Chapter Text
Some warnings and clarifications:
- Bullying
- Violence
- Discrimination
- Zhenya speaks korean (not too well, but enough to communicate the bare minimum), Taekjoo is the one that speaks russian fluently.
- Taekjoo works at NIS but as on desk like Jongwoo, not on field.
Act IX: Hold me tight
They staggered down from the helicopter, its engine already dead. Taekjoo was still caught in the aftershocks of adrenaline—enough to keep him upright, enough to hold the blond and carry him bridal style in that clumsy-desperate way that, only days earlier, had been the other way around.
Princess, my ass, Taekjoo thought, drawing in a deep breath as he registered just how heavy the blond actually was.
He heard Zhenya grumble something, but it reached him from far away, warped and distant, as if he were still trapped beneath the thunder of detonations and the deafening chop of the blades that had brought them back to the island. With what little strength he had left, he kicked doors until they gave way, moving without any clear sense of direction, stumbling down staircases until he found the first room with a bed. There, he dropped Zhenya with little ceremony. The blond complained at once, a rough, restrained sound—clearly exaggerated.
The wound along his ribcage had stopped bleeding; it was nothing more than a deep graze. The bullet Taekjoo had put through his left thigh, however, was still seeping—slowly, stubbornly—a thick thread of dark red.
Taekjoo watched it, unease tightening his chest.
“There should be one… in the en suite bathroom…” Zhenya growled.
He rushed into the bathroom, flinging open cabinets without care until he found an emergency medical kit. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It had been too much: running, shooting, fleeing, surviving. In a fleeting thought, he was grateful he had never chosen the field, that he had stayed behind a desk with his friend. He yanked off his jacket and bulletproof vest and let them fall onto the immaculate white marble. He turned on the tap and scrubbed his hands fiercely, as if he could strip the fear straight from his skin.
When he lifted his head, the mirror gave him back a brutal image: sweat, dirt, and blood smeared together into a dark mask across his face. He swallowed hard and washed his face too, quick, efficient motions. He grabbed a container, filled it with clean water, and returned to the room.
Zhenya was still where he had left him, eyes closed, dozing with an almost angelic calm. Taekjoo exhaled—relieved and irritated all at once. The bastard had been shot twice, half the mansion he was meant to inherit had blown up, and there he was, stretched out like Sleeping Beauty, waiting for true love’s kiss.
He clicked his tongue. The sound didn’t go unnoticed; the blond opened his eyes, brow faintly furrowed.
Taekjoo knelt beside the bed and began removing whatever got in the way: first the ridiculous reptile-leather shoes, then the trousers. He opened the shirt and carefully examined the injuries. The one at the side was swollen, red, but hadn’t hit anything vital. The thigh wound, on the other hand, was clean and dangerous—clear entry and exit. A straight shot. Too straight.
“You shoot very well, Taekjoo…” Zhenya whispered.
The comment pulled him out of his focus for barely a second. He didn’t reply. He took out alcohol, antiseptic, gauze, cotton, and the suture kit. He inhaled deeply. He knew what he was doing. He had to remember that.
First, he irrigated the wound with plenty of clean water, mercilessly washing away clotted blood and any possible debris. Zhenya clenched his jaw at the roughness, a low growl escaping his chest, but he didn’t move. Taekjoo cleaned the surrounding skin with alcohol—slow, methodical—until the red gave way to clean, trembling flesh.
He examined the bullet’s path with care. No fragments. No bone damage. He’d been lucky. Very lucky.
“This is going to hurt,” he warned softly, more out of respect than necessity.
He poured on a bit more alcohol and began suturing at the entry wound, simple, neat stitches, closing the skin without pulling it too tight. Then the exit wound. Each stitch was a held breath, a silent count to keep his mind empty—to keep from thinking how close he had come to losing him.
When he finished, he cleaned the area again, dried it, and placed sterile gauze, securing it with firm but careful bandages. He repeated the process on the wound at the side of the torso, though there it was enough to disinfect and cover it.
Finally, he sat down beside the blond, exhausted. His hands were still trembling, but the bleeding had stopped. Zhenya was pale, sweaty—but alive. Taekjoo rested one hand on the bed and closed his eyes for a moment.
They had survived. For now, that had to be enough.
He brought the container of water closer and helped him drink until, with a grunt, the blond let him know it was enough.
“First time I’ve been shot head-on.”
“Hmm…” Taekjoo hummed while carefully gathering the items from the kit. He stood to put it back, but he hadn’t taken more than a step when the blond caught his wrist.
“Taekjoo…”
The touch was light, almost hesitant—but it was enough. Their eyes met, and the world seemed to collapse into that single point between them. The silence stretched, thick with everything they weren’t saying.
“You should rest” Taekjoo murmured at last, forcing gentleness into his voice. “I’ll get us some food in a bit… first I need to take a shower.”
He freed himself carefully and walked toward the bathroom, dragging his feet, his body heavy—his heart even more so.
“Thank you” Zhenya said, loud enough for him to hear. Taekjoo didn’t turn around. He merely nodded once, barely, and closed the door behind him.
He undressed slowly, as if each piece of clothing weighed more than it should. He turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm. A low, humorless laugh slipped from his throat. He was battered, exhausted, covered in bruises… and yet, none of it hurt as much as the sense of abandonment he’d felt in the basement. When he thought he was ready, he lifted his right leg to step under the spray.
The click of the door opening behind him froze him in place.
Zhenya was there. Half-naked. Sweat-slicked. Breathing hard, as if he’d run an impossible distance just to reach him, looking scared. Steam began to wrap around them at once, blurring the sharp lines of the bathroom. When their eyes met, the impact was devastating—more intense, more uncomfortable, more brutally erotic than anything Taekjoo had ever felt.
“Ugh… shit” Taekjoo muttered, the words coming out more like a surrender than a complaint. He didn’t have time for anything else.
Zhenya wrapped his arms around him, as if—at last—he’d been released from the leash that had been choking and restraining him. It wasn’t violent; it was an instinctive need for closeness. Taekjoo folded into him immediately, pressing his face into Zhenya’s neck, breathing deeply. The air was thick with steam; Zhenya’s warm skin contrasted with Taekjoo’s cooler one. He inhaled his scent, and every nerve in his body answered in waves of heat and calm, recognizing him beneath the sharp traces of gunpowder, dirt, and disinfectant. That familiar, unmistakable smell sent a shiver through his lower belly. He felt the blond tremble lightly against him—a vibration that had nothing to do with control.
Zhenya held him for a few more seconds before pulling back just enough. He cupped Taekjoo’s face with both hands, thumbs tracing the line of his jaw. The grip was firm, but careful, measuring every contour and imperfection. Taekjoo lifted his head. His vision was blurred; he didn’t know whether it was the steam or everything threatening to spill over as tears. They stared at each other from too close a distance to pretend composure. Each one’s breath brushed the other’s lips. The blond began pressing short kisses to certain places—places he remembered, scattered constellations of light moles. Satisfied, he rested his forehead against Taekjoo’s, his eyes pleading the way a child begs for candy.
Taekjoo laughed softly. Zhenya was asking permission to kiss him.
They moved slowly, shy and unhurried, savoring every millimeter before contact. Their mouths met in a brief, almost clumsy brush. A kiss barely formed—soft, restrained. A touch that hesitated before going further. And yet, something gave way and settled into place. They looked at each other again, adoring; pulling back just slightly, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed in pinks and reds. They had shared their first real kiss, with those deepest, most guarded emotions erupting from the ocean floor of their hearts.
Taekjoo sought him again, this time with a different intent—cleaner, surer—rising straight from his chest. The kiss steadied without losing its firmness. Their mouths began to mold to each other, learning, recognizing, sharing a sweetness threaded with the warm trace of sweat. The anxiety was still there, humming beneath the skin, but it coexisted with something new—gentler, more careful. It felt like returning to the origin, to the place where everything had begun and been left suspended. Zhenya held him a little closer, anchoring him with a calm that didn’t overwhelm, but accompanied.
It was no longer just desire binding them. There was relief, and a simple, almost childlike happiness peeking through. A dense emotion, still unnamed. The kiss didn’t want to devour—it wanted to stay, to become an eternal memory. Every second whispered the same thing: here, now, at last.
Zhenya’s hands slid down Taekjoo’s back, slow and deliberate. His fingertips traced damp skin with care, pausing where Taekjoo’s body held memory—touching bruises and cuts with reverence, as if hoping the gesture might reach him as an apology. He didn’t go too far. That restraint spoke louder than any reckless move. Taekjoo understood immediately; this way of touching was new. It asked for nothing in return—and yet it was exactly what had always been missing.
They weren’t bodies seeking relief from absence and guilt. They were themselves, choosing to stay, choosing each other. Choosing to continue that meticulous, uninsistent contact that felt more intimate than anything they’d shared before. Because there was no rush, no test, no need to cross boundaries—just two people who, after so long chasing and pushing one another, were finally allowing themselves to meet without running away.
Taekjoo’s hands trembled as he placed them on Zhenya’s body. He was solid. Firm. Real. Every muscle beneath his skin spoke of years of discipline, violence, and survival. Taekjoo traced that map with his fingers, up his back, over his broad shoulders, as if he needed to memorize it—as if, after ten years, he were only now allowed to touch him without fear of rejection.
His hands slid slowly down the blond’s waist… until they found the bandage. The memory of the gunshot struck his mind like lightning. He didn’t pull his hand away; he pressed it against the wound. Zhenya tensed immediately. A low sound slipped through clenched teeth as he tried to hide a sudden surge of pleasure buried beneath the veil of pain. That sound lit something fireproof and alive in Taekjoo’s chest. In the clear sky shining in the blond’s eyes, he saw the darkness of his own—storm clouds heavy with lust and dominance blotting out the bright day.
“Taekjoo…” Zhenya whimpered, weak, offering himself to his lover’s hurt.
Taekjoo didn’t answer with words. He used the moment, the closeness, the broken breath, and bit down on Zhenya’s lower lip. It wasn’t gentle. He tightened his grip until he tasted copper, sucking hard, savoring every second. The bite was charged with rage, desire, torment—and above all, love. Zhenya responded at once, opening into the kiss as if he’d been waiting for it all his life.
Taekjoo’s tongue deepened the contact, impatient, demanding. The kiss was no longer tender; it turned urgent, ravenous, filled with a thirst neither of them yet knew how to quench except by consuming each other. Zhenya held him tighter, fingers digging into his damp skin, certain that Taekjoo wasn’t going to leave—that he wasn’t going to abandon him to his fate—that at last, he would never be alone again.
Taekjoo felt the heat rise to his face, his chest, every corner of his body.
Ten years. Ten years of unspoken words, of guilt, of poison, of love misdirected and even more poorly understood. And yet there they were, surrendering without defenses for the first time. Not with their bodies, but with something far more fragile.
The heart… And this time, neither of them intended to let go.
Zhenya planted a firm hand on his waist and nudged him back just enough to steal his balance. Taekjoo stumbled, startled, and before he could protest, the blond had already hooked an arm behind his legs and lifted him off the floor with insulting ease.
“Hey—!” he breathed out, instinctively wrapping his legs around Zhenya’s waist, tense, unsure. The russian’s body was warm, solid, painfully alive against his own.
“Easy” Zhenya murmured, a crooked smile in his voice that Taekjoo couldn’t see but could feel. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot. I’m trained to endure it.”
For a second, something caved in Taekjoo’s chest. He imagined that life he had never witnessed—violence normalized, wounds treated like routine. It hurt for him. For the boy he’d been. For the man who had learned to survive that way.
But the feeling shifted quickly.
The tone. The lightness. The nerve.
“You’re… trained to endure it?” he repeated, lowering his voice.
“Extensively. Top of my class, best in the whole regiment” Zhenya replied, proud, almost amused. “Maybe I exaggerated a little so you would—Agh!”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Taekjoo grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked, forcing his face closer. It wasn’t brutal, but it was more than enough to make his irritation clear.
“You pretended you were fainting and bleeding out?” he growled, teeth clenched, eyes sharp with anger. “All of that just so I’d take care of you?”
Zhenya let out a low, genuine laugh—one Taekjoo hadn’t heard in years. One of those laughs he used to have when they were kids. The sound vibrated against his neck, raising goosebumps along his skin.
“Maybe…” he admitted, kissing along his jaw.
Before Taekjoo could answer, Zhenya stepped forward and crossed into the bathtub. Steam swallowed them instantly as the russian moved under the still-running shower, hot water striking his back… and splashing Taekjoo as well.
“Hey, you brat!” Taekjoo protested. “What about your wounds? The bandages? You’re going to ruin all my work!”
Zhenya huffed, resting his forehead briefly against Taekjoo’s right shoulder, as if even arguing felt like too much effort.
“I’ll listen to you,” he said at last, turning his face just enough to look at him, lips curved in something dangerously tender “if you wash me.”
Taekjoo stared at him in silence, his heart beating far too fast. Ten years ago, he would’ve called it trust. Now he knew better—it was manipulation.
Bastard, he thought, feeling his heart crack happily at that smile. He didn’t say a word, and when Zhenya met no resistance, he leaned in again.
His lips returned to Taekjoo’s with deceptive slowness, as if offering him a chance to stop it. Taekjoo didn’t. He couldn’t. The blond kissed him softly, as though trying to memorize every breath, every fleeting sigh. Then he drifted lower, scattering open kisses along his jaw, his neck, lingering over skin—over every imperfection, every mole—as if afraid of hurting him.
“Hey…” Taekjoo murmured, voice breaking. “Let’s go to the bed.”
Zhenya froze. He looked at him, surprised… and amused. Taekjoo’s embarrassment was obvious, but he didn’t look away.
“I don’t want your wounds getting wet,” he added, swallowing hard. “And clearly you don’t plan on stopping… and I don’t want you to.”
Zhenya obeyed without a word. He turned off the shower and stepped out with Taekjoo still clinging to him, as if letting go were unthinkable. He made his way towards the bedroom, feeling his way blindly, but didn’t get far.
Taekjoo cupped his face again and kissed him with an urgency that set his chest on fire. There was no care, no restraint now—he claimed him with an open mouth, desperate and starving. Zhenya answered immediately, just as fierce.
He carried him the rest of the way to the bed, guided only by the need not to separate. When the edge hit the back of his legs, he let himself fall with Taekjoo still in his arms. The fur covers softened the impact, though Taekjoo let out a small sound that disappeared between their mouths.
They kept kissing—breathless, relentless—saliva slipping from the corners of their mouths, breaths broken, shivers impossible to hide. It was clumsy, fervent, untidy. Zhenya finally broke the kiss only to lean down and erase the dampness left at Taekjoo’s lips with his tongue.
The blond smiled against his mouth before pulling back barely an inch. The desire in his eyes was almost tangible, a flame threatening to consume them both. With slow, deliberate intent, he began a trail of kisses along Taekjoo’s neck, alternating gentle caresses with playful nips that made the dark-haired man tremble beneath his touch. Each kiss was a promise. Each bite, a claim.
“Zhenya...” Taekjoo whispered, his voice rough, as the Russian’s hands slid along his hips.
But just as Zhenya was about to continue his descent over Taekjoo’s chest, the dark-haired man reacted with startling strength. In one swift motion, he stopped him and shoved him back against the bed with a feral growl. The fur covers welcomed the Russian’s body as he landed, looking up at Taekjoo with an expression equal parts aroused and intrigued.
“Hey, kid,” Taekjoo said, pinning the blond beneath him, hooking his legs around him with feline ease. “Let your hyung take care of everything…”
Before Zhenya could answer, Taekjoo seized his wrists and pressed them firmly into the mattress, immobilizing him. With a mischievous smile, he leaned down and began to leave his own trail of marks along Zhenya’s neck and chest. Every bite was precise, every bruise a fleeting work of art on the Russian’s pale skin—Zhenya could only think about wanting to tattoo each and every one of them.
He couldn’t stop moving beneath Taekjoo’s weight, his body arching and trembling, responding with helpless sounds to every new mark. Hard, tense, and aching, he began to grind insistently against Taekjoo’s bare backside, seeking more friction, more contact, more skin.
“Well, well,” Taekjoo laughed, lifting himself just enough to look down at him. “You’re rough, you know that? Keep this up and I might have to shoot you again just to make you stay still.”
Zhenya smiled, his eyes shining with defiance and hunger.
“That still wouldn’t be enough to stop me” he replied, his voice a low, hoarse purr.
Taekjoo paused, seriously considering the idea of tying him up while his fingers toyed with the Russian’s stiff nipples, pinching and tugging them, drawing a sharp gasp that mixed pain with pleasure.
“Would you like your hyung to shoot you again?” he asked with a wicked grin, rocking slowly against Zhenya’s hardness, setting a torturous rhythm. “To tie you up and keep you completely at my mercy? To use you like nothing more than a sex toy?”
Zhenya’s answer was a guttural moan as he arched his back, trying to press himself harder against Taekjoo. His swollen length—still hidden beneath his boxers—slid between Taekjoo’s cheeks, rubbing insistently. Taekjoo met the motion, clenching tightly, feeding the friction. It burned, exquisitely so—but not yet. Not yet.
He changed tactics.
Taekjoo slid down Zhenya’s body, leaving kisses and slow licks across his toned chest and abdomen. He considered stopping to torment his nips again, but there would be time for that later. He had all the time in the world.
He continued until he reached Zhenya’s groin. The white underwear was damp with need. He buried his nose there, inhaling deeply, then dragged his tongue over the fabric, tasting that salty moisture before teasingly pulling the cloth away. Zhenya’s impressive length sprang free—pink and pale, beautiful in its own way. Taekjoo still didn’t understand how something like that could possibly fit without killing him… much less how the idea of such a death could be so enticing.
Their eyes met briefly. Zhenya looked on the verge of crying from the intensity.
“You’re not allowed to touch me until I say so, alright?” Taekjoo murmured.
With a challenging smile, he leaned in and took him into his mouth, stealing Zhenya’s breath. His lips explored the tip first, slow and deliberate, savoring the lingering sweetness of his precome, before his tongue traced the full length and dipped lower to his pale fullness. His right hand gripped firmly, setting the pace, while his mouth alternated between those sensitive places, devouring him without haste. Zhenya arched in involuntary spasms, utterly at the mercy of that exquisite assault.
Taekjoo pulled back for just a few seconds, searching for his favorite sky; when he found it, he dared Zhenya to hold his gaze as he opened his mouth and took him fully. Velvety flesh welcomed him eagerly, closing and rolling in a tight, wet embrace. Zhenya watched, spellbound, as Taekjoo’s lips stretched obscenely around him, pulsing with each movement—until he ended up clutching the covers, obeying to the letter the unspoken command. The korean’s tongue followed every motion, tracing each vein, each curve with meticulous precision.
“Ahh… Hyung…” Zhenya whimpered, eyes squeezed shut, toes curling.
Taekjoo forced his knees apart, planting his hands low on his thighs, opening him wider while denying him any chance to thrust. Every time Zhenya tried, Taekjoo disciplined him by pressing against the wound in his leg, pushing him mercilessly toward that hazy edge where pain and pleasure tangled together.
Fuck… this bastard is huge, Taekjoo thought, fighting in vain to take him deeper than his throat would allow.
His taste was unmistakable—salty, with a faint caramel note, addictive, clinging to his tongue. Taekjoo traced him again from base to tip, pausing now and then to suck or lightly nip at the head, drawing sharp, uncontrollable reactions from the blond.
For Zhenya, the world narrowed until it became only that: the wet warmth wrapping around him, the clumsy yet earnest tongue exploring every inch of his warm length. It was devastating—overwhelming, nearly too blissful to bear… and still not enough. His zaika was inexperienced; his teeth grazed him awkwardly again and again, but the result was obscenely beautiful. The blond wanted to etch every detail into memory: the puffed cheeks stretched by his length, the tears slipping free, saliva trailing from the corner of those swollen lips, the muffled sounds the Korean never stopped making. Before his eyes, Taekjoo was his lover, his god, his everything. The fucking love of his life.
“T-Taekjoo… God, Taekjoo” Zhenya moaned.
He held himself back from tangling his fingers in Taekjoo’s hair; he knew that if he did, he’d end up hurting that divine throat—and… he wasn’t ready yet to take him all the way.
When Taekjoo sensed Zhenya was about to come—he knew it almost instinctively, from how hot and rigid he felt in his mouth—he stopped short, abruptly, leaving him suspended in a crushing frustration. Wearing a triumphant smile, he crawled upward with the lethal grace of a panther stalking its prey until he reached the blond’s chest. He planted his knees on either side of Zhenya’s face and braced one hand against the wall; the russian, confronted so directly with the korean’s hard cock, licked his lips without the slightest shame.
“Open your mouth, princess.”
Zhenya obeyed without protest. A thin string of saliva slipped from Taekjoo’s lips; the blond welcomed it eagerly—only to be caught in a deep kiss, where he tasted himself on Taekjoo’s tongue.
The dark-haired man gripped his own length at the base and traced the line of Zhenya’s jaw with it. Zhenya opened wide, tongue out, trying to capture him.
“Hah… Is the princess hungry?” Taekjoo didn’t wait for an answer. He fisted Zhenya’s hair and thrust into his mouth in one sharp motion.
The blond went rigid, instinctively clutching at Taekjoo’s thighs, then surrendered to the relentless invasion that barely allowed him to breathe, until tears pooled along his lashes. Zhenya purred with pleasure, releasing deep vibrations that drove Taekjoo straight to the brink. The korean moved freely, sliding in and out without restraint, sinking deeper each time; a shiver tore through him with every thrust. He was dangerously close to coming whenever he looked down and found the blond’s lips sealed tight around him.
“Argh… open that throat wide and swallow it all, princess.”
Taekjoo spilled forward in a final thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The blond’s throat opened, compliant, taking him completely; Zhenya held his gaze as he swallowed and sucked every drop, never pulling away. Taekjoo stayed there a few seconds longer, watching the almost unreal beauty of the blond while Zhenya’s warm tongue toyed with him, still half-hard.
“Now,” Taekjoo murmured, licking the tears from Zhenya’s face, “I want you to watch me while I get ready for you.”
Zhenya nodded, eyes glassy. Taekjoo pulled back just enough to lean over the nightstand and open the drawer, retrieving a bottle of lubricant. He knew the blond had stocked the mansion like a minefield—especially after spending nearly half a month fucking like rabbits. He climbed back over Zhenya, straddling his low waist, and poured a generous amount into his right palm. Then he lifted his hips, settling on all fours. One hand braced against Zhenya’s chest; the other, slick and ready, reached back.
A tremor of nerves ran through him as he realized what he was about to do—it would be the first time he prepared himself. That task almost always fell to the russian. Zhenya noticed and smiled with conspiratorial tenderness.
“Nervous, jagiya?” he teased softly.
Taekjoo’s eyes went wide; he couldn’t hide his surprise. Hearing that word from the blond’s mouth—meant for him—was the last thing he expected.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak, Yevgeny,” he cut him off, delivering a light slap.
He continued calmly, easing one finger in first—slow, deliberate—moving in a measured rhythm that kept Zhenya utterly transfixed. Soon, a second finger joined the motion. He felt himself sensitive, swollen inside, but he didn’t care—he could take it. He wanted this. He wanted to feel the blond inside him, whole. Still, he knew two wouldn’t be enough. He tried to add a third, but barely managed to graze himself, the nail scraping lightly before he pulled back.
“I—I need… h-help…” he whispered, embarrassed.
Zhenya snapped out of his haze at once. He lifted his right hand toward Taekjoo’s face; the korean understood without words and let a generous amount of saliva fall. The blond’s fingers slid to that familiar entrance, though this time they trembled just a little—he didn’t know why, but it felt different, new, his nerves laid bare.
The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming, a delicate counterpoint to the ferocity of their previous encounters. Two long, steady fingers worked alongside Taekjoo’s, seeking that sensitive place that made the stretch slow, torturous, and beautiful. The korean’s length, hard again, brushed against the blond’s; both grew slick with shared precome. It was almost indecent… and to Taekjoo, fucking erotic.
“I’m hungry, zaika…” the blond whimpered.
Before Taekjoo could say a word, Zhenya surged upward until he was sitting. His teeth sank into the Korean’s chest with greedy intent, alternating bites and suction across his pecs. Four fingers kept stretching him without mercy as the blond punished his curls until they were flushed and taut. Their lengths rubbed together shamelessly… and Taekjoo felt that dizzying edge rush back again.
“F-fuck… ah!”
“Come on, zaika, give it to me…” the blond growled, gripping Taekjoo’s left nipple so hard that a few drops of blood welled up.
Taekjoo reacted instantly, shoving him back against the mattress and cutting off all contact in one abrupt motion.
“Hah… Yevgeny… you impatient, filthy perverted brute…” he murmured, pulling away from the still-shaken blond. “What did I tell you about moving?”
He grabbed the bottle of lubricant and mercilessly drenched Zhenya’s throbbing cock before lowering himself into a squat over it. Hesitantly, Taekjoo placed his hands on the russian’s chest. Zhenya smiled up at him, stroking his wrists as if to pass along a quiet reassurance.
“As punishment,” Taekjoo continued in a low voice, “you’re forbidden to move… and forbidden to come, until I say so.”
Zhenya wanted to protest. He should have. But… how could he refuse what his beloved demanded? He had earned that punishment himself. Slowly, his sweet heat found the slick entrance and began to press in, parting the flesh with insistent pressure, claiming space.
Taekjoo growled, digging his nails into the blond’s tattooed pecs, tearing skin until it bled. He was swallowed and squeezed tight, an intense pressure that sent waves of pleasure straight through the nerve endings of both of them.
“Fuck… to hell with it,” Taekjoo spat again as he sank down completely onto the blond’s length.
They stayed suspended in that moment, breathing hard. Taekjoo felt full—whole, sore… and absurdly happy. His gaze lifted to that ocean in front of him, now tormented and restless, shaken by tides of pleasure.
The sight between his legs was sublime. The blond had his left fist trapped between his teeth, biting down hard, while his right hand clawed into the pillow beside him. His face, slick with sweat and flushed deep down his chest, twisted as he panted uncontrollably. Taekjoo could feel the tension coiled in his legs and hips, loaded with a ferocious need to thrust and release.
He began to move slowly, setting an initial rhythm to let them adjust. Zhenya’s cock spread him with every penetration, forcing him to readjust again and again. The heat was suffocating; his senses blurred until first there was sensation, then sound—the slick slide of lubricant between wet bodies, broken breaths—and only after that, scent, taste.
He shifted, bracing his hands on the blond’s knees and arching back, offering himself completely. In front of him, Zhenya’s face contorted with desire. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with sweat.
“Ah… hyung… please…” the blond begged through broken whimpers, his voice cracking with need. “Let me touch you…”
There was something almost childlike in the way he looked at him—hungry and vulnerable all at once. Taekjoo let out a low, satisfied laugh and mercilessly picked up the pace, driving them both toward a point of no return. It wasn’t only about control; it was because he knew exactly how much Zhenya could endure… and how badly he wanted to.
Passion devoured them whole. Their movements lost all conscious rhythm, turning erratic, urgent, desperate. Every thrust was a silent claim; every moan, an absolute surrender. The marks Taekjoo had left gleamed across the blond’s chest like an indelible signature, a tangible reminder of belonging, as he took him with a ferocity that stole the air from their lungs. It was wild, primal, inevitable. And, in that chaos, perfect.
Taekjoo felt Zhenya begin to break, felt his body tighten on the edge.
“Fill your hyung, princess.”
Zhenya shuddered violently, his body locking before spilling over in a reckless explosion. Taekjoo clenched around him, feeling himself filled with the blond’s semen. He kept riding him without stopping, seeing him through it, driving that offering deeper as if he wanted to keep it inside forever.
Taekjoo couldn’t take it anymore, so he made a very hard decision: to pull away. Zhenya’s half-hard cock slipped free as Taekjoo lifted his hips and returned to all fours, the sudden emptiness followed by a different wave—one of sadness at not having him inside. He crawled back until his knees framed Zhenya’s face once more.
“Open your mouth, baby,” Taekjoo growled, coming undone fast.
The russian opened wide, tongue out, and swallowed the korean’s heated length just as he reached his climax. His throat filled again with that delicious nectar, and he swallowed and sucked until nothing remained.
Taekjoo finally collapsed beside Zhenya, both of them breathing hard, bodies still trembling. The dark-haired man inched closer, almost dragging himself, and rested his head near the blond’s neck. He felt a strange need to hear his racing heartbeat. And he stayed there, clinging, waiting… until he noticed how, little by little, their rhythms calmed. He smiled, exhausted and content.
“You’re a crazy sadist, hyung,” Zhenya whispered with a weak smile, stroking Taekjoo’s damp hair.
Taekjoo answered with a slow, lazy kiss, heavier with affection than fire. He was far too drained for anything else—and far too full to need it. His gaze dropped, and he frowned at the blond’s bandages, soaked through with blood and other traces of mixed fluids.
“Ugh… let’s go to the bathroom,” he muttered at last. “We need to clean you up… and probably stitch you again.”
The snow crunches softly beneath his feet, a muted sound, as if the world itself had decided to speak in whispers. It reaches his ankles and, for some reason, he thinks he’s barefoot. He doesn’t feel the cold biting at his skin—there’s no pain, no numbness—yet he isn’t entirely sure. He lowers his gaze to check, searching for confirmation, and instead finds a body he both recognizes and doesn’t.
He’s wearing his school uniform.
The light blue fabric is neat, almost pristine, far too small for the body inhabiting it. And then he understands—with a calm certainty, without shock—that he is no longer a child. His arms are long, his hands broad, his legs strong. He’s an adult. And yet, he’s dressed like someone he left behind a long time ago.
The snow keeps falling, slow, almost ceremonial. Big flakes, weightless, that don’t burden his hair or shoulders when they land. The air is perfect: strangely warm, pleasant, a gentle caress from the inside out. He takes a deep breath and the air fills his lungs without resistance. He feels… good. Incredibly good. At peace in a way he can’t remember ever feeling before.
Around him, vegetation pushes through the snow. Green stems, resilient leaves, small stubborn flowers breaking through the white. Life and stillness coexisting without conflict. The dichotomy is so beautiful it almost hurts to look at. Sunlight filters through pale clouds, spilling a golden glow that doesn’t blind—only illuminates the path ahead. Everything seems suspended in a moment that refuses to move forward.
Then he sees him.
In the distance, just a pale blue blot against the endless white. A small shape sitting on the snowy blanket, curled in on itself. Taekjoo narrows his eyes, and with every step—without realizing when he started walking—he makes out the figure more clearly.
It’s a child. Small, no older than six. He’s alone—far too alone. His shoulders are slumped, his head bowed beneath a quiet sadness that drapes over him like a veil. He holds a little twig in his hand and draws on the snow with slow, deliberate movements, as if that gesture were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Taekjoo watches the shape emerge: two long ears, a rounded body. A bunny.
Something tightens in his chest.
It isn’t a defined emotion, but a brutal, visceral urgency born from some deep, hidden place within his soul. An impulse that doesn’t reason, doesn’t doubt, doesn’t ask.
He has to get to him. He has to touch him. He has to make sure he’s never alone again.
He starts running. The snow doesn’t slow him down; it seems to part beneath his steps. He runs laughing, without knowing why, with a joy that fills his throat, with his heart pounding hard but without pain. The child lifts his head when he hears him approaching, wide eyes startled, still bright with sorrow.
Taekjoo doesn’t stop. He scoops him up in one motion and crushes him to his chest with a desperate, almost trembling strength. He laughs. Laughs like he’s found something he thought he’d lost forever. He peppers the child’s face with clumsy, noisy kisses and spins with him in his arms, turning over the snow as if they were dancing.
The child lets out a crystalline laugh—clear, pure—that cuts straight through him. The sadness melts from his face as if it had never existed. He smiles wide and open, and with a small, warm hand he caresses Taekjoo’s cheek with a tenderness and delicacy that doesn’t belong to someone so little. He touches his face as if he’s known him all his life, as if he’d been missing him.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Taekjoo says without thinking, his voice thick with emotion. “For a long time.”
The child looks at him attentively, serious now, but unafraid.
“Don’t ever leave my side again,” Taekjoo adds, holding him tighter. “Stay with me. Always.”
The child tilts his head.
“Why?” he asks, with innocent curiosity.
Taekjoo doesn’t answer with words. He leans in and gently bites the child’s chubby cheek, a fond, almost playful gesture.
“Ow!” the child protests, frowning. “That hurts!”
But then he looks at him again. His eyes—Taekjoo forgets how to breathe.
They are an impossible blend of blues and emeralds, colors that shouldn’t coexist like that. They shift with the light like ethereal, precious gems—as if they held an entire sky and a crystal-clear lagoon in the middle of a vivid, lush forest, all at once. They don’t look real. They don’t look of this world.
The child watches him in silence for a few seconds, as if assessing him. Then he speaks.
“What happened to my letter, hyung?”
The world fractures.
Taekjoo wakes with a jolt, heart racing, a name caught in his throat, the echo of those eyes still burning inside him.
It takes him a few seconds to realize where he is—but Zhenya is there. Pressed against him. Literally curled into his chest, head resting right over his heart, as if that were the only possible place to sleep. One arm is wrapped around his waist, and one leg is shamelessly tangled with his, possessive, firm—like a tick that has no intention of letting go, not even under threat.
The midday sun slipped in through the uncovered window, flooding everything in its path with light.
Taekjoo let out a slow breath. He was hot—really hot. The blond’s body radiated an intense warmth, almost too much, and the blanket had become an unnecessary weight. He tried to move carefully, just enough to steal a bit of air, but even asleep, Zhenya reacted. His brow furrowed and he clung tighter, as if his body knew—before his mind ever could—that something was trying to pull away.
“…shit,” Taekjoo muttered silently, resigned.
In the end, he managed to shift just a few centimeters. Enough to breathe. Not enough to escape. Giving up, he stayed still, his gaze drifting to the body wrapped around him—and he couldn’t help but keep looking.
Sleep had softened Zhenya’s features until they were almost unreal. The blond slept deeply, lips slightly parted, long lashes casting delicate shadows over pale skin that looked untouched, immaculate—as if the chaos of the previous day had never reached him. Taekjoo traced every detail with slow, reverent attention: the gentle arch of his brows, the curve of his nose, the fine line of his mouth.
His blond hair was a mess, strands falling over his forehead and temples. Taekjoo felt the immediate—primitive—urge to fix it with his fingers, but he stopped himself. He didn’t want to wake him. Not yet.
He inhaled Zhenya’s scent slowly. It was unmistakable—clean, warm, with that natural undertone that made it uniquely his, something no soap or perfume could replicate. It filled his lungs, settled in his chest, and brought with it a strange, almost unsettling calm. Taekjoo closed his eyes for a second, resting his cheek lightly against the Russian’s hair, as if he needed to absorb just a little more of him.
There was nothing about Zhenya that he didn’t like. Nothing.
With an effort that felt frankly superhuman, Taekjoo decided to move. He was overheating, already starting to sweat again. He needed a shower. He needed to clear his head, wash off the sweat and the exhaustion clinging to his muscles. Carefully, he slid the blond’s arm off his waist and replaced it with the pillow—slow, almost surgical.
Zhenya stirred faintly, murmured something unintelligible, and sank back into sleep, now hugging the fabric as if it were enough. Taekjoo watched him for a few more seconds. Just to be sure. Just to burn the image into his memory. He scolded himself for not having his phone nearby—it would have been the perfect moment to take a dozen pictures.
Resigned, he got up.
He walked to the bathroom and, upon opening the door, was greeted by the mess they’d left the night before: bandages and gauze, medical supplies, painkillers—practically the entire first-aid kit scattered everywhere. He huffed as he put everything back in its place and turned on the shower, grabbed a towel from a drawer, and left it within reach. He stepped under the hot water and let the steam close his pores, loosen his shoulders, force his thoughts into some kind of order. Inevitably, he thought of Zhenya’s wounds.
It still surprised him that the blond had agreed not to have sex again after he’d cleaned and changed the bandages. He hadn’t protested much. He hadn’t joked. He’d let Taekjoo take care of him—trusting, docile, sweet. The memory made Taekjoo smile like a child.
Thankfully, the leg wound hadn’t reopened. The stitches were still firm. Stable. The relief was immediate, almost physical.
He stepped out of the shower with water dripping from his hair, wrapped himself in the towel, and dried off slowly. He passed by the mirror—and deliberately ignored it. He knew he looked like a wreck: dark circles, tense features, a body still marked by violence that didn’t fade so easily. He didn’t have the energy to face that right now.
Zhenya was still asleep when he returned to the bedroom. Same spot. Same position. As if he hadn’t moved an inch. Taekjoo smiled to himself, fully intending to jump on him and bite him—but then his stomach growled loudly.
Only then did he realize how hungry he was. Actually… how long had it been since he’d eaten?
He rummaged through the nearest wardrobe for something to wear: black pants and a black T-shirt. That would do for now. Satisfied, he left the room and headed into the mansion, padding barefoot down the stairs in silence, leaving behind the warmth of the bedroom and that small bubble suspended outside of time.
It took him longer than he would’ve liked to get where he was going. The kitchen was enormous—far too big for two people. But at that moment, it felt welcoming. He searched the cupboards for utensils, opened the fridge, checked its contents without much ceremony. Eggs, milk, fruit. From the pantry, he pulled out sugar, flour, and coffee.
Making pancakes had to be easy, right?
As he started moving—pan, bowl, stove—he found himself thinking, unbidden, that it had been a long time since he’d made breakfast for anyone. And the thought, far from making him uncomfortable, stirred an unexpected tenderness. He was hungry, yes. But it wasn’t just his body asking to be fed.
Taekjoo opened the cupboard and stared at it like it was a strategic enemy.
Pancakes.
He wasn’t sure why he’d decided on that. Maybe because they were “simple” (or at least that was what his mother and Zhenya had always said when they cooked for him years ago). Maybe because some optimistic corner of his brain had assumed that mixing things together and putting them over heat couldn’t possibly go that wrong. Zhenya needed something decent to eat—something with calories so his wounds would heal faster—and unfortunately, all the meat was frozen.
But the real problem appeared almost immediately—he didn’t have his phone to check the ingredient quantities.
He stood there for a few seconds, frozen, an egg in his hand, waiting for the recipe to magically assemble itself inside his head. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just an awkward void and the growing suspicion that, at no point in his adult life, had he ever made pancakes.
“Well… I guess we’ll do it by eye,” he muttered, resigned.
He cracked five eggs. Added flour. Then hesitated. Milk? Yeah, probably. How much? No idea. He poured a little. Then a little more. Sugar… maybe. Yes—pancakes were sweet, right? So perhaps a cup and a half. Salt. Was that necessary? Or not? He frowned and added a spoonful anyway. He mixed.
The consistency was… suspicious. Too runny. He added more flour. Now it was a thick, gluey paste. He poured in more milk. The whisk struck the bowl with a dull, irritated sound, each movement sharper and more impatient than the last.
“This should look better now…” he growled, cracking in another egg.
It didn’t. Still, he turned on the burner and set the pan over the flame. He waited, then poured in some of the batter.
The first pancake stuck to the pan. He tried to peel it off. Failed. It tore apart—one layer of batter clinging stubbornly to the metal while a strange, limp mass surrendered itself to the spatula. He put it back on the heat with the raw side down.
Mistake.
It ended up an amorphous, miserable, unrecognizable thing. Burnt. He then remembered to grease the pan. After washing it and scraping off what was stuck, he poured in oil until it coated the base.
Another mistake.
The second pancake came out unexpectedly fried, but at least it looked edible. He managed to make two more, until the fifth one blackened instantly in the oil.
The smell of burning began to fill the kitchen—thick, accusatory. Taekjoo clenched his teeth, feeling something ugly and familiar crawl up his chest. Frustration. Helplessness. That childish, humiliating sensation of being useless at the most basic things.
“Great,” he spat. “Just fucking great.”
He was one second away from throwing everything in the trash—sending the pancakes, the pan, and his pride straight to hell. But he stopped, took a deep breath, and looked at what remained.
There were three. More or less salvageable. Dark around the edges. Misshapen. But edible.
He separated them carefully and set them aside, as if they were fragile. Valuable. They weren’t for him. They were for Zhenya. Zhenya needed to eat. Zhenya needed nutrients—even if they came in the form of mediocre pancakes made by a man on the brink of collapse.
He turned to the fruit next. At least that, he knew how to do.
He washed blueberries, carved apples into neat little bunny shapes, precise and orderly. He arranged them on the same plate as the pancakes, trying to make it look… nice. Decent. Like something that didn’t scream failure at first glance.
Then he moved on to the coffee. And that’s when the universe decided to finish mocking him. The only coffee maker in the kitchen was a french press—he recognized it because his friend Jongwoo had one just like it.
He stared at it. The press stared back.
Taekjoo picked it up, turned it over, examined every piece as if it were an alien artifact. Did you remove the filter? Water first? Coffee first? How much? How long? Did you press something? When?
“This can’t be happening,” he murmured, irritation flaring hot in his chest again. “Why is this so hard?” He instinctively reached for his phone in his pocket. Empty. Nothing. Right. “Shit.”
He dropped the coffee maker and the bag of coffee onto the counter with more force than necessary. Ran a hand through his damp hair. The exhaustion, the hunger, the lack of control—it all piled up in his chest at once.
That was when he heard a laugh. Soft. Teasing. Taekjoo stiffened instantly and turned.
Zhenya was there. Leaning against the kitchen island behind him, half slouched, watching him with an amused expression that contrasted dangerously with his physical condition. He was dressed similarly to Taekjoo, but in white—loose pants, an oversized shirt. The color made his skin look even paler.
“Were you planning on burning my house down,” the blond asked lightly, “or is this some kind of improvised culinary performance?”
Taekjoo stared at him, completely bewildered.
“What…?”
Zhenya raised an eyebrow and gestured over his shoulder.
“That.”
Taekjoo turned his head. The pan. The burner was still on.
“Shit!”
He rushed back like a man possessed and shut off the flame with a sharp movement, his poor heart pounding wildly. The pan released one last offended sigh of smoke. He stood there for a few seconds, breathing hard. When he turned back around, Zhenya was still there, watching him with a mix of fondness and amusement.
The russian began to walk slowly, circling the counter, measuring each step—not stiffly, but carefully, as if not to spook his zaika. His fingers brushed the wood, the marble, acquainting himself with the space. He stopped about half a meter from Taekjoo, tilted his head slightly, and looked at him from the side.
“Why didn’t you wake me up if you were hungry?” he asked gently.
Taekjoo took a second too long to answer. His pulse was still racing—not so much from the pan incident, but from Zhenya being so close. The bastard was beautiful, like a fallen angel. He lowered his gaze, embarrassed.
“I wanted to let you rest. I thought… I thought I could bring you breakfast in bed.”
Zhenya blinked once. Then he smiled, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. It wasn’t a big or exaggerated smile—it was the kind that forms slowly, first hinting at the corner of the mouth before allowing itself to exist. His gaze softened even more.
“Ah…” he murmured. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” He stepped a little closer, leaning more comfortably against the island, then added in a deliberately seductive tone, “But I must say, your mother trained me for months to be an obedient, diligent, and devoted wife.”
“What…?” Taekjoo asked snapping his head up.
“So it would be a shame not to put that training to use,” Zhenya continued, his mock seriousness lasting barely half a second before he reached out, his hand brushing Taekjoo’s jaw. “After all, I was planning to apply it only with you…”
Heat rushed to Taekjoo’s face instantly. A dark, unmistakable blush spread across his cheeks, climbing all the way to his ears.
“Stop saying stupid things, saekki,” he muttered, turning slightly to hide himself. “It’s not funny…”
But it was funny to Zhenya. It was funny because Taekjoo was clearly embarrassed. Because there was no real anger in his voice—only clumsiness, a sweet, awkward discomfort. The Russian watched him closely, as if that gesture—that small unraveling—were something precious.
Still flushed, Taekjoo tugged at the hem of his white T-shirt, stretching the fabric nervously between his fingers.
“And… I’m sorry,” he added more quietly. “For almost setting your house on fire.”
Zhenya didn’t answer right away. He stepped close enough to invade his personal space and, with a slow, careful motion, pressed his lips to Taekjoo’s forehead. It was a brief kiss—warm, chaste.
“Don’t worry, zaika,” he murmured against his skin. “This is a good chance for you to watch and learn.”
“Huh?” Taekjoo looked at him, thrown off, his embarrassment flipping into irritation in the span of a breath.
Zhenya was already turning toward the counter. “We’re making breakfast,” he announced. “Together.”
He picked up the French press and disassembled it with calm, confident movements, as if he’d always known how it worked. Taekjoo watched in silence, attentive to every gesture. The way he measured the coffee precisely. The way he heated the water without letting it boil too much. The way he waited just the right amount of time before pressing the plunger.
“It’s not that complicated,” Zhenya said without looking at him. “It just looks intimidating.”
Taekjoo tilted his head, absorbing every detail as if it were a lesson for life.
“Hey… could you give me my phone back?” he asked after a moment, his tone serious, measured. “This would’ve been much easier if I could’ve looked up the recipe. And I want to talk to Mom too… and to the NIS administrative office.”
Zhenya immediately narrowed his eyes, amused.
“Don’t worry about a thing, hyung,” he said, almost sing-song. “I took care of everything. Mom’s already been informed, the work transfer is finalized, there are no loose ends. Everything’s in order, hyung.”
He held his gaze. In his blue eyes shone an almost childlike tenderness, his lips faintly pursed as if he were a second away from pouting.
Taekjoo clenched his teeth, biting the inside of his cheeks. Heat rose to his face and he ended up lowering his gaze, fixing it on his own feet. He nodded slowly. Resisting was pointless. When it came to Zhenya, he had always been hopelessly weak.
They refocused on the task. The Russian prepared the batter without overdoing the ingredients—adding even a few new ones, like extracts and leavening agents—then set the pan over medium heat. He greased the surface properly with butter and waited for it to melt before pouring in the mixture.
The pancake didn’t stick. It didn’t burn. It cooked perfectly. Taekjoo let out a breath when he saw them coming out right.
“See?” Zhenya said, giving him a quick sideways glance. “Simple.”
They worked like that, side by side. Sharing and delegating tasks, occupying that space with a naturalness neither of them had felt in years. Taekjoo prepared more fruit for both of them. Zhenya finished the pancakes. The coffee began to perfume the kitchen.
And something shifted.
The mansion—always too big, too cold—stopped feeling foreign. The echo dissolved. The chill retreated from the walls. The place filled with small sounds: the soft clink of utensils, the gentle bubbling of the coffee, an occasional laugh.
It was beautiful. Homey. Natural. Taekjoo felt it all at once. He looked around, then at Zhenya—focused yet calm—and understood that it wasn’t the kitchen that had changed.
It was them.
For the first time, that enormous, empty place truly felt like a home.
They finished plating in a comfortable, almost ceremonial silence. The pancakes—the rescued ones, the new ones, the worthy ones—were arranged carefully, Zhenya paying special attention to the ones his zaika had salvaged, intent on tasting them. Zhenya took two mugs; Taekjoo carried the plates and cutlery. They didn’t speak as they walked through the mansion, down hallways that no longer felt endless but quiet, tamed by the simple choreography of sharing a morning.
The living room, which weeks earlier had held them in anger and lust, now welcomed them with a domestic openness. The double bass rested there, like a noble animal at ease. Taekjoo smiled, thinking he might ask Zhenya to play for him later.
Without a word, they both avoided the table. Instead, they went straight to the large window overlooking the garden and sat on the wide sill, backs against the frame, legs drawn up loosely and without care.
Taekjoo slid the panel open carefully. The air rushed in at once. It wasn’t the sharp cold of days before. It was different—warmer, kinder. It brushed his skin gently. Taekjoo lifted his chin slightly, savoring the breeze.
“It’s… milder,” he said, almost to himself.
Zhenya followed the line of his gaze toward the garden. The snow was still there, but it no longer ruled the landscape. Between the uneven whites, timid patches of green emerged—shoots daring to exist. Branches no longer skeletal. Life pushing up from below.
“Spring’s here,” the blond said, gesturing with his mug.
They stayed there. Eating. Drinking. Sharing the beginning of the afternoon in silence, with no urgency to fill the absence of words. Zhenya, however, wasn’t looking at the garden. He was looking at Taekjoo.
He watched him with a soft yet unwavering attention, as if he feared that blinking might make him vanish. The slight way he leaned forward when he ate. The natural solidity of his body even at rest. The contrast between his imposing size and the calm with which he held his mug, as if the world lay at his feet. And truly, it did—Zhenya was capable of living on his knees if that was what it took for his zaika to be happy.
Taekjoo was beautiful. Not in a fragile way, but in a full one. Royal. Almost impossible to believe. His warm, smooth skin; his strong, defined brows; his sharp, solid jaw; his full, glossy lips… Zhenya couldn’t quite grasp that someone so precious was sitting right in front of him.
The thought made him feel something close to vertigo: he chose me, after everything, after so long. A small but powerful certainty settled in his chest, and he smiled openly without even realizing it.
Enraptured by the Adonis before him, the blond finally decided to eat. He started with the carefully cut fruit, then sank his fork into the least burnt pancake. The smell of charred batter hit his nose, but he dismissed it. He opened his mouth and took the first bite.
The flavor nearly drew a grimace from him, which he managed to suppress just in time. The texture was dry, almost rubbery; the bitterness of the burn struck first, then faded into a heavy aftertaste of flour and egg. The sweetness was excessive, perhaps worsened by an unforgivable mistake involving too much salt. Noticing that he still had three pancakes left, he decided the wisest course of action was to swallow them without thinking too hard.
So he did, washing each bite down with long gulps of black coffee. He would never again allow Taekjoo to cook alone without his careful supervision. As he finished swallowing, his mind drifted again. To imagining.
Maybe France, somewhere rural. A quiet place, far from everything, narrow streets and golden light. Or the Caribbean. Constant warmth, gentle sea, fine soft sand. Taekjoo without a coat, half-naked in the sun. Taekjoo enjoying the beach, laughing, at ease. Him asking—without drama, but without hesitation either—something simple and final: Will you be my boyfriend?
He wondered what the best way would be. The fairest way, for someone like him. He was so absorbed in the idea that he didn’t notice the shift in the air at first.
Until Taekjoo set his mug aside. The sound was soft, but deliberate.
Zhenya looked up and met his eyes. There was no distraction in them now. No rest. Taekjoo’s expression had tightened slightly, as if an inner shadow had returned to claim its place.
“Zhenya,” he said.
The blond straightened a fraction, attentive.
“Yes?”
Taekjoo held his gaze. The spring air still flowing in turned sharp; something stretched between them, invisible yet unmistakable. Then Taekjoo parted his lips.
“We need to talk.”
The words fell between them with unexpected weight. Zhenya didn’t speak. He only looked at him, his smile fading slowly—without disappearing completely.