eyes, vacant stare, shirt unbuttoned. Looking at the younger version of himself from two years ago was like staring at a ghost. It was him, and yet not. He tried to ignore the gnawing feeling in his gut and headed toward the bathroom at the end of the hall, marked by a large sign: BATHROOM.

He emptied everything in his stomach into the toilet until only a bitter taste remained.

Then he felt his body collapse in the bathroom.

"Wonbin," a distant voice called, "damn it, Wonbin, wake up."

He was used to his father’s harsh morning shouts—serious, commanding. But this voice was softer, laced with concern that made his skin prickle. He knew it.

It was Sungchan.

He confirmed it upon opening his eyes: it was him. A different haircut, dull clothing, but most striking was the nostalgia etched across his face. They hadn’t seen each other since Sungchan had moved into this apartment for college. They barely kept in touch; Wonbin only occasionally checked his social media. Despite everything, Sungchan was the only reliable person he had left. Pathetic enough to make him want to cry.

"Sungchan," he managed to say, the only word forming.

He leaned against the bathtub, back aching from the poor position.

He wanted to say something—anything—but arms wrapped around him stopped him.

"I’m sorry," Sungchan pressed tighter. Wonbin didn’t have the strength to hug back, so he rested his chin on his shoulder. "God, Wonbin, this is my fault."

His fault?

Perhaps he meant the fake ID, or maybe the time he first invited him to a bar after a difficult exam week. Wonbin had never blamed Sungchan for his addiction; he had carried that guilt himself.

There, warmed by Sungchan’s embrace, he drifted back to sleep. Exhaustion had consumed his body, and his eyelids were heavy. Seeing Sungchan again after all those months felt like medicine for his heart.

They had been close—not enough to be best friends, but Wonbin valued him.

The next time he awoke, it was again in Sungchan’s arms, on the same bed. He would have liked to keep sleeping, but Sungchan’s uncontrollable sobs prevented it. He held Wonbin tightly against his chest. Wonbin did not remember Sungchan being strong; he remembered him as a scrawny boy.

He tapped his back to signal he was awake, and Sungchan loosened his grip.

"I got kicked out of my house," wonbin blurted. Wonbin didn’t ask the cause of the tears; he didn’t want to know. "Apparently, I have a serious drinking problem."

Wonbin wanted to make him laugh, but Sungchan cried even harder.

"Why didn’t you contact me sooner?" he asked between sobs. "Wonbin, idiot."

His brow furrowed. Wonbin didn’t know if Sungchan was sad or angry.

"I didn’t want to bother you," he replied, his throat burning with every word.

Sungchan had a future, one far brighter than his. Being with Wonbin was irrational. Nothing good could come of a friendship with someone so broken. That was the truth. He hadn’t reached out for fear of dragging Sungchan into his mess. That was reality, but he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

"You don’t bother me," Sungchan whispered, deer-like eyes red from crying. "You can stay here, please."

Wonbin didn’t resist, especially as Sungchan looked at him like an abandoned dog, tears still flowing. He must have looked terrible, almost unrecognizable compared to his self from two years ago. He wished he could see himself through Sungchan’s eyes to understand how ruined he truly appeared. He didn’t resist when Sungchan hugged him again. Even though he had never received such affection in their school days, it felt good to rest on his chest, close his eyes, and hear the trembling heartbeat, like an old drum. He chuckled faintly at the comparison.

He was sober now—and it was unsettling.

Unsettling to feel Sungchan’s warmth, to think clearly, to be fully aware of everything happening in his life.

But at least he had found a place to sleep.

"I'll take responsibility..." Sungchan murmured against her neck. "Please forgive me."

He hated being sober.

Chapter Text

Before meeting Sungchan in high school, Wonbin was a completely different person. Someone quiet and shy, who hid behind large round glasses, almost like a movie nerd. They attended an all-boys school, and until then, he wasn’t very interested in meeting girls from other schools, especially because he had a goal to achieve. He owned a second-hand guitar he had bought with a year’s worth of savings. He loved music. Wonbin dreamed of composing songs and singing in front of a crowd of people; he had the drive and motivation. But his extreme shyness held him back.

Wonbin was so shy that he would go blank in front of even a small number of people; his voice felt trapped, chained to his throat. He felt his chest sink and his legs tremble like a newborn deer. Once, in elementary school, he mustered the courage to audition for a school talent show; just remembering the negative looks from the judges while he was on stage still sent shivers down his spine. That day, he cried—cried out of helplessness for having wasted that opportunity due to his extreme shyness. He cried for going blank on stage, for feeling small, and for running home like a child ruled by melancholy.

"Have you thought that maybe after being with a good girl, you might stop being shy?" suggested a pubescent Sungchan on their way home.

Wonbin stopped abruptly, glaring at Sungchan in indignation.

"That’s the biggest crap you’ve ever said in your life," he said, surprised and disgusted; Sungchan usually said weird things, but never anything that strange. "Are you telling me that all my problems are because… I’m a virgin?"

Sungchan didn’t falter, determined to follow through with his plan. He smiled brightly.

"Yes."

"But you’re more of a virgin than I am!" he exclaimed incredulously.

He watched Sungchan’s smile fade, only for him to frown in outrage.

"Wonbin, idiot, there’s no such thing as 'more virgin' or 'less virgin'! That’s a baseless stupidity!" he defended himself as best he could, pointing a finger.

He was red all the way up to his neck from anger and embarrassment.

"I don’t care! If it existed, you’d definitely be the king of virgins."

"That term doesn’t exist either!"

"It’s existed since the moment you were born!" When he saw Sungchan gape, trying to think of a solid comeback, he turned his back and kept walking, trying to ignore the murmurs and laughter of some passersby at their ridiculous argument.

Sungchan followed him in silence. They walked side by side, faces flushed, holding onto their backpack straps. They lived relatively close to each other; that was one of the reasons they met and started talking. He always remembered him tall as a post, with a perfectly ironed uniform and hair meticulously styled into that perfect mushroom shape. It was perfectly ridiculous. His life was perfect: he did well in school, always earning the best grades in his grade, and, to top it off, came from a wealthy family. He had everything needed to be successful.

Wonbin came from a middle-class family, had mediocre grades, and… was short.

"Wonbin, idiot," murmured Sungchan beside him, "you can’t have a conversation with me, you always go to the extreme."

He sighed, planning not to talk to Sungchan for the next five days.

"You asked for this, Sungchan, idiot," he continued walking, his voice firm. "Really, what did you expect? I’m not that desperate."

Wonbin had turned sixteen two months ago. He didn’t feel rushed about that matter; he wasn’t personally affected by his little interaction with girls, despite having classmates who had already moved to second base. But noticing Sungchan so flustered, pressing his lips together and looking away, he immediately knew Sungchan felt very differently. He wanted to experience it. It wasn’t the first time he had hinted at it. Sometimes he caught him staring at the girls from the co-ed school just a block away; Wonbin always tried to avoid that kind of conversation. And he would do it again. As soon as he saw he was nearing his street, he quickened his pace anxiously, fully determined to reach home and pretend nothing had happened.

Until Sungchan muttered something under his breath, hard to understand.

"What?" he asked immediately, stopping his long strides.

His friend was red up to the neck.

"I said that I…," he paused briefly, playing with his feet, "I am."

"God, how pathetic."

If you looked at Sungchan from a girl’s point of view, you’d probably ignore him forever. He was an otaku trapped in books like a library mouse; his parents controlled him completely, from the way he dressed to what he ate at every hour of the day. If you knew him well, you’d know he still collects Pokémon cards in a box under his bed and hides them like they were adult magazines. He dressed like a blind old man and was so clumsy he almost failed a school year because he nearly flunked sports. Yes, sports. Though Wonbin couldn’t judge him, because he went through the same thing.

He was clearly desperate for a girl.

Sungchan looked at him pleadingly, with those afflicted deer eyes and lips twisted with uncertainty. He was going to ask for something. Wonbin didn’t want to hear it.

"You’re my only friend, Wonbin," he didn’t even blink, willing to manipulate him with his tender, lost-child eyes. "It’s impossible for me to get a girlfriend; my only option is a one-night stand."

"Great, go to a bar or whatever and fulfill your dream."
Before his small, hypnotic eyes could trap him on a journey with no return, he turned halfway and continued on his way, ignoring his friend’s begging pleas. And now that he thinks about it, it was the worst thing he could have done.

If he could turn back time, he would confront Sungchan and make his stance on the matter perfectly clear. He would erase all the ideas from his teenage mind until he was freed from having to be part of his charade.
If only…

But Wonbin couldn’t do it; he couldn’t change what had already happened.

      (...)

His greatest misfortune in life was discovering alcohol—or rather, discovering how comforting and warm alcohol could be in specific circumstances, when you want the fog to cover your thoughts and your fleeting memories to drown at the bottom of your misery, so deep it’s impossible to reach the surface. His mind was so affected that he found it difficult to do even simple things like choosing an ice cream flavor, and that was fine; Wonbin was fine with this version of himself. It wasn’t worse than his previous versions.

For a while he was lost. So lost that he would sneak out at night to steal from his mother’s savings and go get drunk with the same kind of people he had become. His mother knew, but she always ignored it to avoid his father’s anger. She had always been fearful and not very frank when it came to Wonbin. If she had been different, perhaps the Wonbin of now would be different too.

At the sweet age of sixteen he realized how easy it was for a kid to get alcohol.

If you went to a bar without money, you just had to find a man in a fine suit and smile sweetly at him. If he played hard to get, all it took was a hand on his shoulder and a lascivious look to make him fall into your game.

He was attractive; that was his currency.
He didn’t care about the disgust he felt in his stomach like a hurricane when they touched him under the counter; he would forget it all the next day anyway. He just had to endure it until the vodka hit his system. He let himself go and drank until he emptied the pockets of those men who looked at him as if he were the most beautiful being in this world, and they allowed it with the strong desire of receiving something in return. He noticed. He noticed how they searched for cheap hotels on their phones while asking for the bill. He noticed and he allowed it.

He would forget it all the next day anyway.

"Hyung," he heard a soft voice say, "Sungchan hyung."

Sungchan?

Wonbin opened his eyes, expecting to wake up in the middle of a dirty, rundown motel bed, as he always did when he didn’t escape the bar before they took him to a one-night encounter. But this time was different. There was still some alcohol in his system, so when he opened his eyes and felt the harsh light of the streetlamps hitting them like laser beams, he could only let out a low groan and squeeze his eyelids shut. He was leaning against the shoulder of someone large and warm, and this someone was holding him firmly by the shoulders from behind, like a protector. Taking a deep breath and inhaling a characteristic expensive perfume, he knew instantly who it was.

"Chanyoung?" he asked against his jacket, feeling a squeeze on his own shoulder in confirmation.

He inhaled his perfume again, feeling his body relax. He blinked slowly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light; when they did, he realized where he was.

They were in a deserted square; night was present, and with it the tall streetlamps lit to illuminate the flowers and benches.

"Sungchan hyung," Chanyoung spoke again; at hearing that name once more, he quickly pulled away from his body to look at him, puzzled. Seeing him, he understood. Chanyoung smiled at him while holding his phone to his ear—he was on a call. "Yes, we’re at the square… Yes, the one across from that antique store… It’s really cold, please hyung, don’t take too long."

Chanyoung was kind.

He had been staying at Sungchan’s apartment for about a month. Wonbin would sneak out at night so Sungchan wouldn’t catch him and make a scene. 

Sungchan was determined to forbid him from drinking excessively; that’s why every time he came home drunk the next day, he had to endure being scolded like a little kid. It was stressful; not even his parents scolded him like that. He hated seeing Sungchan angry, especially because after growling and lecturing for an hour, tears would escape the corners of his eyes and his voice would break before he threatened to kick him out of the apartment. He always promised to end this senseless addiction.

Only to do it again.

He would always arrive the next morning, staggering until he reached the sofa in the living room and falling asleep instantly. On all those occasions, he would wake up in the afternoon with a blanket covering his body and a poorly written note next to a glass of water saying, "There’s food to heat up in the microwave."

At first he thought the one responsible for these gestures was Sungchan, until one afternoon he woke up earlier and caught Chanyoung writing the note on the coffee table.

He was a good boy.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concerned. "You’re no longer shivering, but I think your temperature is still very low."
With the back of his hand, he touched the skin of his cheeks, checking once again his body temperature.

Wonbin mimicked his action, touching his own cheeks. Despite his low temperature, he didn’t feel cold.

"Sorry but… how did we get here?" he asked his biggest question; no matter how much he tried to remember, it was impossible.

"See that dog over there?" Chanyoung pointed at a gray dog with thick fur resting outside a closed store. 

Wonbin had to squint and strain his eyes to see it; he nodded shortly after. "Well, I found you sleeping on the ground hugging that dog."

Even with all the alcohol hammering his head, he could feel the shame flooding him up to his neck. He covered his face in scandal so Chanyoung wouldn’t see him blushing. Until now, Chanyoung was nothing more than Sungchan’s roommate; they had only exchanged a few greetings. He was practically a stranger to Wonbin. All he knew about him was his name and that he was the one responsible for him always waking up covered. 

Now, this man had found him in the middle of the night sleeping with a dog.

He wanted to disappear from this astral plane.

"You’re lying," he tried to protect his dignity.

"I even took a picture of you," he smiled next to him as he unlocked his phone. Wonbin shook his head repeatedly, covering his face as he sank into the bench. "Look, in this picture you…"

"I got it already!" he interrupted him, refusing to look at the image on the screen. "Damn it, what were you doing walking around here? You should’ve ignored me."

He didn’t answer right away; he stayed silent for a few seconds with his eyes fixed on the sky. Wonbin took advantage of the moment of distraction to calm down and forget the embarrassing moment. He moved his hands away from his face to check the time on his phone. It was five-thirty in the morning.

"I was on my way to train."

"You train really early," Wonbin commented.
It was cold at dawn, but even so, it was pleasant. He felt the nausea and headaches subside thanks to the soft, cool breeze.

"Only when I’m in competition season," he explained calmly. "I like to jog in the mornings on my way to training. You’re lucky I always take this route."

He was definitely a good boy. Surely the kind of son his parents would have wanted.

When Sungchan arrived, he had to mentally prepare himself for the storm of crap he would unleash when they had to talk. He said goodbye to Chanyoung before getting into Sungchan’s car, and from the passenger seat he could see through the window how Chanyoung waved goodbye before continuing on his way to training. He stayed silent during the entire trip back to the apartment, leaning against the window as far from Sungchan as he could. The car was heavy with negativity. He glanced at Sungchan’s profile from the corner of his eye. He was furious; his brow was furrowed and his lower lip trembled more and more with each passing minute.

He was absolutely pissed off.

He parked the car in the apartment’s parking lot and sighed, gripping the steering wheel. As soon as he could, Wonbin tried to open the car door, but no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t. It was locked. It was obvious what Sungchan was planning, so he pressed his back to the seat, waiting patiently for the moment Sungchan would be ready to let it all out.

Instead of hearing shouts and curses, the soft sound of crying broke the silence of the car. It was Sungchan, crying once again because of Park Wonbin.

"Sorry," was the first thing that came to his mind. He didn’t move, refusing to see his friend crying because of him. "I… I didn’t…"

"Shut up," he demanded with a nasal voice, resting his forehead on the back of his hands as they gripped the steering wheel even tighter. "I don’t want to hear your excuses anymore, I can’t believe I believed you."
He tried again to wrestle with the door.

"Then don’t," he let go of the door, exasperated. "Nobody asked you to believe me. I never asked for all this."

And here it came. Wonbin could feel the sobriety in his body. He could feel how aware he was of everything. And he hated it.

He didn’t want to be here talking with Sungchan. He didn’t want to listen to him. He didn’t want to see him cry.

When they argued at school, Wonbin was always right, always parading himself as the more reasonable of the two, but now the roles were reversed. He couldn’t fight with Sungchan because he would lose; it was obvious who was right. It reminded him of his fights with his father, although there was one big difference between them. There was something in Sungchan’s actions that unsettled him.

"Why are you doing this to yourself? Wonbin, you… this isn’t right, you’re not okay," he spoke between pitiful sobs, wetting his hands with tears. Wonbin couldn’t count how many times he had seen him cry this past month. "I’ll have to take you to rehab."

His body froze, as if he had been told his life would end in the next few minutes.

"W-what, no. You can’t do that," he pleaded with a trembling voice, turning his whole body to face him. He quickly grabbed his arm to make him lift his face from the steering wheel and look at him.

What Sungchan was saying was nonsense.

"Come on, Sungchan, please, I promise, this will be the last time… j-just give me one last chance, I promise I won’t drink again."

He begged and begged with empty promises, submerged in a state on the verge of imploding.

The feeling that overwhelmed Wonbin was crushing; suddenly, the greatest unease invaded his entire body, along with an endless stream of negative thoughts. If he didn’t leave this instant, he would break down into uncontrolled sobbing. He didn’t want to feel vulnerable in front of Sungchan. Not again.

He was drowning.

"Stop lying, no more," he clarified, finally looking him in the eyes, even with tears spilling down his pale skin. His gentle deer-like eyes were now bloodshot. His voice was strong and deep, but his eyes were always kind. "I can’t stand seeing you like this, Wonbin. It’s painful, it’s painful knowing you’re like this because… because of me. I need to do something."

"Fine, then go to hell! If you wanted to kick me out of your shitty apartment, you should’ve said so instead of making all this up," he shouted in his face, completely ignoring the last thing Sungchan had said, feeling his throat burn with every word. "I’m not going to that fucking rehab, you’re an idiot and… damn it, open the fucking door!"

The air in the car wasn’t enough; his lungs lost capacity with every second and his heart pounded as if it would burst from his chest. It felt like dying. Everything he was experiencing felt so familiar it hurt, it was so painful he would rather endure any torture than this. With one hand he clutched his chest as if that would calm the wild rhythm of his heart, but it was useless; all his attempts always failed.

Sungchan’s voice sounded distant, thousands of kilometers away. He couldn’t focus on it.
He threw himself at the door again, holding the inner handle with trembling hands, only wanting to get outside. Sungchan saw it all, saw how he lost control over a simple sober conversation in a damn car at six in the morning. It was still dark outside when he managed to escape that car prison. After walking barely three steps, he fell to the ground and regurgitated the mess in his stomach.

He still remembers how, as a teenager, he laughed at the drunks who vomited on the sidewalk in the middle of the day. Wonbin thought they were ridiculous, finished beings with no future who had fallen so low they could never live a decent life again. They were miserable. Once he threw a stone at one while laughing with Sungchan as the man cursed without knowing who had done it.

'Look, Sungchan, that pathetic idiot is sleeping with a stray dog.'

"Please, S-Sungchan, don’t take me to rehab," he tried to stand but his legs gave out in the middle of his pleas. "P-please. Please, I’d rather die than go to rehab. I’ll do anything… a-anything…"

As a shadow fell over his small body, Wonbin knew it was Sungchan. He turned and crawled like a worm to his legs. He couldn’t think; he could barely breathe as random words spilled from his mouth. From below he looked up at him, hands clutching the fabric of his pants.

His face… he couldn’t describe the expression on his face.

"S-Sungchan, give me one last chance, I can do it right," he begged, pleaded, sinking to the lowest a human could go. "I’ll die, if you take me I’ll die. I’ll die and it’ll be your fault."

'Damn it, Wonbin, how can you be so stupid? You’re not going to die just because your guitar string broke. You’re an idiot, Wonbin idiot.'

"Idiot," tears slipped down to fall onto Wonbin’s face, all the sadness and guilt crashing against him in delicate drops. "You can’t play with that, don’t say you’re going to die just like that. Wonbin idiot."

He ruined it. Wonbin was destroying the trust of the only person who tolerated him; everyone had a limit and Wonbin had crossed it by far. He ruined Sungchan. He had promised himself not to stain him with his misery. He shouldn’t be touched by this human being corrupted by addiction, by this miserable being who lacked the limits imposed by society.

He wished he had a time machine; if he had one in his hands, he would return to this day just to apologize to the only person who cared about him.

'Promise to be by my side whenever I lose my mind, Sungchan idiot.'

            (...)

He had spent the last four hours sitting on the couch watching a cooking show, dedicating his time only to observing that older woman talk about expensive recipes. Wonbin tried with all his willpower to focus and not drift into thoughts about the multiple ways he could get alcohol at that very moment. His body was sweating enough to soak his sleeveless shirt, and his eyes darted every second of weakness toward the fridge in the kitchen, as if it held some precious treasure.

His fingers trembled to check its contents.

But he couldn’t; he had promised Sungchan he wouldn’t drink again. Wonbin had no intention of spending a single second in rehab—he didn’t need it, he wasn’t that bad off for someone to intervene in his life as if he were out of control. It wasn’t like that. If he set his mind to it, he could stop drinking; it wasn’t as difficult as it seemed at first glance. He just needed motivation, and Sungchan had made sure to provide it.

Choosing this path felt strange. For four years, he had lived in this self-destructive routine, losing himself in the night to ease an unjustified pain in his heart, only to return the next morning pretending nothing had happened. Pretending he was fine and that all of this was just a result of adolescence and hormonal changes.

He was no longer a teenager, and it seemed he was the only one left stuck in the past, refusing to move forward.

He could do it for a while, pretend to be sober to keep Sungchan calm until he found another place to sleep. Sungchan was serious about rehab; Wonbin had never seen him so certain about anything. He could do it; he had the money to pay for a stay of up to a year.

A year…

Wonbin refused to spend a year without alcohol.
He tried to fix his gaze on the muffins on the television, feeling slight chills from head to toe along with an overwhelming thirst that grew steadily. He didn’t know how long he had been like this, or at what exact moment he stood up, trembling violently, to go to the kitchen and open the fridge with uncontrolled force. He was out of control, and all he could think about was the experience of drunkenness, the sour taste followed by sweetness, the cold sensation as it went down, and how necessary it was for him to have it in his system to function properly. His eyes shone, and a dazzling smile appeared when he spotted a beer can at the back of the fridge, completely forgotten by the apartment’s occupants. He held it like a precious jewel, sitting on the cold tiles as his tremors got the better of him, ready to consume its contents as if it were a glass of water after a marathon.

Everything else faded into the background while he quenched his thirst.

“Hey, isn’t that my beer?”

It was Eunseok, who had just come home after an exhausting day at university, dressed in semi-formal attire with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He sighed with closed eyes, resting his head against the fridge with noticeable irritation. Wonbin would have preferred to have the apartment to himself a little longer, to calm his body, which insisted on collapsing repeatedly, with short, uneven breaths, a trembling body, and sweat soaking his clothes and hair to the point that they clung to his skin as if he’d been standing in the rain for hours. The last thing he needed was to be seen in such a pitiful state.

“Maybe,” he didn’t deny it, not that brazenly. “I just saw it and took it.”

With some difficulty, he stood, all under Eunseok’s gaze, who still remained at the edge of the kitchen, watching his every move as if witnessing a mythological creature performing flips and acrobatics. Eunseok was a strange guy, and he didn’t need to be sober to realize it; he was quiet, even more so than Wonbin, and he looked at everyone as if he were about to commit the greatest massacre in recorded history. And that was exactly what amused him.

Stumbling, he reached the trash can and got rid of the beer can, which took no more than five minutes to empty. He wanted a shower; he needed cold water running over his body right then or he would die. He went to the backpack resting near the sofa next to the guitar to grab what he needed for a shower. In truth, he had barely brought clothes for a few days; he didn’t even know whose clothes he was wearing now. Maybe they belonged to Sungchan; he prayed they did and that he hadn’t stolen them from Chanyoung or Eunseok’s drawers while drunk.

Turning to head to the bathroom, he ran into Eunseok face to face. He almost tripped.

“I thought Sungchan told you not to drink,” Eunseok asked, eyebrow raised, without breaking eye contact.

“Sorry, but that’s not your problem,” he tried not to be affected by Eunseok’s presence or his cat-like eyes. Wonbin didn’t know if Eunseok’s intimidating demeanor came naturally or was forced. He shook his head to stop thinking about it and walked around him toward his destination, but Eunseok stopped him again, this time grabbing his wrist to hold him in place with force. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Eunseok was different from Chanyoung. He didn’t smile and didn’t mince words; Wonbin had realized that the first day they met. Eunseok was difficult.

And also very attractive.

“Lately, Sungchan talks about you all the time; he’s my best friend, and I hate seeing him waste his time worrying about you as if it were his responsibility,” he said softly, bringing his wrist closer to his body, reducing the distance between them to whisper into Wonbin’s ear. “It’s not. You’re nothing more than a burden to Sungchan.”

Eunseok let go and went straight to his bedroom shared with Sungchan, slamming the door behind him.
If Wonbin had even half the cunning he had when drunk, he would have followed him, screaming to settle their problems with fists and harsh words; he couldn’t tolerate being treated like an inferior, repulsive being, not even for Sungchan’s best friend. But he was sober, and being sober made Eunseok’s words affect him differently. They hurt. They left him stunned in the middle of the living room, mind blank, listening to the blunt words like sharp daggers hitting his weak spots.

He recognized them.

His father had said something similar when he kicked him out of the house.

'You’re a burden.'

        (...)

How miserable can a person get?

Wonbin could answer that question; he considered himself the living portrait of a miserable human being and couldn’t stop thinking about it as he tossed and turned on the couch, trying to reconcile with sleep.

Miserable. Miserable. So, so miserable.

A miserable person is one who lives without living, who wakes up lost without knowing the direction of their life, someone who doesn’t know or has forgotten the feeling of the heart. You could be a successful millionaire and still be miserable.

He had forgotten how excited a heart could get, the frantic beating of a heart on fire, eyes full of life. Something so natural for many and for some, unthinkable.

But it hadn’t always been like this. And the memories of his past self, so full of passion, disturbed his sleep that night. He was reliving that racing breath, and to try to calm himself, he closed his eyes and counted from one to ten in his mind, hoping to regain peace and not succumb again to anxiety and thirst. It was completely dark; he wasn’t sure what time it was, both Sungchan and Eunseok were asleep in their shared room. Above the blanket, he focused on his next goal, which kept circling in his head. The door was so close, and everything around him made it seem so simple to escape to the nearest bar and drink the entire week until passing out. Then, while leading an internal battle over his next decision, the soft sound of keys on the other side of the door brought him back to reality.
The door finally opened, and the only person who wasn’t yet in the apartment appeared.

“Oh, sorry,” his eyes widened at seeing him on the couch. “Did I wake you?”

It was Chanyoung.

He was in his sports clothes, and his face reflected how exhausted he felt as he dropped his bag to the floor. He didn’t respond immediately, carefully observing the other move to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, all illuminated by the soft moonlight filtering through the curtains, allowing him to see the entire scene more clearly.

“I was awake,” Wonbin replied almost in a whisper, his voice muffled by the blanket covering him. Chanyoung smiled calmly, knowing he wasn’t the reason for the interrupted sleep, and moved from the kitchen to stand near the couch, watching Wonbin silently for a few seconds.

From up close, he could notice the traces of exhaustion in more detail: the half-closed eyes, dark circles, and slightly hunched posture. His hair was messy and damp, and his face paler than usual. He looked sickly. Could this be the result of an athletic life?

“Trouble sleeping? It must be torture to sleep on that couch in this cold,” he concluded after a moment of observation "though he honestly thought Wonbin could sleep anywhere without problems".

He let out a soft groan, covering his face with the blanket. He felt embarrassed again, twice in less than a day; it was incredible.

“I guess I should thank you,” he whispered into the blanket, lowering it enough to see Chanyoung. From the couch, Chanyoung’s presence was immense, almost intimidating, though that goofy, childish smile didn’t fully match his height. “For taking care of me and preventing me from dying of hypothermia this morning.”

“Oh, well, I appreciate your gratitude,” he said with an even bigger smile than before, almost unreal to imagine. “You know, I’d never heard you talk this much before today.”

Chanyoung’s company was pleasant; he was the type of person who could light up an entire stadium with his presence alone. Wonbin realized how easy it was to talk to him and maintain a conversation despite his shyness—and this was Wonbin, who didn’t recall having any friends besides Sungchan his entire life. He didn’t like thinking too much about that, but now, talking to Chanyoung, he couldn’t help it.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this was the beginning of a friendship.

“Get used to it.”

“Wow, that sounded threatening.”

“If you think of me as a threat, maybe it is.”

His conversation with Eunseok hours ago had left him sensitive; even now, he couldn’t stop thinking about the nuisance he had become for Sungchan, Eunseok, and Chanyoung. A stranger they were forced to live with part-time could be uncomfortable for anyone, even someone as kind as Chanyoung.

Though Chanyoung’s expression made him doubt it.

“I like you, Wonbin. You’re pleasant.”

His words left him speechless.

Pleasant? It was the first time he had heard that. Wonbin considered himself many things, mostly negative, never pleasant.

He had made many people he cared about suffer; his own family had endured the consequences of having a lost son, watching him stumble in at all hours, sometimes through the front door, sometimes the back, and occasionally even the window. He was definitely not pleasant.

If Chanyoung knew him better, his opinion of Wonbin would be different.

If Chanyoung had witnessed how insane he acted with Sungchan, he would hate him, despise him so much that he wouldn’t be able to look at his face at that moment.

“Since you’re technically living with us, we can share the room; there’s an extra bed,” he suggested, seeking his gaze through the darkness of the night. “I mentioned it to Sungchan a few days ago, but maybe he didn’t tell you.”

Wonbin didn’t even try to remember. Sungchan may have told him while he was drunk, but he wouldn’t tell Chanyoung either.

“You don’t have to; I’m fine sleeping on the couch,” he lied; his back ached like hell, and the lack of blankets reminded him of the cruelty of the cold winter.
“It’s always better to sleep on a comfortable, warm bed,” he insisted lightly. “Sungchan and Eunseok share a room, and I’m using the second one while waiting for a fourth tenant, so… technically it’s your right to sleep in that bed.”

He couldn’t refuse, and Chanyoung wouldn’t allow a “no” for an answer.

That night he pretended to sleep. He closed his eyes, trying to find peace in the soft sheets and the expensive scent lingering throughout the room, but it was nearly impossible; his body trembled despite the blankets covering him, sweating with uneven breaths, praying not to disturb Chanyoung’s sleep with his groans. He covered his lips with one hand and tried to regulate his breathing and his racing heartbeat, focusing his eyes on the bed slats above to distract himself from what his body was experiencing. He still felt, deep down, a craving for alcohol for all eternity; it was torturous, and now that he thought about it, he realized that from the age of sixteen until now, he had never gone a single day without drinking. He felt sober for a few hours, but never more than a day without consumption.

Yes, he had read about this online before falling into addiction, about the side effects of sobriety in an alcoholic.

But Wonbin wasn’t an alcoholic.

He knew and had lived with alcoholics, like his grandfather Heesu, who drank until vomiting his guts and would lose himself in betting houses for weeks. He had once gone to jail for going too far with a minor while drunk. He also remembered seeing him climb to the top of a tree with a bottle of whiskey, shouting at the top of his lungs that he was the son of Cripton and the future savior of planet Earth. It was funny to watch him try to keep his balance after a night of partying and be lectured for hours by his grandmother. That was a true case of alcoholism, though his grandfather always denied it.

His father wasn’t the same, although he had a similar hobby. He collected all kinds of wines and spirits in his private bar, of every brand and flavor to refine his palate, but he never saw him drunk. Once he got very angry with Wonbin because he stole his oldest wine and drank it until the bottle was empty.

And he kept repeating to himself to convince himself: It’s not withdrawal, it’s not withdrawal, I’m just tired. He convinced himself it was impossible, closing his eyes with determination along with internal pleas, begging for this general discomfort to stop.

He didn’t come to terms with all the time he had wasted wandering, until he heard Chanyoung’s alarm shake the bedroom.

           (...)
   

Feeling the front door close after Chanyoung left, he got up and headed to the bathroom, a sense of vertigo with every step he took. When he reached the toilet, he emptied the turmoil of his stomach. He hadn’t eaten anything the day before, so the clear liquid that came out was simply water—water that burned everything in its path. He trembled uncontrollably, sobbing, not understanding why he felt so weak that he cried. It was as if all the motor functions in his body had betrayed him, leaving him to die. His throat felt raw, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep.

Anyone who saw him would have compared him to a zombie, like those in movies.

“Damn it, Wonbin,” he heard after the door was forcefully opened; he didn’t need to look to know that the person standing in the doorway was Jung Sungchan, the last person he wanted to worry with his discomfort. “Damn. Damn.”

He felt the sound of hurried footsteps approaching on the cold tiles.

“No, no!” he protested, evading Sungchan’s touch on his back. “Don’t touch me, damn it, Sungchan! Let go!”
He wanted to hit him to push his hands away from his cold, sweaty body, especially while nausea continued rising in his stomach. It felt almost surreal to feel like vomiting when his stomach was completely empty. He raised his fist and struck Sungchan’s chest, but more than a punch, it sounded like a tender caress. He had no strength; he was still trembling like a tower about to collapse.

Then Sungchan pushed him by the shoulder until they were face to face and cradled his face in his palms, his worried deer-like eyes scanning him. He was sweating, hair clinging to his features; he must have looked disgusting, yet that didn’t stop Sungchan from moving aside the damp hair that was in his way.

“You’re so pale and freezing. You won’t stop shaking, Wonbin,” he said, concerned, unsure of how to handle the situation. He could see the desperation flooding Sungchan’s eyes, the palpable unease at not knowing what was happening to Wonbin.

“I’m fine,” he said, struggling to hold Sungchan’s wrists to remove his hands from his skin, but it was impossible.

“You need to see a doctor.”

He warned him.

“No doctors,” he demanded, forcing himself to articulate his words clearly. “I’m fine, I told you I’m fine.”

“How do you expect me to believe that when you look like this?”

“It’s normal,” he tried to convince him—and himself. “It’ll pass.”

He didn’t insist. And with Sungchan, that was hardly believable. Sungchan decided to skip his classes that day to take care of him and monitor him until he improved; Wonbin didn’t want this. He didn’t want to delay Sungchan in his classes, especially with Eunseok looking at him as if he were an incompetent loser. It was a relief to see him disappear through the front door, hoping not to encounter him again until the next day. Now he was with Sungchan, in his room, lying on his bed like a bedridden patient. He felt weak, and all he could do was watch Sungchan at his desk, focused on the laptop, typing and dragging the mouse repeatedly in rhythmic motions.

Sungchan and Eunseok’s shared room was dull, even duller than Chanyoung’s room. The beds were at opposite ends, and in the middle, a sliding curtain window was half-open. On one side was Eunseok’s area, covered with posters of young, attractive idols, a simple dresser, and a shelf of… rocks? Wonbin had no intention of asking why rocks of various sizes were collected as if they were limited edition figurines.
On the other side was Sungchan’s space. Nothing represented him. No anime posters, no pornography openly displayed, not even the damn Pokémon figures or cards. It was boring; Sungchan had become a man of simple tastes who wore sophisticated clothes.
It was like being with an alien, a strange being with whom he could not communicate, with habits and reality so different from Wonbin’s.

He watched him from the bed. Sungchan was focused on the computer screen, frowning. He was a serious guy.

“Alcohol withdrawal syndrome,” he read aloud and clearly. “According to the internet, you’re experiencing mild withdrawal from uncontrolled alcohol consumption.”

“It’s not withdrawal,” he contradicted, denying it. “This… this is from sleeping outside in the middle of winter. Didn’t you consider the possibility of a cold?”

Sungchan looked at him from the desk as if he were staring at a monkey.

“Is your throat irritated?”

“No,” he answered.

“Sleepiness?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

“Okay, I get it.”

“Congestion and cough?”

“That proves nothing,” he muttered, feeling his skin damp and eyes heavy.

“That proves you don’t have a damn cold, Wonbin, idiot.

“That proves my body can’t live without alcohol; I mean, your stupid rehab place will only lead to my imminent death, Sungchan, you moron,” he vented without thinking, overcome by repeated dizziness and headaches.

There was silence as Wonbin’s gaze got lost in the ceiling.

“Oh, my God, you’re so stupid,” Sungchan said, genuinely surprised.

“It’s not stupidity, it’s common sense,” the patterns of the wood on the ceiling began to distort; he didn’t care and continued speaking. “Not drinking is like… it’s like my kryptonite, you know, like Superman? My super weakness.”

“And who would I be, Lex Luthor?” he asked with noticeable amusement.

“Exactly.”

Talking to Sungchan about superhero paradoxes was as unreal as being in his room. He tilted his head just enough to watch Sungchan, feeling warmth in his chest as a wide smile spread across his face. He hadn’t seen him smile since arriving at this apartment, and the mere thought that his nonsensical words had been an incentive made his heart beat faster. It took him back to a time when smiling wasn’t unusual.
Wonbin wanted to smile too, but he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

“You won’t die; this will last just a few days, and then you’ll be fine,” Sungchan reassured him about withdrawal, reducing his smile to a small grimace. “The cravings won’t disappear; your recovery depends… depends on you.”

“That’s not very encouraging.”

“You’re so pessimistic.”

Wonbin closed his eyes, breathing with difficulty. He tried to concentrate on staying balanced and not succumbing again to withdrawal. It couldn’t be that hard. He just had to… just had to think about nice things. Ponies, kittens, and butterflies. Cats are cute, he told himself, imagining baby kittens playing together. Yes, that worked.

“Damn it!” it didn’t work at all; he felt everything intensify, his breathing and heartbeat. He was terrified of being at the limit and powerless to stop it. “S-Sungchan…”

A body sank onto the bed beside him; he recognized Sungchan’s touch instantly as he held his hand. Then he felt him slide his thumb along the edges of his eyes to wipe away the tears. God, Wonbin didn’t even realize when he had started crying, but now that he noticed, he felt he couldn’t control it. So he simply cried and cried, humiliated to the core for being seen so miserable.

Part of him liked that Sungchan was the only person there to hold him, and another part despised it.

It was so embarrassing to be that sensitive.

He turned his back to Sungchan, just to stop him from seeing him so helpless. He wanted to disappear and die. But Sungchan was still there; he knew because he never let go of his hand as he sobbed in silent, stifled cries.

He wished he would let go, but he never did.

Chapter Text

Two Years Ago, Jung Sungchan

When he parked outside the Park family’s house, Sungchan had to gather all his inner strength not to cry inside the car. It wasn’t the first time he had visited Wonbin — he had crossed that doorway countless times to watch action movies in the second-floor bedroom. But this was different. He definitely wasn’t here to watch a blockbuster under the moonlight.

This would be the last time.

“Okay, okay… I can do this,” he muttered, closing his eyes and gripping the steering wheel tightly, feeling his lower lip tremble pathetically.

He hadn’t seen Wonbin in the past two months, and in just two hours he would be moving into his new apartment to start his university life. He’d been accepted into a prestigious university in Seoul — the same one where his parents had studied and met at his age. He should have felt happy and fulfilled.

But all he could think about was Park Wonbin.

He counted to three, stepped out of the car in a burst of courage, and ran up the porch to knock on the door. Everything happened quickly — no time to think, afraid of losing his nerve. He couldn’t leave this damn town without saying goodbye to Wonbin. Even though his friend had changed so much, Sungchan couldn’t help but care for him.

When the front door opened and he came face to face with Wonbin’s father, whose expression dripped with disgust, Sungchan froze in fear. He wondered if that man could see right through him — if he somehow knew that Sungchan was the reason for his beloved son’s deplorable state. His lower lip began trembling again. He wanted to cry, to fall to his knees, to apologize and confess the guilt he had carried for the past two years.

“Good morning, Mr. Park,” he greeted politely.

Wonbin’s father was intimidating — broad-shouldered and with a gaze that seemed to hold murderous intent. He wasn’t a loving father, but he wasn’t violent either. Still, Sungchan had never liked him, always believing that Wonbin’s insecurities and shyness were the result of this man’s stubbornness.

“That stupid son of mine is upstairs. Don’t stay too long,” he grunted before turning around and going back to his spot on the sofa, leaving the door open for Sungchan to enter.

As he crossed the threshold, he caught a glimpse of Wonbin’s mother. She froze when she saw him come in, saying nothing — just as she had every other time Sungchan had been there. But there was something different in her eyes this time: a silent plea she couldn’t voice aloud. He didn’t think much of it and continued his way up the stairs leading to the second floor.

Wonbin’s room was at the end of the hallway, next to the bathroom. Sungchan knew the way by heart, but that didn’t stop his nerves from dancing with every step he took.

The door was slightly ajar. It only took a small push to open it fully.

It was chaos.

The room was dark despite the sunlight outside — like a newly discovered, gloomy cave. As he stepped in, he noticed clothes and beer cans scattered across the floor. The place was a mess, as if the very idea of order had been lost long ago. A half-empty bottle of vodka lay on the ground, surrounded by a massive spill. The drawers were completely open, and the blankets had slipped off the bed onto the floor. He swallowed hard as he slowly approached the bed, where Wonbin lay sprawled face down, his cheek pressed against the sheet.

“Wonbin,” he called softly, but Wonbin didn’t respond.

A lump formed in his throat as he looked at him up close — it hit him like a punch of reality.

His eyes were half-open, unfocused, unblinking. Like a corpse — except this one was breathing. A living corpse. Sungchan crouched beside the bed until his face was level with Wonbin’s, brushing away the strands of hair that had fallen across his features.

He wished so badly for Wonbin to see him, to recognize him. But it didn’t happen. And it hurt so much.

He stroked his cheek, hoping to feel warmth, but his skin was as cold as ice.

Wonbin was the most beautiful person Sungchan had ever met in the world — with his big, bright eyes and his gentle smile.

And now he had become this.

All because of Sungchan.

“Hey, Wonbin,” he tried again, forcing a smile. “I’m leaving for Seoul in a few hours.”

Wonbin’s eyes fluttered for a split second. It was enough to encourage Sungchan to keep talking.

“You can visit me whenever you want, really. I’ll always welcome you with open arms. Call me anytime. I will too — I promise.”

He leaned close enough to press a kiss to Wonbin’s cheek, instantly feeling ridiculous. He wanted to laugh at how stupid he must have looked, but instead, a painful whimper escaped his lips before he rested his forehead on the edge of the bed and cried — cried uncontrollably, just as he had wanted to ever since parking outside the Park residence.

Only a few months ago, they had been laughing together, talking about their future plans, completely lost in their dreams. Sungchan would go to university in Seoul and later get a good position at his parents’ law firm after graduation. Wonbin, on the other hand, dreamed with all his heart of becoming a great musician — maybe forming a heavy rock band or something like that. Sungchan had promised to support him until the very end, as long as Wonbin could achieve his dream, and Wonbin had vowed to stay by his side, offering the same support in return.

They would stay together — they had made so many promises.

Sungchan had been willing to spend every year of his life with Wonbin, even if it meant being nothing more than his friend for all eternity.

“I love you, Wonbin. I love you so much,” he murmured with his eyes closed.

His chest ached with every word that escaped bravely from his mouth, surrendering to the feelings that burned inside his heart. He didn’t care about the silence, didn’t blame Wonbin for not hearing his stupid, clumsy confession — one that could be interpreted in a thousand different ways. It was fine like this, he told himself, content with the simple act of finally releasing what he felt before leaving.

It was fine not to receive an answer.

Sungchan didn’t deserve one anyway. He wasn’t even worthy of sitting there, crying in front of Wonbin, spouting shaky promises.

Suddenly, the feeling of a weight on his hair stole his breath away. He lifted his head from the edge of the bed and focused again on Wonbin.

There he was — silent — while Wonbin gently comforted him like a child. There was no expression on his face; he still seemed somewhat detached from reality, his eyes unfocused. And yet, his fingers moved softly through Sungchan’s hair — so delicate, so tender, that it hurt.

Something deep inside Sungchan longed to know if he had been heard, if some part of his confession had reached him. A part of him yearned for a clear answer, but he did nothing. He simply gazed at Wonbin’s face with affection, as if this were the last time they would ever share such an intimate moment, and savored every stroke of his hand through his hair.

Until it stopped.

Wonbin’s eyes slowly closed, and his hand fell limply onto Sungchan’s shoulder.

Sungchan fixed his gaze on every detail of Wonbin’s face, wanting to carve it forever into his memory — the rise and fall of his back with each breath, the soft curve of his cheek pressed gracefully against the sheet, and that relaxed expression.

That same expression that had been consumed by uncertainty for the past few months was finally at peace — lost in this warm, calm dream.

Fascinating. So fascinating.

With his heart on the verge of breaking, he took the hand that rested on his shoulder and pressed it against his forehead, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. It was cold, and he couldn’t resist the urge to lower it to his lips and kiss the cool skin on the back of Wonbin’s hand. Once again, he felt ridiculous, and his tears refused to stop.

He wished he could be a sun for Wonbin — but he was so, so cowardly.

So cowardly that he didn’t hesitate to run away to the capital.

So cowardly that, even knowing it, he wasn’t willing to turn back after seeing his friend in this state.

Because of him.

He shook his head and stood up, gently laying Wonbin’s hand beside his body. He looked at him one last time, and before leaving the room, he picked up a blanket from the floor and covered Wonbin’s cold, defenseless body.

Once he opened the door, he found Wonbin’s mother standing there.

She flinched, eyes wide, and turned away to leave.

“I can’t believe you’ve allowed your son to end up like this,” he burst out, loud and clear, feeling his whole body heat up with anger. Just a moment ago he had been crying his heart out, but despite everything, he couldn’t stop a spark of doubt from growing ever since he arrived at Wonbin’s house.

Did they not feel even a little affection for their son?

Sungchan took a step forward, closing the door behind him.

Mrs. Park stopped in her tracks, her body curling inward like a scolded dog. Sungchan was furious — furious at how they acted as if nothing were wrong while Wonbin lay upstairs, drunk and dissociated. It enraged him to know they watched, day after day, as their son abandoned his dreams to lose himself every night in a miserable addiction.

She looked indifferent, resuming her pace as she descended the stairs, and Sungchan didn’t hesitate to follow her, fists clenched tight.

“You have to promise you’ll do something! You can’t leave him like that!” he cried desperately, grabbing Mrs. Park by the wrist when they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I can help — I can pay for a rehabilitation center, so please…”

In his mind, the word 'hypocrite' echoed relentlessly.

He needed to do something — anything — that could ensure Wonbin’s recovery. But when their eyes met, he realized he would gain nothing from this. They had never cared about Wonbin. They had always ignored him, and they would keep ignoring him until things went completely out of control.

They were cold and unfeeling — nothing like their son.

“I–I need you to leave my house, p–please,” the woman stammered, pulling her wrist away with a sharp motion.

All the anger he’d felt a second ago was replaced by raw disbelief.

“Mrs. Park, do you understand what I’m saying? Wonbin is not okay — he’s in a really bad state. He needs help before it gets worse.” His voice trembled again; he refused to cry. “He’s a good person — maybe one of the few good people left in this world — and right now he’s suffering.”

He needed her to understand his worry, to awaken something in this senseless woman. He wanted to grab her wrist again, as if begging for help, but she backed away and ran toward the kitchen — escaping from Sungchan…

Escaping from the truth about Wonbin.

From his suffering.

This house lacked any trace of family love — he could feel it in every corner. Mr. Park was always working overtime, and even when he was home, he preferred to watch sports on TV rather than spend five minutes with his son. Mrs. Park treated Wonbin as if he were unwanted, ignoring him as though he weren’t part of the family at all. There was no love here.

And they had raised a son who didn’t even know how warm a family could be.

Maybe that was one of the reasons why the two of them got along so well — both had been raised by people with cold hearts.

Sungchan had grown up inside a mold — uncomfortable and painful.

Wonbin had grown up in the shadows — shy and reserved.

So different, and yet so alike.

(...)

Sungchan had been there for Wonbin through many of his emotional ups and downs. He had always thought he was terrible at comforting people, but with Wonbin, it was different — especially when it came to a young, lovestruck Sungchan who was completely bewitched by Park Wonbin. He could simply spend hours and hours just listening to Wonbin talk about his past, and somehow, that was enough.

Once, Wonbin told him about his aunt Jihae — a sweet woman who loved art, who painted enormous canvases and composed the softest melodies on her guitar. Wonbin admired her because Jihae wasn’t afraid to stand on a stage and sing with all her heart and soul. She was free, unbound by any chains in her life.

She was the older sister of Wonbin’s mother, yet Mrs. Park hated when Jihae spent time with their family. It wasn’t because she feared Jihae would pass on her artistic talents, or because she cared in the slightest about her son. The reason was far simpler.

Jihae was bipolar — not in a derogatory sense, but in the truest, most fragile way. She was unstable, to the point of having attempted to take her own life.

The first time Wonbin visited his aunt in the hospital, he was only seven years old. Jihae had jumped from her apartment after arguing with her boyfriend; if she hadn’t lived on the third floor, she might have died that night. Instead, she survived with only superficial fractures.

The last time Wonbin saw Jihae was when they all received the news of her death. Wonbin was twelve that New Year’s Eve when his aunt suffered a relapse at the Park residence. She had been drinking heavily when she got a call from her boyfriend, ending their ten-year relationship. Devastated, she didn’t hesitate — after a few more drinks, she went to the kitchen and stabbed herself multiple times with a knife.

On her wrists.

On her stomach.

On her legs…

On her heart.

Wonbin found her ten minutes later. He had gone to the kitchen with the innocent intention of getting a glass of water — only to find his favorite aunt barely breathing in a pool of blood.

Sungchan believed this was the root of Wonbin’s irrational fear of hospitals.

Today was Wonbin’s second day in withdrawal. Sungchan had researched beforehand about the proper care and side effects that could arise from sudden alcohol deprivation in someone like Wonbin, but every search led to the same conclusion:

'Consult a doctor.'

As if Wonbin didn’t act like a deranged lunatic every time the word hospital was even mentioned.

“Are you even allowed to skip two days in a row?” Chanyoung whispered from the doorway of his room. He had just come back from training a few minutes ago and wasted no time before knocking on Sungchan’s door.

He glanced at the bed where Wonbin lay resting after an entire sleepless night.

Wonbin had complained endlessly about his body’s pain, tossing and turning in bed without closing his eyes for even a moment, his raspy voice begging for a drop of alcohol like a dying man lost in the desert. He had cried too much, and more than once, Sungchan had been on the verge of taking him to a medical center when he saw him vomiting his guts out in the bathroom.

He couldn’t leave him alone in such a critical moment.

Not again. He would never forgive himself.

“I still have absences left, and we’re not in exam season, so… technically, I’m allowing myself the time off,” he admitted honestly, running a tired hand through his hair, utterly drained from the lack of sleep. “Last night Eunseok stayed over at his classmates’ place, so I didn’t explain… about this. He’s a bit sensitive when it comes to Wonbin. Could you help me out? You just have to convince him to stay in your room until Wonbin gets better.”

Sungchan knew about Eunseok’s situation — he knew about his father, and how deeply Eunseok despised people like Wonbin. Alcoholics.

And yet, even knowing that, Sungchan had still accepted Wonbin into their shared apartment without giving much thought to anyone else’s opinion.

Eunseok had once confessed to him, through tears, that his father used to beat him until he lost consciousness on the floor — every time he came home drunk.

He was a terrible friend to Eunseok.

“Of course. He’ll understand,” Chanyoung said with his characteristic warmth, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Eunseok will be fine. I’m not as close to him as you are, but I’d bet he’d never get angry with you.”

“Thanks, Anton,” Sungchan said, cursing himself internally when he realized he hadn’t used his Korean name. “Sorry."

“Don’t worry. Chanyoung’s just my Korean name — even my parents don’t call me that,” he explained with a laugh, giving Sungchan’s shoulder one last squeeze before letting go. “Can I see Wonbin?”

Sungchan raised an eyebrow, puzzled.

“Uh, yeah… of course,” he said, stepping aside to let Chanyoung in. The other boy entered quietly after whispering a soft thank-you. It was then that Sungchan finally noticed the dark bag in his left hand.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, simply watching. He knew Chanyoung was kind — he’d known that since the very first day they talked through messages after Chanyoung responded to his ad looking for roommates. He always had that gentle smile, that soft voice — so kind it could melt anyone’s heart. It wasn’t surprising that he and Wonbin had grown close within a month.

Chanyoung had been the one to call him when Wonbin relapsed. He had also been the one to find him standing outside that antique store.

Chanyoung walked around the bed and set the dark bag on the nightstand. He didn’t do much else — he just stood there, watching Wonbin sleep under the blankets, and smiled. That was all. Then he turned, walked back, and stopped in front of Sungchan.

“You look tired,” he said with a faint grimace.

“So do you.”

“I’ve got a competition next week,” Chanyoung sighed. “I left some electrolyte drinks on the table. He needs to keep drinking them so he doesn’t get dehydrated.”

Sungchan nodded, trying to process the information with his sleep-deprived brain. They said their goodbyes, and Chanyoung slipped out in silence.

He stayed leaning against the wall, savoring the calm that filled the afternoon. The last month had been rough — he definitely hadn’t expected any of this when he got that call from Eunseok a month ago.

 'There’s a drunk bum outside our floor claiming to be your old classmate. I don’t believe a damn word, but Chanyoung let him in, and now he’s sleeping in your bed. I’m genuinely freaked out, come here fast.'

That was all Eunseok had said before hanging up.

Sungchan slowly approached the edge of the bed, lying down carefully beside Wonbin so as not to disturb his sweet, fragile sleep. He pulled the blankets up with delicate precision. Wonbin lay with his back turned, his head buried in the pillow, and a warm feeling spread through Sungchan’s chest as he watched him finally rest after so long.

He couldn’t resist brushing a few strands of Wonbin’s hair aside, his touch featherlight.

It wasn’t anything like what they used to have years ago — when everything was fine, before Wonbin’s life had fallen apart. A lot had changed in Sungchan, especially his feelings toward him. His heart no longer raced wildly every time they were together. Even so, his concern for Wonbin ran deep — so deep it had become part of him, woven into the very core of his being, to the point that he’d do all this for him.

He needed to do this for Wonbin.

But… why?

For a love long gone?

For regret?

For guilt?

Maybe it was the weight of all his past mistakes, stacked like bricks on his back, hanging from his neck until it hurt — until it made him cry every time he saw Wonbin passed out, drunk beyond reason.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

He looked at Wonbin one last time before unlocking his phone and opening the chat with his girlfriend. They hadn’t talked much since yesterday. He hadn’t found the right moment to explain everything that had happened with Wonbin.

There were several unread messages asking why he hadn’t shown up to class. Too many.

Sungchan

Babe.

He took a deep breath when he felt his phone vibrate five minutes later.

Jimin

Wow, you remembered I exist.

Sungchan

Sorry, I haven’t had time to talk.

Jimin

Of course. You must be so busy doing nothing at home that you can’t answer a single text from your worried girlfriend.

Go to hell.

At least have the decency to tell the truth.

Sungchan

I need your help with Wonbin. You can hate me all you want afterward.

His girlfriend of five months was Yu Jimin, a nursing student with long black hair — beautiful and brilliant. He loved her deeply, and his nerves spiked as he stared at the conversation. He could practically throw himself off the fifth floor at any moment from the tension alone. She had a temper, and he never knew how to handle her anger.

Sungchan

Forget it. Don’t hate me. I love you.

Wonbin went into withdrawal yesterday and I can’t leave him alone for a second.

I’m scared.

I need medical guidance.

Jimin

Shit, seriously?

God, I feel awful now. I’m sorry.

Can I call you?

Before he could even reply, the loud ringtone echoed through the room. He flinched and hurried to answer, eyes darting toward Wonbin in fear that he might wake — but he didn’t move.

“Sungchan, hey—hellooo?” Jimin’s voice came through the speaker. He brought the phone to his ear with a sigh.

“Jimin…” his voice came out weak, almost a whimper. He spoke as quietly as he could, careful not to disturb Wonbin.

“Oh, Sungchan, it’s going to be okay. Wonbin will be fine,” she said softly, trying to comfort him. “Where is he now?”

“Right now he’s sleeping, but I don’t know how long he’ll stay calm.”

Wonbin had been asleep for about thirty minutes. Sungchan had no idea when the trembling and cold sweats would start again.

“I know a bit about withdrawal,” Jimin began gently. “The last time, we visited a rehab center here in Seoul and they explained some of the symptoms.”

As she spoke, a wave of relief washed through him.

“If the symptoms aren’t severe, he can be treated at home,” she continued, “though of course, the right thing would’ve been to take him to a doctor.”

He shut his eyes in frustration, gripping the sheets tightly in his fist. Now it wasn’t just the internet reminding him of his mistake — even his girlfriend was repeating it.

“How severe can the symptoms get?” he asked quietly.

“Pretty severe,” she admitted. “He could have seizures, hallucinations, or persistent vomiting.”

He swallowed hard at that last part and glanced over at Wonbin with deep concern.

“He’s thrown up about five times between yesterday and today. Is that… too much?”

“I don’t think so. If he’s throwing up everything he eats, that’s worrisome — and if there’s any blood, you need to take him to a hospital immediately.” Her tone grew firm, emphasizing the seriousness of her words. “Buy electrolyte drinks, and make sure he only eats light food until his body adjusts. Some symptoms might scare you, but they’re actually quite common — things like insomnia and signs of depression."

After hanging up, he sat in silence for a moment, deep in thought.

It was Thursday; he had the entire weekend to look after Wonbin before returning to class. He couldn’t afford to miss too many days in a row, especially not in such an important subject. Sohee had been sending him photos of the lessons lately, but he couldn’t rely on her help forever. He needed to go back — yet the idea of leaving Wonbin now, in such a fragile state, was unthinkable.

He was weak, unstable, and vulnerable to his own cravings. If it weren’t for Sungchan, Wonbin would have already emptied every bar in the city.

Two hours later, Wonbin woke up — his breathing quick and his skin damp with sweat.

Sungchan had prepared a bowl of noodle and vegetable soup, still steaming on the bedside table, filling the room with a soft, homemade scent.

He tried to sit Wonbin up against the headboard to help him eat, but Wonbin only groaned and resisted.

“You need to eat,” he explained patiently, holding the bowl in one hand and the spoon in the other, waiting for Wonbin to come to his senses and open his mouth.

Wonbin muttered something incoherent under his breath.

“What?”

“I’m not… I’m not a baby,” he finally managed to say, frowning and turning his gaze toward a fixed spot on the wall. “I can eat by myself.”

Oh. Now he understood.

“Wait, are you embarrassed?” Sungchan asked, genuinely surprised. He couldn’t believe that, in a situation like this, Wonbin was actually embarrassed. “Do you realize I’m the only one here? I just saw you throw up your guts a few minutes ago, and heard you cry over a glass of tequila — and now you’re telling me you’re embarrassed to let me feed you? Are you kidding me?”

Wonbin refused to look at him. He sank deeper into the pillows as Sungchan spoke, his lips pressed tight, a soft flush blooming over his cheeks. Sungchan wanted to tease him further, but he held back. It was… endearing. It reminded him of the fifteen-year-old Wonbin he used to know.

“Just shut up and give me the spoon, idiot,” Wonbin muttered, humiliated.

“Sure,” Sungchan replied, “but I’m holding the bowl.”

Truth was, he was afraid Wonbin might spill it with the tremors still running through his hands. So he held the bowl steady while Wonbin took spoonful after spoonful. It was a good sign that he had an appetite — the real concern would be if he threw it all up afterward.

But he didn’t.

“Very good, Wonbin. You’re a big boy,” Sungchan praised when he finished, only earning an eye roll and a huff of indignation from Wonbin, clearly trying to hide his embarrassment.

The day ended on a relatively good note — only one bout of vomiting after dinner. It was a good sign. Or so Sungchan tried to convince himself.

The next two days went much the same, except that Wonbin hadn’t slept a single hour through the night, mumbling and crying for a drink.

His symptoms had lessened to insomnia, occasional tremors, infrequent vomiting, and a cold sweat that came and went with less intensity. He no longer shook so violently that his teeth clattered together, nor did he sweat until his hair was soaked. And thankfully, he no longer vomited even the water he drank.

There was only one thing that worried Sungchan now.

The crying.

He woke in the middle of the night to the sound of Wonbin’s muffled sobs. He tried to wrap his arms around him, to offer warmth and comfort, but it always ended the same way — with rejection.

“Wonbin, what’s wrong?”

He sat up in bed, trying to see Wonbin’s face, but the other boy buried it into the pillow. Sungchan reached out, holding his arm to turn him around, but Wonbin slapped his hand away in disgust.

“This is your fault.”

What?

Suddenly, his heart raced. The color drained from his face as fear coursed through him.

He was blaming him.

Wonbin knew.

He’d finally realized what kind of person Sungchan truly was — how his actions had ruined his life. He had destroyed him, condemned him to a living hell of addiction, while Sungchan had gone on pretending he could just forget. He went to university, chased his dreams, even got himself a girlfriend.

His mind clouded over with a wave of guilt so heavy it crushed his chest. He stared at Wonbin’s back, who kept repeating the same words over and over.

'It’s your fault.'

It was.

God, had he really thought his sins could be washed away just by taking care of Park Wonbin?

Nothing could erase what he’d done — no matter how much he wished it could.

He didn’t know what to do.

Only the sound of Wonbin’s crying filled the silence of the room. His own breathing faltered.

Should he beg for forgiveness?

Was this his chance to confess, to finally free himself from the weight of everything he’d done? If Wonbin decided to kill him right there after hearing the truth, he wouldn’t stop him. He would accept it.

“Won—”

“If you hadn’t forced me to stop drinking, I wouldn’t be going through this damn withdrawal!” Wonbin cried, his voice breaking between sobs, silencing Sungchan completely. “This is all your fault…”

Air rushed back into Sungchan’s lungs as he realized what Wonbin meant.

He blamed him for the withdrawal. Only for that.

He forced himself to stay calm. Wonbin still didn’t remember who had truly caused all this chaos.

And, with a strange, quiet joy that slowed the pounding of his heart, Sungchan lay back down beside him, resting his forehead against Wonbin’s shoulder blades, relieved when he wasn’t pushed away.

He could still enjoy this fragile peace a little longer.

A foolish smile crossed his face at the thought.

He smiled — in a night full of tears and regrets.

(...)

Wonbin hated absolutely everything.

Everything around him felt like an obstacle to his patience.

Starting with his weak body, which insisted on suffering through endless spasms and cold sweats — he hated it. He hated not being able to sleep at night, hated not having the energy for anything except lying on his back, staring into nothing for hours. His mind kept circling back to old habits, overthinking everything that drove him insane. He felt stressed and depressed. Sometimes, he cried for no reason at all — and it was so humiliating to be that vulnerable in front of Sungchan that he couldn’t help burying his ruined face beneath a pillow.

He had no idea how long it had been like this, with Sungchan constantly by his side, watching over every change in his body like some damned babysitter.

As if he were taking care of a misbehaving, disobedient child.

Most of the time, that shameful restlessness consumed him — anxious for something, chasing after the faint promise of a sensation he craved down to his bones. Sometimes he wandered around the room, searching every corner for that something that might put an end to his misery, always under Sungchan’s quiet, watchful eyes. Sungchan never commented on his delirium; he only watched, and Wonbin was truly grateful for that. The insomnia turned him into something incoherent — a strange being who wept and hid, but also screamed and snapped at everything.

But there were also brief moments of lucidity.

Moments when he could think clearly, like now.

“What’s this?” he asked once he started feeling a bit better. He sat up against the headboard and pointed toward a bag resting on the nightstand.

Sungchan turned from his spot at the desk — apparently busy with a university assignment.

“They’re sports drinks. Chanyoung brought them for you a few days ago,” he replied, then turned his attention back to the computer.

Without thinking twice, Wonbin leaned forward and pulled the bag onto his lap, a faint smile forming on his lips. One of the bottles was empty — he immediately realized Sungchan must’ve made him drink it while he was out of it.

There were three bottles in total, all the kind meant for athletes, but only one had a sticky note attached to the front. He tilted his head, peeled the note off, and read it.

‘Hey Park Wonbin! I hope you get better soon and come back to the room!’

Once again, Chanyoung was being his usual kind self, and Wonbin couldn’t help but laugh softly at the messy handwriting scrawled across the paper. It reminded him of all the little notes that used to come with cups of water before his withdrawal began.

Without wasting any time, he opened the bottle and took a long drink.

It tasted sweet — much sweeter than he expected. It was nice to finally quench his thirst, even if the liquid touching his tongue wasn’t pure alcohol.

Wonbin would have killed for a glass of whiskey right then.

Just imagining it made his mouth water. Maybe, after that, an aged wine — a feast of drinks, one after another, forever.

He took another gulp of the sports drink, much larger this time, closing his eyes and indulging in the exhausting act of pretending he was sitting at a bar, a bartender serving him elegant cocktails. He could almost feel the warmth of the place, the pulse of modern music around him — the illusion was so vivid he lost himself in it completely.

Until someone interrupted him.

“Wonbin!” a voice shouted from his left. The sound startled him so much that he choked on the drink, coughing through tears as his throat burned. “I’ve been calling you for a while! What’s wrong with you?”

Once he caught his breath, he looked down at the bottle in his hand. It was empty. His hand trembled again — the product of his painfully realistic daydreams.

Had he really just been daydreaming about alcohol?

He was losing his mind. He shook his head, trying to push the thought away, and set the empty bottle back on the nightstand.

“I was distracted.”

Sungchan sat beside him, watching closely. When Wonbin saw him lift a hand — perhaps to touch him — he flinched away almost instinctively, pulling back before the touch could reach him.

It was an involuntary reaction, something that rose from deep within without explanation.

Sungchan froze, visibly taken aback by being avoided. An uncomfortable silence settled between them.

Even Wonbin couldn’t understand why he’d reacted like that. Almost immediately, he tried to make up for it — moving closer again to show he was fine — but Sungchan kept studying him with a strange kind of caution, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

It was making Wonbin nervous.

He could feel his breathing quicken, his lungs tightening in response.

“N-No, don’t touch me while I’m sweaty. It’s disgusting,” he justified himself between nervous laughs, as if trying to hide something. He didn’t know why he was acting so suspicious.

Sungchan should’ve warned him before approaching. He should’ve known how alert Wonbin’s mind had been since he stopped drinking. He wasn’t a lunatic, he wasn’t insane, and he hated the way Sungchan looked at him, as if he’d just escaped from a psychiatric hospital.

Unable to bear Sungchan’s sad eyes for another second, he stood up from the bed in a sudden movement and went to Sungchan’s dresser, opening one drawer after another in search of comfortable clothes. He felt filthy, with sweat running all over his body, his clothes clinging to his cold skin, and his damp hair sticking to his face—he couldn’t stand it any longer.

He froze when he noticed something very familiar on top of the dresser, but forced himself to keep going so as not to raise suspicion.

“What are you doing?” Sungchan asked from the bed.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he replied, closing the drawer with trembling hands once he found everything he needed. “I won’t be long.”

Sungchan’s clothes were definitely much larger than his own, but he didn’t have many options. The few clothes he’d brought in his backpack were drying, and he had absolutely nothing else within reach. He really needed to go back home to get more clothes—as soon as he felt better, he’d go, making sure it was at a reasonable hour when he wouldn’t run into his father. He didn’t want to see him, not even in passing, and he would do everything possible to avoid him at every opportunity.

With the clothes in hand, he went to the door, gripping the handle in haste, but Sungchan quickly reached him to stop him. His right hand on Wonbin’s forearm burned—everything burned around him.

“I’ll help you shower. You still look terrible.”

He slapped the hand away, his face burning with embarrassment.

“Are you insane?! Of course not!” he snapped, horrified just by the thought. God, sometimes Sungchan talked like a pervert.

But Sungchan didn’t react with anything other than confusion.

“I’ve been helping you all these days,” he said plainly. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Well, yeah—while I was out of my mind! I didn’t even have the voice to say no,” Wonbin argued, rushing to open the door and escape to the bathroom. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll shower alone.”

God, he felt so guilty right now. Wonbin was an idiot—a stupid, miserable piece of trash. Each step he took toward the bathroom made him dizzy, but he could blame that on the anxiety for the mistake he was about to commit.

He quickly locked himself in the bathroom before checking that the hallway was empty. Then he set his clothes on the shelf and turned on the shower. The drops hit the ceramic tub hard, loud enough that his voice wouldn’t be heard while he talked on the phone. Yes, it was that easy. He’d been planning this ever since Sungchan threatened to take him to a rehabilitation center during their ridiculous argument in the parking lot.

He had no intention of enduring this withdrawal for much longer—it was horrible to feel this way, dizzy and sleepless. He had never suffered from insomnia until he came to Sungchan’s apartment. Wonbin didn’t know what he was thinking when he suddenly decided to show up unannounced a month ago, after so long without talking. And now here he was again, making Sungchan cry like he did in their adolescence, staining him again, forcing him to get involved with him.

His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone, hidden among his clothes, and quickly searched for Sion’s contact in his list.

He hated the idea of staying with Sion’s family, but at the moment there was no one else he could think of. Especially since Wonbin didn’t really have a large circle of friends. They weren’t even friends—not really—but Sion’s company comforted him, and Sion was always willing to go drinking with him around the city, which was convenient enough for Wonbin.

But something inside him hesitated the moment he found Sion’s number, as if some tacit warning echoed in his subconscious, urging him to stop and not follow through with this absurd, deliberate idea.

He ignored it completely, pushing his hesitation into the void, pressing the number as he sat down on the toilet lid.

“Pick up,” he whispered in a tortured voice, bringing his hand to his lips to bite his thumb. He was nervous, his leg bouncing up and down from the tension, his nerves tightening with each ring of the call. “Come on, Sion…”

He waited and waited, until he finally heard the confirmation tone of the connection. He smiled despite himself.

“What the fuck—Wonbin, is that you?” Sion’s voice sounded distant, as if he were miles away from the device. “You son of a bitch, I was starting to forget about you.”

“What took you so long to answer?” he cursed immediately, lowering his voice to a whisper.

His finger ached from biting it so hard.

“Binnie, I’m at a fucking party at my place. Be grateful I even picked up—I don’t do that for everyone. I only do it for you, because you’re special.” There were some voices in the background fighting for Sion’s attention; Wonbin wished he were there, drinking until he passed out. “Where are you, anyway? I went to your house two weeks ago and your dad was so pissed he threw a flowerpot at me while yelling, ‘I kicked that damned trash out of my house!’ If I hadn’t been high, I would’ve called the cops right then.”

“You went to my house? Why?” he interrupted instantly.

“I don’t know—to drink or some shit like that, I already forgot.”

“You saw my father?” His heart rate sped up, a metallic taste seeping into his mouth—it was warm, but not strong enough to distract him from the thoughts flooding his head. “How was he?”

“Angry. Rabid. Deranged. I mean, he threw a flowerpot the size of a dog at me—that’s attempted murder, man. Believe me, he wasn’t smiling when he did it. He wasn’t happy at all.”

“God, Sion, forget the damn flowerpot—didn’t he say anything else? Didn’t he ask about me?”

He couldn’t stop thinking about his father—his face, his furious voice when he threw him out. His mother’s broken voice when she blamed him for ruining their family—for being an addict.

For being filthy.

“He said a lot of things,” Sion clarified, a laugh slipping through as he answered someone at the party before returning to the call. “That he hates you, that he never wants to see you again, that you disappointed them—and that if you ever set foot in that house again, he’d kill you for the sake of the family’s reputation.”

The steam from the water thickened the air, heating his lungs and blurring his sight. Just remembering his father’s tone as he said those words made his stomach churn. His father—searching through his closet, finding hidden bottles. His father’s expression, that indescribable disappointment. The shouting, the insults. Years of rejection he endured, only to be met with even greater contempt when they discovered his condition.

He deserved it.

“I’m staying with Sungchan in Seoul,” he confessed in a trembling voice, before regret could consume him—already beginning to hate the idea. “I…”

“With Sungchan?!” Sion exclaimed, bursting into laughter. “For god’s sake, Wonbin, you’re in trouble and you run to that rich idiot? You’re so predictable.”

There it was—that peculiar laugh, laced with double meaning. Wonbin hated it.

“What are you trying to say?”

Another laugh echoed from the other end.

“I’m saying you crawled like a beggar to Sungchan’s door. And what?" Sion's tone of voice changed, whispering softly as if it were a secret. "Nothing in life is free, you know. What did he ask for in return for the lodging?”

He froze against the seat, grimacing as he processed what he’d just heard.

“Sungchan’s not like that. He’s kind—don’t compare him to any of us. He’s different.” He felt cornered; the only sensible thing left to do was to defend him.

He understood exactly what Sion was implying with that vulgar laugh, that filthy tone—desperate to hear something so degrading it would leave him speechless.

Why had he called Oh Sion, of all people? He’d called the only person in this world incapable of compassion—the one even more miserable than Park Wonbin by an immeasurable degree. And now that person, with his unstable and pitiful life, was judging him without a shred of shame.

“Oh, don’t lie, Wonbin,” Sion declared, as if he actually knew Sungchan, as if he’d ever taken the time to understand what kind of person Sungchan was. He had no right to talk about him. “Did you sleep with him? Is he the perverted type—does he make you suck him off every night in exchange for a place to stay? You’re acting embarrassed like it’s your first time doing something like that. I bet you spread your legs the first day you saw him again and let him fuck you. Should I call him and ask how it feels to be inside you? You fucking whore—”

Wonbin pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen with a blank expression. Seconds passed with Sion still on the line. A part of him wondered what kind of atrocities the other might still be hurling at him, but he decided not to give in to curiosity and hung up.

He couldn’t think of anything. It was as if his mind had decided to drift into the darkest corners of space, disappearing from this reality. So he let himself be carried away by the suffocating steam and went on as if nothing had happened. He had never called Sion in secret to find a new place to spend the night — he had simply taken a refreshing shower before going to bed. Yes, that was what had happened.

When he stepped into the shower, he let the heavy drops fall on his back, feeling the weight of the water strike gently against his skin. It felt strangely good. He tilted his neck so the water could soak his hair completely. The water was hot — hot enough to create a haze throughout the bathroom that made it hard to see within those four walls. He held the bar of soap in one hand and the sponge in the other. He shouldn’t have gotten lost in the sponge’s texture, but he couldn’t help staring at the insignificant details on its surface. Every thread was essential to the creation of that dull sponge; it was so soft when he ran it across his body, like a fluffy cloud caressing his skin. But when he dragged it roughly against his skin with trembling hands, scraping without thinking — it burned. It stung. There was that trace of pain, but his mind was so detached that it kept him from reacting to it.

It wasn’t until he reached for the shampoo that he noticed the tears escaping his eyes, almost like a silent cry for help. But he ignored them. He thought of them as uninvited intruders who only appeared to destroy his sanity, distracting him as he tried to focus on lathering his hair with erratic movements.

He shouldn’t have been affected by a call with that lunatic — yet when soft whimpers slipped from his lips and the tears refused to stop, he realized it was impossible to keep pretending. This was all Sion’s fault. All because he’d trusted him.

But he didn’t know what exactly had hurt him.

Was it what Sion said about his father?

Or the insinuation that he was sleeping with Sungchan?

Maybe everything.

He shut his eyes tightly, counting infinite numbers in his head without any result. He couldn’t find the calm he so desperately wanted. Once again, he was sobbing uncontrollably over something trivial. It wasn’t the first time Sion had talked to him that way—he’d known him since preschool, and he could say with certainty that his aggressive personality had always been the same: sharp and biting. He’d received far worse insults over the years. He used to cry oceans over the smallest things, and now he feared he was becoming that sentimental, unstable mess again.

And yet, something was different this time.

Something was haunting him that he couldn’t decipher.

It didn’t take long for the uncertainty to overwhelm him, and he quickly hit the side of his head hard, as if that would somehow fix it. When he realized how stupid it was to hit his own head like it was some kind of magic box, he couldn’t help but laugh.

He wanted so badly for that sudden, short laugh to help him cope with his sad heart.

He got out of the shower once the tears stopped, but the tremors persisted as he dried his body and got dressed. They persisted as he walked to the bedroom, and even when he hid under the covers.

Even when the symptoms of withdrawal hit him again that night.

He didn’t know the exact time. He couldn’t check it on his phone, either — he’d turned it off after noticing that Sion kept calling him nonstop. It was, without a doubt, strange, but he hadn’t given it much thought. He should have.

Sungchan was lying next to him in bed, despite there being two beds in the room. He wanted to throw him out, but he couldn’t make decisions about what didn’t belong to him. He breathed with difficulty, trying to suppress the spasms that occasionally disturbed his peace. His desperate urge to drink — just a drop of alcohol — had returned, tormenting his thoughts in this sleepless night.

“Sungchan,” he called out, fully aware that Sungchan was awake. “I’m fine.”

There was no answer, but Sungchan shifted in bed, sitting up and leaning his back against the headboard. Wonbin could feel the weight of his gaze but paid it no attention; instead, he just stared up at the wide ceiling above him.

“I’m feeling better, so… keep going to your university classes. I can take care of myself,” he said.

It wasn’t true—he felt worse than ever. But he couldn’t keep doing this to Sungchan. He had nowhere else to go, so he’d stay for now, but that didn’t mean he’d drag Sungchan into his madness any longer.

“You’ve only been clean for a few days—it’s not good for you to be alone.”

There was a palpable discomfort whenever he was around Sungchan. It was because of that worry — the kind that surfaced every time Wonbin showed weakness. He was so used to his parents’ coldness that Sungchan’s genuine concern overwhelmed him. Affection felt strange. The kind words, the gentle touches to his head — they all felt alien. He wanted to scream and complain, to ask him to treat him like everyone else did — like trash. Maybe then he would feel calmer, maybe then he wouldn’t flinch every time Sungchan came too close.

“It’s not your responsibility. You have your own life to worry about.”

He turned around and buried his head in the pillow before Sungchan could reply. Wonbin just wanted Sungchan to understand what he meant, even if his words weren’t honest or clear about his true intentions. But honesty was difficult — it was so hard to let the words leave his mouth, to tell Sungchan to leave him alone, that he was a lost cause, that he didn’t need mercy, that he should move on and pretend Wonbin’s existence was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. But he was too much of a coward to say it out loud. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, fully aware that he was the worst actor in the world.

The worst of all.

He was such a bad actor that he couldn’t hide his reaction when Sungchan hugged him from behind. His breath caught instantly as Sungchan’s hands slid around his waist, and the memory of Sion’s words from their argument rushed back in less than a second.

'You act ashamed, like it’s the first time you’ve done something like that.'

He tried to hide his nerves, forcing his breathing into a steady rhythm and keeping his limbs still. Sungchan breathed against his nape, doing nothing more than holding him for a long while — probably thinking Wonbin was sleeping peacefully.

Wonbin needed to control himself. Sungchan would never do anything to him. He’d be an idiot to let Sion’s words get to him.

“I have to take responsibility for my mistakes, because it’s all my fault,” Sungchan murmured against his neck, leaving him completely bewildered.

He glanced back over his shoulder only to find Sungchan asleep, still mumbling half-formed words into the air. Wonbin shifted back into his original position and gently moved Sungchan’s arm off his waist, his mind trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.

For some reason, he felt afraid.

He would never sleep beside Sungchan again.

(...)

Sungchan had resisted at first when it came to going to his classes, repeating over and over that he needed to look after Wonbin’s safety, that missing a few classes didn’t matter if it meant keeping an eye on him. Wonbin nearly lost his patience. He pulled him out of bed, assuring him he felt like new that morning.

He lied, as he always did. Lying was becoming a bad habit.

The first thing he noticed that morning when he turned on his phone were thirty-six missed calls from Sion, all within a few minutes of each other. There were dozens of messages too, but he had no interest in checking their chat. In the end, after thinking it through, he blocked his number.

Was it a good decision? Wonbin still didn’t know. He just needed to get through these days as calmly as possible, without the constant unease of Sion calling him like a madman to lecture him.

Some symptoms lingered throughout the day — the slight tremors in his hands and the insatiable thirst for alcohol. He buried himself in simple tasks to kill time. At one moment he was fitting pieces of a puzzle together in the living room, and the next he was reading one of Sungchan’s criminal-law textbooks — which was ridiculous, since he didn’t understand half of the technical terms inside. He wandered around the apartment, getting to know every corner solitude would allow him. He thought about tidying up a bit, but there was no mess to fix. Everything was in its place — almost unreal, considering that three male students and an alcoholic in withdrawal lived there. He ate some of the soup Sungchan had told him to heat up, then showered for an hour.

He cried the whole hour under the warm shower stream, just like the day before, but that was an irrelevant detail, unworthy of importance. In the bathroom, he took a moment to examine his face in the mirror. There were dark circles under his swollen eyes, and the tanned skin he once had had turned into a dull, pale shade. He didn’t know what to think when he saw that haggard reflection — he simply looked away and stepped out of the bathroom.

It was the most boring day of his life, but he was surprised to find himself enjoying the silence and the time alone.

Until Eunseok arrived. He was the first to come home. He didn’t greet him, and Wonbin didn’t say a word either. Even so, he couldn’t help watching him for a few minutes while Eunseok watched television — he couldn’t stop himself from getting lost in those perfect features. Eunseok was dressed in sportswear, looking so exhausted he didn’t notice the intense gaze fixed on him. Then Sungchan arrived about an hour later, with endless questions about how he’d felt during the day. It was exhausting having to fill his mouth with lies, insisting it had been a great and productive day.

He spent the afternoon watching dull movies on his phone, sprawled out on the couch, while Eunseok sat in the armchair watching some strange documentary about demonic possessions recorded on camera.

“You can go back to sharing a room with Sungchan,” Wonbin told him without lifting his eyes from the phone.

Eunseok only replied with a “’Bout time,” and kept his attention on the TV. Those were the only words they exchanged that day.

Chanyoung came through the door when the only one still awake was Wonbin; both Eunseok and Sungchan had already gone straight to bed once the clock passed ten. He looked tired — as tired, if not worse, than the last time Wonbin had seen him. He flashed that radiant smile of his, offered a polite greeting, and crossed the living room toward the hallway. When Wonbin reached the bedroom they shared, he was surprised to find Chanyoung sprawled out on the blankets, not even bothering to change into pajamas or cover himself with the sheets to fight off the winter cold. Not even the air conditioner could temper the chill of the night. Whatever it was that Chanyoung did during the day, it drained him to his limit.

Wonbin wondered what kind of sport Chanyoung practiced to end up like that.

He wrestled with the decision of what to do. Should he help him, at least a little? It would be the least he could do, considering all the times the younger one had helped him during his stay. Seeing him that exhausted struck a sensitive nerve.

He kneeled on the edge of the bed and, using some effort, moved Chanyoung’s body just enough to cover him with the blankets. He hadn’t expected something so simple to leave him so worn out. He had to take deep breaths to steady himself, and once he did, he turned off the light and climbed into the only other bed — the top bunk.

He closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep a single second that night.

And that day turned into routine.

Every day went the same. He woke up alone, looked for something to distract himself, ate lunch, the others came home, and then everyone went to sleep. The symptoms had lessened considerably; only the craving for alcohol and the inexplicable tears that came every time he showered remained. They were manageable.

One day, he received a call from an unknown number. He answered.

“Hello? Who’s this?” he asked, fiddling with a puzzle piece Sungchan had given him, trying to find where it fit. He quickly dropped it when the stranger on the other end didn’t respond. “Hello? Is someone there?”

He was completely alone in the apartment; it was barely noon.

“Wonbin.”

He exhaled sharply when he recognized Sion’s voice. He was about to hang up when Sion spoke again.

“Don’t you dare hang up, you fucking bastard.”

He couldn’t deny the curiosity. He needed to know what was going through Sion’s head. He already knew about the family issues Sion dealt with every day, but it seemed absurd that he’d choose to burden Wonbin with calls like this. They met up sometimes — they weren’t close, not close enough to justify this kind of behavior.

“What do you want, Sion? If you’re bored and found a special hobby in harassing me, just say so already,” he demanded firmly, gripping the phone tighter.

“Are you still staying with Sungchan?” He dodged the question with another one. He sounded angry, and Wonbin didn’t know how to interpret it. He couldn’t understand Sion’s fixation on Sungchan.

He couldn’t even remember them ever being close in school; they’d barely exchanged words. That made him even angrier.

“That’s none of your business, idiot.” He slammed the table carelessly as he felt rage flooding through his veins. Hearing him bring up Sungchan again reminded him of their last conversation a week ago. “Is that why you called? To call me easy again? Go ahead — I’m listening.”

Sion was cursing. Through the phone, Wonbin could hear the chaos of one person alone — objects crashing, glass shattering into pieces. It unsettled him.

That lunatic was definitely high.

“You’re with him,” Sion finally concluded, consumed by some feral emotion Wonbin still couldn’t name. “I want you to come back to me. Now.”

Wonbin burst out laughing at the threatening tone.

“Okay. If you didn’t call to apologize for what you said, then goodbye.”

“I’ve got his address. I swear on my mother, if you block this number, I’ll come drag you out of that damn apartment myself.”

He threatened it as if it would matter to Wonbin — as if the threat of a drug addict could shake him. He laughed deliberately and ended the call after saying goodbye.

Without a second thought, he blocked the new number and turned off his phone to get back to what he’d been doing: the thousand-piece puzzle.

He didn’t question Sion’s behavior beyond assuming he was just going through a rough patch — maybe he felt lonely and thought bothering every contact in his phone was a good idea. In a way, Wonbin could understand that. They were similar — more than he’d like to admit. Like Sion, Wonbin had had bad days and craved attention. Sion was more impulsive and unstable, but Wonbin had to admit: he didn’t really know how far Sion was capable of going.

He’d always thought Sion had no limits.

Maybe that was why he felt uneasy once he finished assembling the puzzle.