Archive of Our Own

Baekjin liked the quiet in a way that felt almost deliberate, as if he had carved it out of the world himself and shut the door on everything else. The cabin was small and a little worn at the edges, wood creaking faintly whenever the wind shifted, but it was enough. A desk by the window, a stack of notebooks, a pen that moved steadily across paper. Numbers lined up obediently where thoughts refused to. Equations asked for nothing except logic, and logic, unlike people, did not waver. It did not accuse.

He bent over the page, solving one problem and then the next, barely lifting his head in between. Time slipped past him without friction. There was something merciful in it, in the way his mind narrowed until there was only the neat certainty of symbols, the quiet satisfaction of arriving at an answer that could not betray him. For a few hours, he could exist without the weight pressing at the back of his chest.

His phone lay face down near the edge of the desk, muted into irrelevance.

The first knock barely registered. It blended into the background, another stray sound that didn’t belong to him, and so he ignored it. His pen moved, paused, moved again.

The second knock came softer, but steadier. Then a voice, gentle and familiar in a way that made something inside him tighten.

“Baekjin-ah… it’s me.”

He stilled. For a second, he didn’t move at all, as if the sound might disappear if he refused to acknowledge it. But recognition came quickly, uninvited and unmistakable. He set the pen down, the scratch of it against paper louder than it should have been, and pushed back his chair.

By the time he reached the door, he had already opened it.

The church lady stood there, hands folded loosely in front of her, her expression soft with concern. Baekjin blinked, surprised in a way he couldn’t quite mask. She had never come here before. Not even when things were… different. Not even when he had first told her about the cabin, after everything with the union had fallen apart.

“Come in,” he said quickly, stepping aside.

She entered without hesitation, her gaze moving briefly around the room before settling on him again. He guided her toward the small sofa near his desk, its fabric worn thin from use, and waited until she sat before speaking.

“Why are you here?” he asked, the words coming out sharper than intended. He softened them a little. “You could’ve called me. I would’ve come to you.”

“I did call,” she replied gently. “Three, maybe four times in the last few hours. You didn’t answer.”

Three or four times.

The number lingered in his mind longer than it should have. He glanced briefly toward his phone, still lying untouched where he had left it. Four hours. He had been here the entire time, buried in problems that now seemed too simple to justify the distance he had put between himself and everything else.

“I’m sorry,” he said, exhaling quietly. “My phone was on silent.”

“It’s alright, child,” she said with a small smile. “But is everything alright with you?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“You haven’t been coming to church,” she continued after a moment. “It’s been two months.”

The words landed heavier than expected. Baekjin looked away, his gaze settling on the edge of the desk, on the faint ink smudges where his hand had rested too long.

“I hope you’ve been receiving the donations,” he said instead, the question slipping out almost reflexively. “I’ve been sending them regularly.”

“Of course I have,” she replied. “But that’s not what I’m concerned about.”

He could feel it then—the shift in the room, the way her attention narrowed, not unkindly, but with a persistence that made it hard to breathe.

“Why did you stop coming?” she asked. “And why do you send someone else in your place? Did something happen? Did something… trouble you?”

Heat crept up the back of his neck, sudden and unwelcome. He clenched his hands together, fingers pressing into his palms hard enough to ground him.

“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, quieter, “It’s just… there’s a promise I made. To Christ. And until I fulfill it, I won’t be able to visit.”

The explanation sounded thinner once it was spoken aloud, but she didn’t challenge it. Instead, she smiled, that same gentle, patient smile, and reached into the bag she had brought with her.

“I brought you some food,” she said, placing it carefully on the table. “You should take care of yourself too.”

He nodded, unable to meet her eyes for long. She stayed only a little while after that, speaking of small, ordinary things, before eventually standing to leave. At the door, she paused, as if she might say something more, but then she only rested her hand briefly against his shoulder and stepped outside.

The cabin felt quieter after she left. Not the deliberate quiet he had built for himself, but something heavier, something that pressed inward instead of holding things at bay.

Baekjin stood there for a long moment before turning back toward the desk.

His eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, to the small cross hanging on the wall. He looked away just as quickly, a sharp, instinctive motion, as though the sight of it burned.

He hadn’t been able to look at it for weeks.

It wasn’t the cross itself. It was what it asked of him. What it reflected back. There had been a time when sitting in a pew, head bowed, had felt like returning to something steady, something that understood him better than he understood himself. Prayer had been quiet, yes, but never empty. It had been a place where he could unravel without fear.

Now, the thought of stepping inside the church made his chest tighten.

Because it would mean looking up. It would mean being seen.

And Baekjin wasn’t sure he could bear that—not like this, not with the weight of it sitting so plainly in his own mind.

He pressed his hand against the desk, steadying himself, but the numbers on the page no longer held the same clarity. They blurred at the edges, slipping out of reach no matter how hard he tried to focus.

The problem was no longer mathematical.

It had a name.

Seongje.

Baekjin couldn’t really recall when it had started.

Seongje had always been there, in the periphery at first—another presence that lingered, familiar but not intrusive. Someone who spoke when needed, who stayed when others left, who existed without demanding space. It should have stayed that way. Baekjin preferred things that way: contained, predictable, untouched by unnecessary complication.

But somewhere along the line, something shifted.

He couldn’t place the exact moment when Seongje had stopped being just someone beside him and had instead begun to settle somewhere deeper, somewhere he hadn’t meant to offer. It was gradual, insidious even, like a thought that returned often enough to feel permanent. One day he realized Seongje wasn’t just around him anymore—he was in his head, in the quiet pauses between thoughts, in the spaces Baekjin usually reserved for himself alone.

Or maybe not just his head.

Baekjin exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple as if that might steady the direction of his thoughts. It didn’t.

Because the truth was, Seongje was not the kind of person who held onto things tightly—not even his own well-being. He moved through life with a kind of careless ease, indifferent to most things that would have unsettled anyone else. And yet, for reasons Baekjin couldn’t fully understand, that indifference never extended to him.

What Baekjin did mattered to Seongje.

It showed in small, irritatingly consistent ways. In the way Seongje would notice when he skipped meals, even when Baekjin himself hadn’t thought it important. In the way his mood, however subtle, seemed to register immediately, reflected back at him with an intensity that felt undeserved. If something happened to Baekjin, Seongje felt it too—sometimes more visibly than Baekjin allowed himself to.

It didn’t make sense.

It made things harder.

And it had only gotten worse two months ago.

Baekjin could trace it back to that point with uncomfortable clarity. The hospital discharge, the dull ache of recovery still settling into his body, and Seongje—standing there as if it were the most natural thing in the world—offering him a place to stay.

Not just offering. Insisting.

Baekjin had accepted because it was practical. That was what he told himself at the time. It made sense to recover somewhere stable, somewhere he wouldn’t have to manage everything alone. There was no reason to refuse.

But practicality had little to do with what followed.

Seongje had made space for him without hesitation. A room, yes—but more than that, a presence that never seemed to withdraw. He took care of things Baekjin would have preferred to handle himself, from changing dressings to making sure he was comfortable, hovering just enough to be useful without ever appearing burdensome.

At first, Baekjin tolerated it.

Then, gradually, he began to expect it.

That was where the problem started.

Proximity blurred things. It made boundaries less defined, softened edges that should have remained sharp. Days folded into each other, quiet and close, until it became difficult to tell where one ended and the next began. Conversations lingered longer than necessary. Silences felt… different. Not empty, but filled with something neither of them named.

Baekjin noticed it, even when he tried not to.

Especially then.

And he remembered—too clearly, more clearly than anything else—the moment it had almost crossed into something irreversible.

They had been standing too close. He couldn’t even recall what had led up to it, only the way the air had shifted, the way silence had settled between them in a way that felt heavier than usual. Seongje had looked at him differently then—not casually, not indifferently, but with a kind of focus that made it hard to breathe.

Baekjin hadn’t stepped back. That was the part that unsettled him the most.

For a brief, suspended second, the distance between them had been negligible. He could feel the warmth of Seongje’s breath, could see the minute details of his expression, the slight parting of his lips as if he were about to—

Baekjin had come back to himself all at once.

He had pushed him away.

The movement had been abrupt, harsher than necessary, and Seongje had stumbled back slightly, caught off guard. The look on his face—something between confusion and disbelief—had lingered just long enough to imprint itself in Baekjin’s mind before he turned and walked away without a word.

They hadn’t spoken about it since.

But Baekjin had not been able to forget it.

Because the worst part—the part he could not reconcile, no matter how hard he tried—was that he had wanted it.

The realization sat heavily in his chest, unwelcome and persistent. He had wanted it in that moment, had leaned into it in a way that felt instinctive rather than deliberate. And that instinct, that lack of resistance, frightened him more than anything else.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It couldn’t be.

Baekjin closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening as the thought pressed further into him, refusing to be ignored.

This was wrong.

He knew it with the kind of certainty that had once guided every decision he made, the same certainty that had grounded him, that had given him a sense of order in a world that often felt unpredictable.

This was a sin.

And the worst part was not just that it had happened—that it had almost happened—but that a part of him still lingered there, caught in that suspended moment, unwilling to let it go.

Baekjin packed his bag with a kind of mechanical precision, as if each movement could quiet the noise in his head. He stacked his notebooks, capped his pen, and wiped down the desk even though it was already clean. The small rituals steadied him, gave him something to follow that did not require thought. Before leaving, he picked up the container of food the church lady had brought, hesitating for a moment before slipping it into his bag.

The cabin felt too tight now, too aware of him.

Outside, the air was cooler. It didn’t fix anything, but it gave the illusion of space. Without letting himself reconsider, Baekjin headed toward the riverside. Maybe that was enough—a decent meal, an open view, something quiet that didn’t ask questions.

The Han River stretched out in front of him when he arrived, calm and indifferent, the surface catching the late light in a way that made everything feel briefly suspended. Baekjin exhaled, slower this time, and let his shoulders loosen just a fraction.

And then he saw him.

Seongje stood near the railing, one arm resting against it, the other holding a cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily upward, dissolving into the air as if it had nowhere else to go. He looked distant, unfocused, like he had wandered there without intention and forgotten to leave.

Baekjin frowned faintly. Why is he everywhere?

The thought came unbidden, sharp enough to unsettle him. He looked away almost immediately, as if refusing to acknowledge him would make him disappear. Instead, he walked past and settled onto a nearby bench, pulling out the food and opening it carefully.

The smell rose up—familiar, comforting. Bibimbap, still slightly warm, jjigae packed separately, kimchi on the side. Everything he liked, prepared with the kind of care he hadn’t realized he had missed until now.

He picked up his chopsticks and began to eat.

For a few moments, it worked. The act of eating grounded him, pulled him into something simple and tangible. But then—

Footsteps.

And the faint, unmistakable scent of smoke drifting closer.

Baekjin didn’t need to look up.

“Ya, Baekjin,” Seongje’s voice came, casual but edged with something quieter underneath. “Why weren’t you picking your phone?”

He sat down beside him without waiting for an answer, close enough that the warmth of his presence felt immediate, unavoidable.

Baekjin kept his gaze fixed on the food in front of him. “I was busy.”

Seongje let out a short chuckle, the sound soft but knowing. “Of course you were busy.” He paused, then added, almost lightly, “The church lady who raised you called me, by the way. Did you meet her?”

Baekjin choked.

He coughed once, sharply, setting the chopsticks down as he turned toward him, eyes wide. “What? Why did she call you? How does she even have your number?”

Seongje shrugged, like it was nothing. “She knows we’re always together.” A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “And I asked her age ago. You gave her my number, remember?”

Baekjin blinked, the initial shock settling into something more contained. “Oh.” He looked away again. “Yeah. I met her.”

There was a brief silence after that, not entirely comfortable.

Then Seongje leaned slightly forward, glancing at the food. “Mind sharing?”

Baekjin hesitated for only a second before nodding. It felt easier than refusing. Seongje reached into the bag, pulling out another pair of chopsticks like he already knew they’d be there, and joined him without ceremony.

They ate like that for a while, side by side, the quiet filled only by the occasional clink of utensils and the distant murmur of the river.

After a moment, Seongje spoke again, his tone shifting just enough to catch Baekjin off guard.

“She seemed really concerned about you.”

Baekjin’s grip on his chopsticks tightened slightly.

“I’m used to you ghosting me,” Seongje continued, not looking at him this time, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead. “But don’t do that to people who are dear to you, okay?”

The words landed harder than they should have.

Baekjin stilled.

Something in his chest twisted sharply, the kind of pain that didn’t announce itself until it was already there. He stared down at the food, but the appetite he had a moment ago had vanished completely.

I’m used to you ghosting me.

Why?

The question rose immediately, pressing against everything he had been trying to keep contained.

Why are you used to it?

Why do you stay anyway?

Why haven’t you left like everyone else did?

And more than that—

Why do I still treat you like this?

The thoughts came too quickly, too tangled to separate. Because the truth was there, undeniable no matter how much he tried to suppress it: Seongje mattered. More than he should. More than Baekjin had ever intended to allow.

He is dear to me.

The realization made it harder to breathe.

His throat tightened, the bite of food he had taken moments ago refusing to go down. He swallowed once, unsuccessfully, and lowered his chopsticks, his hand unsteady in a way he couldn’t hide.

Beside him, Seongje shifted slightly.

“Why?” he asked, glancing over. “What happened?”

Baekjin shook his head quickly, forcing the motion before the silence could stretch too long. “Nothing.”

The word came out quieter than he intended, strained at the edges.

He picked up his chopsticks again, though he didn’t eat. The river moved steadily in front of them, unchanged, as if nothing had shifted at all.

But everything had.

And Baekjin could feel it—pressing in, closing the distance he had been trying so hard to maintain.

A few days later, Baekjin decided he would go back.

Not just circle around it, not just think about it until the thought itself turned hollow, but actually go. Speak to the father. Sit across from him and say it out loud—whatever it was that had been festering inside him, unnamed but heavy. Maybe there was guidance there. Maybe there was something he had missed, some way to untangle this without losing himself entirely.

He prepared for it the only way he knew how.

The morning was quiet when he woke, his body still carrying the faint remnants of exhaustion he couldn’t quite shake. He sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, breathing slow and deliberate. Inhale, hold, exhale. Again, and again, until the sharp edges inside him dulled just enough to feel manageable. He focused on stillness, on pulling himself back into control, on reminding his body that it belonged to him—that his mind did too.

It worked, in part. Enough to get him to his feet. Enough to make him believe he could do this.

By the time he reached the church, the calm had already begun to fracture.

He didn’t step onto the grounds immediately. Instead, he stopped across the street, just far enough that it didn’t feel like he had committed yet. The building stood as it always had—unchanged, steady, its doors open in quiet invitation. There was nothing different about it.

Except him.

Baekjin stood there longer than he meant to. His hands had gone cold, fingers curling slightly into his palms as if bracing against something unseen. He told himself to move, to just walk across, to climb the steps and go inside. It should have been simple.

But his chest tightened instead.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and suffocating: You don’t belong there like this.

His breath hitched.

He had never felt this way before. Not here. The church had always been a place of clarity, of reflection—somewhere he could bring his thoughts without fear of what they might reveal. But now, standing there, all he could feel was exposure. As if stepping inside would strip him bare, force him to confront something he was not ready to name.

His vision blurred slightly.

Guilt rose first, familiar and immediate. Then shame, heavier, settling deep in his chest where it refused to move. It wrapped around every thought, every memory, tightening until it was hard to separate one from the other.

He was attracted to a man.

The words felt foreign and undeniable at the same time, like something he had tried to outrun only to find it waiting for him at every turn. It wasn’t just the realization itself—it was what it meant. What it said about him. About the person he believed he was, the person he had tried to be.

He had lost direction.

The certainty that once anchored him felt distant now, like something he could see but not reach. And in its place there was only this—uncertainty, vulnerability, a kind of quiet panic he couldn’t suppress no matter how tightly he held onto control.

Baekjin swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as the sting behind his eyes grew sharper. He couldn’t go in. Not like this. Not with this sitting so plainly inside him.

His feet didn’t move.

After a while, he turned away.

It happened again two days later.

And then again.

Each time, he told himself it would be different. Each time, he prepared, steadied himself, walked all the way there with the same quiet determination. And each time, he stopped at the same distance, the same invisible line he couldn’t cross. The doors remained open. The silence remained the same.

But Baekjin didn’t.

By the fourth attempt, something inside him had started to fray. The effort itself became exhausting, the repeated failure settling into something heavier than the guilt that had driven him there in the first place. He stopped trying to reason with it. There was no logic here, no equation to solve.

Just a barrier he couldn’t break.

And he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Seongje had been watching, though not in a way that felt obvious at first. It was in the way his gaze lingered a little longer than usual, in the questions he didn’t immediately ask, in the quiet attentiveness that Baekjin had come to recognize but never fully understand.

He knew something was off.

And eventually, curiosity—or maybe concern—pushed him far enough to act.

Because from where Seongje stood, it didn’t make sense.

Baekjin had been going to the church again. That much was clear. He had seen him, more than once, from a distance—standing there, not moving, like he was caught between something he couldn’t step into and something he couldn’t walk away from either.

But he never went inside.

Why? 

The question stayed with him longer than he expected. And he didn’t let it go.

He decided he would ask him directly.

Seongje didn’t overthink it.

Once the thought settled, he moved—keys in hand, engine starting with a low hum as he pulled his bike onto the road. There were only a handful of places Baekjin ever went when he wanted to disappear without actually vanishing, and at this hour, the library was the most likely. Predictable in that way. Structured. Quiet. Safe.

Seongje exhaled as the wind hit his face, his grip steady on the handles, but his mind elsewhere.

He had seen him—more than once, standing outside the church like he was waiting for something that never came. Or maybe like he was being held back by something he couldn’t fight. It didn’t sit right with him. Baekjin wasn’t someone who hesitated like that. He didn’t linger in uncertainty. He moved, decided, acted.

But lately… he hadn’t.

And Seongje didn’t like the look of it. That faint crack beneath the surface, that quiet withdrawal Baekjin thought no one noticed.

He noticed.

He always did.

Vy the time he reached the library, the restlessness had settled into something more focused. He parked, stepped inside, and let his eyes adjust to the dim, controlled quiet of the place.

It didn’t take long to find him.

Baekjin sat by the window, exactly where Seongje expected, a book open in front of him, pages untouched. His posture was the same—straight, composed, the kind that gave nothing away at first glance. But Seongje could tell.

His attention wasn’t there.

It was in the way his gaze lingered too long without moving, in the slight tension around his shoulders, in the stillness that wasn’t calm but distant. Like he was somewhere else entirely, caught in a thought he couldn’t step out of.

Seongje felt something twist faintly in his chest.

He had gotten used to reading Baekjin like this over the years. It wasn’t something he had set out to learn—it had just happened. Piece by piece, observation by observation, until it became second nature. And right now, what he saw wasn’t something he liked.

There was something off.

Not just distraction. Not just stress.

Something deeper.

And for reasons he didn’t bother questioning, he couldn’t just leave it alone.

He walked over without hesitation and pulled out the chair beside him, sitting down quietly. He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t announce himself. Just settled there, close enough to be noticed.

Baekjin didn’t react.

Not immediately.

His eyes remained on the book, unfocused, like Seongje’s presence hadn’t reached him yet. Like whatever space he was in, Seongje wasn’t part of it.

That, more than anything, irritated him.

So he waited. A few seconds passed. Then something shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible. Baekjin blinked, his focus snapping back to the page in front of him, then drifting slightly to the side.

And then he saw him.

The reaction was immediate.

“What are you doing here, Seongje?”

There was no greeting, just sharp surprise, edged with something that almost sounded like unease.

Seongje leaned back slightly in his chair, casual as ever. “Thought I’d try this library shit today. With you.”

Baekjin frowned, the disbelief clear on his face. “What the fuck— you know I don’t believe this.”

“Speak slowly,” Seongje murmured, tilting his head slightly. “It’s a library.”

“Seongje.” Baekjin’s voice dropped, quieter but firmer. “Leave.”

“Okay,” he said easily. “But you first. I’ll follow.”

Baekjin’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

Seongje didn’t hesitate.

“You.”

The word came with a faint smirk, careless in its delivery, like it meant nothing more than a joke thrown into the air. But the moment it left his mouth, something shifted.

Baekjin’s breath hitched. It was small, almost unnoticeable to anyone else—but not to him.

For a split second, Seongje caught it. The tension, the way Baekjin stilled just a fraction too long before forcing himself back into composure. Like something had landed deeper than it should have.

He didn’t understand why. But he noticed.

“Seongje,” Baekjin said, more controlled now, though the edge remained. “Don’t joke with me. Leave me alone.”

Seongje’s expression softened just slightly, the smirk fading into something more serious. “Baekjin, I need to talk to you.”

“Not now.”

“Then when?”

“Never.”

A brief pause.

“See,” Seongje said quietly, leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees, “that’s exactly why I followed you.”

Baekjin exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face. “What is it?”

Seongje straightened, pushing himself up from the chair. “Let’s go out.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Baekjin stared at him for a second longer, like he was weighing something, like he might refuse. But then, with a small, resigned motion, he closed the book in front of him and stood.

Seongje moved first, heading toward the exit.

Baekjin followed—and once they stepped outside, he took the lead without a word.

Seongje let him. Like always, it was natural.

The walk to the parking garage was quiet, but not in the way Baekjin preferred. It wasn’t the clean, empty silence he could control—it was dense, waiting, stretched thin by everything neither of them had said yet.

The air inside the garage was cooler, shadows pooling between the rows of parked vehicles, the faint echo of their footsteps bouncing off concrete walls. Baekjin stopped near one of the pillars, turning just enough to face Seongje without fully meeting his eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, his tone clipped, already defensive.

Seongje didn’t answer immediately. He studied him for a second, like he was trying to confirm something he already knew.

“Is something wrong?” he said finally. “Is something bothering you? You’ve been… off lately.”

Baekjin’s expression hardened almost instantly. “It doesn’t concern you.”

Seongje let out a short, incredulous breath, running a hand through his hair. “Shibal… you don’t get to decide what concerns me and what doesn’t.”

Baekjin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

“You’ve been distant,” Seongje continued, his voice sharpening now. “Ignoring calls, disappearing whenever you feel like it—fine, I’m used to that. But this?” He gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding through his movements. “Dongha told me you’ve been sending him to the church instead of going yourself. And that day—the church lady—she was worried too.”

Baekjin’s gaze snapped toward him.

“And today,” Seongje went on, not stopping now that he had started, “I saw you. Near the church. Just standing there—”

He didn’t get to finish.

The look on Baekjin’s face stopped him mid-sentence.

Shock, first. Raw and immediate. Then something else—something sharper, more exposed, like a layer had been stripped away without his consent. His composure faltered for a split second, and in that moment, Seongje realized just how close he had gotten to something Baekjin had been trying to hide.

“You—” Baekjin’s voice came out lower, strained. “You were watching me?”

“I wasn’t—” Seongje frowned. “I just happened to—”

“Don’t,” Baekjin cut him off, a bitter edge creeping in. “Don’t twist it.”

Seongje’s expression hardened slightly. “I’m not twisting anything. I’m asking you what the hell is going on with you.”

“Nothing is going on.”

“Bullshit.”

The word echoed faintly in the empty space.

Baekjin’s shoulders stiffened. “I said it’s nothing.”

“And I’m telling you it’s not,” Seongje shot back, stepping closer now. “You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t see that something’s wrong when you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re—” Seongje stopped himself, exhaling sharply, trying to find the right words and failing. “Like you’re barely holding it together.”

The accusation landed harder than either of them expected.

Baekjin’s hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t know anything.”

“Then tell me,” Seongje snapped. “Because right now, all I see is you shutting everyone out and pretending it’s fine when it’s clearly not.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Seongje laughed, but there was no humor in it. “No, you don’t. But don’t act like this doesn’t affect me.”

“Why would it?” Baekjin shot back, his voice rising despite himself. “Why do you care so much?”

The question hung between them, heavier than the argument itself.

Seongje stared at him, something flickering across his face—something unguarded, almost immediate.

“You really don’t get it?” he said, quieter now, but no less intense.

Baekjin looked away first.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered.

“No, that is the point,” Seongje insisted, frustration bleeding back in. “You think you can just push people away whenever things get inconvenient? You think I’ll just—what—leave you alone because you decided I should?”

“Yes,” Baekjin said, the word cutting through the space without hesitation. “That’s exactly what I think you should do.”

Something in Seongje snapped.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why are you acting like this? What happened at the church? Why can’t you even step inside?”

Baekjin froze.

There it was.

Said out loud.

The one thing he hadn’t been able to face, dragged into the open like it belonged there.

“Stop,” he said, his voice low, almost warning.

“No,” Seongje pressed, stepping closer again. “You’ve been going there and just standing outside like you’re scared of something. Of what? What’s so bad that you can’t even—”

“Shut up.”

The words came out sharp, almost desperate.

But Seongje didn’t stop.

“What is it, Baekjin? What are you so afraid of—”

The sound of the impact cut him off.

It was sudden, violent in its abruptness.

Baekjin’s fist connected with his face, the force enough to knock Seongje a step back. The echo of it rang through the garage, louder than anything else that had been said.

For a moment, everything went still.

Seongje’s head turned slightly with the blow, his breath catching as he brought a hand up instinctively to his cheek. The sting spread quickly, sharp and undeniable, but it wasn’t what held his attention.

It was Baekjin.

Standing there, chest rising and falling unevenly, his hand still clenched, his entire body tense like he didn’t quite know what he had just done—or maybe like he knew exactly, and couldn’t take it back.

The silence that followed was heavier than the argument had been.

For a second after the impact, Seongje just stood there, head slightly turned, the sting still blooming across his face.

And then he laughed.

It wasn’t loud, not unhinged, but sharp enough to cut through the silence. He dragged his thumb across his lower lip, wiping at the thin line of blood where the skin had split, and glanced at it briefly before looking back at Baekjin.

“You think this will shut me up?”

Baekjin inhaled slowly, his chest still uneven. “I didn’t want to hit you.”

Seongje let out a quiet scoff, something almost amused flickering through the irritation. “Oh?” he tilted his head slightly. “That’s so unlike you, Na Baekjin. You’re not the type to do things you don’t want to.”

His gaze sharpened, the humor fading just enough to leave something more pointed behind.

“Just proves something is wrong with you.”

“Seongje, please—let’s not.”

Baekjin turned away as he said it, like ending the conversation physically might succeed where words hadn’t. But he didn’t get far.

Seongje took two quick steps forward, closing the distance again.

“Are you guilty about something?” he asked, voice quieter now, but no less direct. “I don’t know all that religion stuff, but… did you do something that’s bothering you? Is that why you can’t go into that church?”

The words landed wrong.

Baekjin’s head snapped back toward him, irritation flaring into something harsher, more volatile.

“Shut the fuck up, Seongje,” he snapped. “I didn’t permit you to speak and make assumptions about me.”

Seongje huffed out a breath, unimpressed. “And yet, looking at you, it really seems like I made the right point.” His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “You’re mad about it.”

“Yes, I’m mad.”

The admission came with force.

Before Seongje could react, Baekjin grabbed him by the collar, fingers tightening in the fabric, pulling him forward. The movement was abrupt, charged with something that had been building for far too long.

“Yes, it fucking pisses me off,” Baekjin continued, his voice rough, breath uneven. “You fucking piss me off. How—why—how do you do this?”

Seongje didn’t resist. If anything, he leaned into it, one hand coming up to grip Baekjin’s shirt in return, closing what little distance remained between them.

“Do what?” he asked.

There was no mockery in his voice this time. Just a genuine, unfiltered confusion that made something twist tighter in Baekjin’s chest.

Baekjin stared at him.

For a moment, it felt like everything narrowed to that space between them—the tension, the closeness, the way Seongje’s grip didn’t waver, the way his eyes held steady without flinching.

And then Baekjin let go.

The sudden absence of contact felt just as jarring as the confrontation itself.

“I’m leaving,” he said, the words coming out quieter now, but firm.

He turned, taking a step away—

—but Seongje moved again, faster this time, stepping directly into his path, blocking him without hesitation.

“What’s wrong, Baekjin?” he pressed. “You won’t die if you tell me.”

Baekjin’s composure snapped.

“I am dying inside!” he shouted, the words tearing out of him before he could stop them. “What would you know about it?”

He shoved Seongje back, harder than before.

Seongje stumbled, his back hitting an empty metal shelf with a dull clang. The sound echoed briefly through the garage, but he steadied himself quickly, one hand bracing against the frame.

And still—no anger.

That, more than anything, made it worse.

Baekjin stood there, breathing heavily, waiting for it—for the reaction, the breaking point, the moment Seongje would finally decide it wasn’t worth it. That he wasn’t worth it.

But it didn’t come.

Seongje just straightened, rolling his shoulder slightly as if to shake off the impact, his expression unchanged except for the faint crease of concern that hadn’t left since this started.

Baekjin knew what he was doing.

He was pushing. Testing. Seeing how far it would go before something gave.

Because that’s how it always worked, didn’t it? People stayed until it became too much, and then they left. That was the pattern. That was what made sense.

But Seongje—Seongje didn’t follow patterns.

He didn’t seem to mind the hits, the words, the distance forced between them. If anything, he stepped closer to it, like it was something to understand rather than something to escape.

Like Baekjin was something worth staying for.

And that—

That was the part Baekjin didn’t know how to handle.

Because Seongje wasn’t trying to win the argument.

He wasn’t trying to prove a point.

He just wanted to know.

To understand what was breaking Baekjin from the inside, to stand in that space with him where no one else had been allowed before.

That was all he wanted.

And somehow, that made everything worse.

Seongje straightened slowly, rolling his shoulder once before letting his arm fall back to his side. When he spoke again, his voice had changed—lower, steadier, stripped of the earlier bite.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he murmured. “What would I know about it until you tell me?”

He stepped forward again, more carefully this time, as if approaching something fragile rather than confrontational. When he reached Baekjin, he placed his hands on his shoulders—not forceful, not restraining, just there.

“You know I can only assume things to an extent,” he continued quietly. “I can see you’re going through something. I can tell it’s bad. But I don’t know what it is.” His grip tightened just slightly, grounding rather than demanding. “And I know you want to tell me. There’s just something stopping you.”

For a brief second, Baekjin didn’t move.

Then he grabbed Seongje’s wrists and shoved his hands off him, the motion sharp, almost violent.

“Geum Seongje, don’t put on an act in front of me,” he snapped. “I don’t need anybody’s help or concern or care—especially not yours. I can handle myself.”

Seongje didn’t step back this time.

He held his ground, his gaze steady as it locked onto Baekjin’s, searching in a way that felt too direct, too knowing.

“Oh, I know you can,” he said, his tone still calm, but firmer now. “I know you talk to your God when you feel like venting to someone. I know you’ve got some special relationship with Him.” A faint edge crept into his voice. “But I also know something’s changed.”

Baekjin’s expression faltered.

“And that’s why you’re so miserable,” Seongje went on. “So yeah—maybe you can replace me as your listener this time, since you think your God can’t do it for you now—”

The slap cut through his words.

Sharp. Immediate.

Seongje’s head turned slightly with the force, his cheek stinging where Baekjin’s hand had struck him. For a moment, there was nothing but the echo of it in the empty space.

And then—

He laughed. Again.

Baekjin’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his hand still half-raised, trembling now with something that wasn’t just anger.

“Don’t fucking speak on Him,” he shouted, voice breaking at the edges. “When you have no idea what’s going on.”

Seongje turned his head back slowly, eyes meeting Baekjin’s again. This time, there was something more solid in his expression—not anger, not quite, but a kind of stubborn certainty that refused to be shaken off.

“Hah,” he let out, quieter, but pointed. “At least I can say one thing.”

Baekjin didn’t respond.

“All the assumptions I made?” Seongje said, holding his gaze. “They’re true.”

The words didn’t come out as a challenge.

They landed like a conclusion.

And Baekjin—

Baekjin had nothing left.

The anger that had been driving him moments ago drained just as suddenly as it had come, leaving something hollow in its place. His thoughts, once sharp and defensive, scattered into nothing coherent. Every argument he could have made dissolved before it could even form.

Because Seongje wasn’t entirely wrong.

That was the problem.

Baekjin’s hands fell to his sides, his shoulders losing their rigid edge as if the strength had been pulled out of them. He didn’t look at Seongje anymore. He couldn’t.

For the first time since this started, he felt… empty.

Not calm. Not resolved.

Just blank.

Like whatever had been holding him together had finally given way, and there was nothing left to keep the pieces in place.

He exhaled slowly, but it didn’t steady him.

Nothing did.

And standing there, with Seongje still in front of him, still waiting, still refusing to leave—

Baekjin realized he couldn’t fight this anymore. Baekjin didn’t realize when the distance between them disappeared again.

One moment he was standing there, hollowed out, his thoughts scattered beyond reach—and the next, Seongje was right in front of him. Close enough that the air shifted, close enough that leaving would mean physically forcing his way out.

“Then stop fighting it,” Seongje said quietly.

Baekjin let out a strained breath, shaking his head. “You don’t understand—”

“Then make me understand.”

The insistence wasn’t loud, but it pressed in just as hard.

Baekjin looked up then, really looked at him, and something in his chest tightened painfully. Seongje’s face still carried the marks of what had just happened—the faint redness along his cheek, the split at his lip—but he wasn’t angry. If anything, he looked more present than before. More there.

Why?

Why won’t you just leave?

The question burned at the back of his throat, but something else came out instead.

“You need to stay out of this.”

Seongje didn’t move. “No.”

Baekjin let out a short, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think this is something you can just involve yourself in? You think this is—” He stopped, breath catching, frustration tangling with something far more dangerous. “This has nothing to do with you.”

Seongje stepped closer.

“It does if it’s about you.”

That was it.

That was the point where something inside Baekjin snapped—not outward, not violent this time, but inward, collapsing in on itself under the weight of everything he had been holding back.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice lower now, rough with something he couldn’t smooth over. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

Seongje didn’t hesitate.

“Because it’s you.”

Simple. Uncomplicated.

And that's why , that made it worse for Baekjin, why is it so easy for Seongje.

Baekjin’s breath hitched, his gaze flickering—away, back, away again—like he was trying to escape something that refused to loosen its grip.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, quieter now. “You shouldn’t care like this.”

Seongje’s hand came up again, slower this time, giving Baekjin every chance to pull away.

He didn’t.

His fingers closed lightly around Baekjin’s wrist—not restraining, just holding. Grounding.

“Too late,” Seongje murmured.

The contact burned.

Baekjin felt it immediately, sharper than it should have been, like his body had forgotten how to process something as simple as touch. His instinct was to pull back, to create space, to restore whatever fragile distance he had left—

But he didn’t move.

That was the problem.

“You’re making this worse,” Baekjin said, though the words lacked their earlier force.

Seongje tilted his head slightly. “Am I?”

Their eyes met.

And for a second—just a second—it felt exactly like that moment from before. The one Baekjin hadn’t been able to forget. The one he had buried under guilt and silence and distance.

Too close. Too aware.

Seongje’s grip shifted, sliding just slightly, his thumb brushing against Baekjin’s pulse without thinking—and Baekjin inhaled sharply.

“Seongje,” he said, but it came out more like a warning to himself than to him.

Seongje didn’t let go.

“What is it?” he asked, softer now. “What are you so afraid of?”

Baekjin’s throat tightened.

You.

The answer was immediate. Terrifyingly clear.

But he couldn’t say it.

Instead, he took a step forward without meaning to.

The space between them vanished completely. Seongje stilled. Neither of them spoke.

Baekjin could feel it—the heat, the tension, the way everything narrowed down to this single point where leaving would mean choosing to. And he wasn’t choosing.

That was the worst part.

“I shouldn’t,” Baekjin whispered, barely audible.

Seongje’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, then returned to his eyes. “Then don’t.”

But he didn’t move either. Didn’t step back. Didn’t break it.

And that felt like permission in a way that made Baekjin’s chest tighten.

For a moment, neither of them breathed.

Then Baekjin’s hand moved—hesitant, uncertain, like it didn’t quite belong to him—and caught in the fabric of Seongje’s shirt again. Not to push him away this time.

Just… to hold. The same place. The same closeness.

But everything had changed.

Seongje’s breath hitched, almost imperceptible.

“Baekjin—”

“Don’t,” Baekjin cut him off, his voice low, strained. “Don’t say anything.”

Because if he did—if he named it, if he made it real—Baekjin knew he would lose the last bit of control he had left.

And still, he didn’t let go.

Didn’t step back.

Didn’t stop.

The conflict sat between them, heavy and undeniable—but so did something else. Something neither of them had the language for yet, but both of them felt.

And for the first time, Baekjin didn’t run from it.

Even if it terrified him.

The moment broke before either of them could stop it.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t gentle. It was inevitable.

Baekjin didn’t remember deciding—only the way his grip tightened in Seongje’s shirt, the way his breath stuttered, and then suddenly he was pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The last fragile thread of restraint snapped under the weight of everything he had been holding back for weeks.

And then he kissed him.

Hard.

It wasn’t careful, wasn’t hesitant—it was all the frustration, the confusion, the anger turned into something physical, something undeniable. His other hand came up instinctively, gripping at Seongje’s shoulder as if to anchor himself, as if letting go would mean losing something he couldn’t name.

For a split second, Seongje froze.

Then he responded.

Just as fiercely.

His hand came up to Baekjin’s jaw, not forcing, not controlling, but holding him there—steady, real—as he kissed him back with equal intensity. There was nothing distant about it, nothing uncertain. If Baekjin was unraveling, Seongje met him there without hesitation, it was all heat and teeth and desperation.

The world around them fell away.

There was no garage, no argument, no guilt pressing in from all sides—just heat, breath, the sharp, overwhelming awareness of each other. Baekjin’s mind went quiet in a way it hadn’t in weeks, stripped down to nothing but sensation.

And that terrified him.

The realization hit like a shock through his system.

Baekjin pulled back abruptly.

The distance came all at once, harsh and immediate, like he had burned himself. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his hand dropping from Seongje’s shirt as if it no longer belonged there.

“What—” his voice faltered. “What did I—”

He took a step back.

Then another.

Regret crashed into him just as fast as the moment had.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head like he could undo it, like he could erase what had just happened. “No, no—this is wrong. I shouldn’t have—”

His hands came up to his hair, gripping tightly as if to steady himself, but nothing held. The guilt came rushing back, stronger now, louder, suffocating.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, more firmly this time, like repeating it might make it true enough to fix something. “This is—this is a sin.”

Seongje didn’t move immediately.

He watched him for a moment, really watched him—the way Baekjin was spiraling back into himself, the way the same fear from before had returned, sharper now, cutting deeper.

“Baekjin,” he said quietly.

“No,” Baekjin snapped, his voice breaking. “Don’t—don’t say anything. You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t.”

The words came out almost desperate.

Seongje stepped forward anyway, slower this time, cautious but unwavering. “You think this—” he gestured lightly between them, not dismissive, just real, “—is something God would condemn you for?”

Baekjin laughed, but it sounded hollow. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“Maybe not the way you do,” Seongje admitted. “But I know enough to ask this—what kind of God do you believe in?”

Baekjin stilled.

“One that punishes you for… what?” Seongje continued, his voice steady, grounded in a way that cut through the noise in Baekjin’s head. “For caring about someone? For feeling something real?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple for me,” Seongje said, taking another step closer, his gaze unwavering. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re tearing yourself apart over something that doesn’t look wrong at all.”

Baekjin shook his head, but weaker this time. “You don’t get it. It’s not just—this isn’t allowed. I’m not supposed to—”

“To what?” Seongje interrupted, not harshly, but firmly. “To feel? To love?”

The word hung there.

Baekjin’s breath caught.

Seongje softened slightly then, his voice dropping.

“You think God would look at you right now,” he said, “and see something disgusting? Something to punish?”

Baekjin didn’t answer.

“Or do you think maybe,” Seongje continued, quieter now, “He’d see someone who’s hurting because he’s trying so hard to do the right thing… and still can’t stop himself from feeling something human?”

The silence stretched.

Baekjin’s gaze dropped, his hands loosening at his sides.

“I don’t think,” Seongje said gently, “that loving someone is the kind of thing your God would hate you for.”

Baekjin swallowed, his throat tight, his thoughts no longer sharp enough to argue back.

Because for the first time—He wasn’t entirely sure anymore.

Baekjin's heart hammered against his ribs, the taste of Seongje's lips still lingering like a forbidden sacrament on his tongue. The kiss had been a storm—fierce, unyielding, pulling him under with waves of heat that drowned out the whispers of doubt in his mind. But now, as they broke apart, breaths ragged and eyes locked, the guilt clawed its way back up, twisting in his gut like thorns from the crown his faith had once placed on him.

Seongje saw it all, the flicker of shadows in Baekjin's gaze, the way his shoulders tensed as if bracing for divine judgment. He reached out, fingers gentle but firm, cupping Baekjin's jaw to hold him steady. 

Baekjin swallowed hard, his throat tight, but he didn't pull away. Seongje's touch grounded him, a lifeline in the chaos. Slowly, Seongje slid his hands down Baekjin's chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt. He tugged at the hem, lifting it just enough to press his palm against bare skin, warm and alive. Baekjin's breath hitched, a shiver running through him, but Seongje kept his movements deliberate, unhurried—tracing circles over his abdomen, up to his nipples, teasing them into stiff peaks with soft thumbs.

"Just breathe," Seongje whispered, leaning in to brush his lips against Baekjin's ear.

"Feel this. Feel us." 

He knelt then, eyes never leaving Baekjin's, sinking to his knees on the worn carpet of the room. Baekjin's hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white, but Seongje took one, guiding it to his hair, encouraging him to hold on. 

With reverent care, Seongje unbuckled Baekjin's belt, the metallic clink echoing like a confession in the quiet space. He eased the zipper down, freeing Baekjin's hardening cock from the confines of his boxers.

It sprang free, thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum from the tip in anticipation. Baekjin's face flushed, a mix of shame and raw need burning in his cheeks, but Seongje only smiled up at him, soft and reassuring. 

"Fuck" he breathed, wrapping his fingers around the base, stroking slowly from root to head. 

Baekjin gasped, hips jerking involuntarily, and Seongje steadied him with a hand on his thigh. 

"I've got you."

Leaning forward, Seongje parted his lips and took the head into his mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive underside. He sucked gently at first, savoring the salty taste, the way Baekjin's cock twitched against his palate. 

Baekjin's fingers tightened in Seongje's hair, a low groan escaping him as guilt warred with pleasure. 

Seongje hummed in response, the vibration sending sparks up Baekjin's spine, and he took more, inch by inch, until his lips stretched around the girth, cheeks hollowing as he bobbed his head.

He worked him with slow, deliberate pulls—sucking harder now, tongue pressing flat against the vein that pulsed with Baekjin's racing heartbeat. Saliva slicked the shaft, dripping down to coat Seongje's hand as he pumped what his mouth couldn't reach. Baekjin's breaths came in sharp pants, his free hand bracing against the wall behind him, body arching into the wet heat enveloping him. 

"Seongje... fuck" he rasped, voice breaking on the edge of desperation.

Seongje pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip. 

"Let it out. All of it—the fear, the want. I'm here." 

Then he dove back in, deeper this time, throat relaxing to take him fully, nose pressing against Baekjin's pubic bone. He gagged slightly but pushed through, eyes watering as he swallowed around the length, milking him with rhythmic contractions. Baekjin's control frayed, hips thrusting shallowly now, fucking into Seongje's mouth as the last barriers crumbled under the onslaught of sensation.

Tears pricked at Baekjin's eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming release of it all, the passion searing away the remnants of his internalized chains. 

Seongje met every thrust, eager and devoted, his own cock straining against his pants, aching for more. He reached down, palming himself through the fabric, but his focus stayed on Baekjin, on drawing out those guttural moans, on proving with every lick and suck that this love was no sin.

As Baekjin's rhythm grew erratic, Seongje sped up, hand twisting at the base in time with his mouth, urging him closer to the edge. 'Come for me,' he mumbled around the cock, the words muffled but fervent. Baekjin shattered then, a cry tearing from his throat as he spilled into Seongje's mouth, hot spurts coating his tongue. Seongje swallowed it all, milking every drop until Baekjin sagged, trembling.

But they weren't done. Seongje rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with his own hunger. He stripped quickly, shedding clothes like old skin, revealing his lithe body, cock hard and curving up against his stomach. Baekjin, still catching his breath, pulled him close, hands roaming now with newfound boldness—gripping Seongje's ass, fingers digging into firm flesh. 

"I need you" Baekjin growled, the words raw, stripped of doubt.

Seongje nodded, turning to brace his hands on the sofa, presenting himself. Baekjin slicked his fingers with spit, pressing one against Seongje's tight hole, circling before pushing in slow. Seongje moaned, pushing back, body yielding as Baekjin worked him open—first one finger, then two, scissoring and curling to hit that spot that made Seongje's knees buckle. 

"More" Seongje begged, voice husky.

"Fuck me, Baekjin. Make me yours."

Baekjin aligned himself, cock hardening again from the sight, the sounds. He thrust in with one smooth motion, burying deep in Seongje's heat. They both groaned, bodies slotting together like they were made for this. Baekjin set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward, skin slapping against skin as he claimed what his heart had always known. Seongje met every drive, ass clenching around him, hand fisting the sheets as pleasure built.

The room filled with their gasps, the creak of the sofa, the wet sounds of Baekjin's cock plunging in and out. Baekjin's hands gripped Seongje's hips hard enough to bruise, pulling him back onto each thrust, while his mind finally quieted—the guilt silenced by the fire of their union. Seongje came first, untouched, cum splattering the sheets as his body seized, hole fluttering around Baekjin. That pushed Baekjin over, burying deep and flooding Seongje with his release, marking him inside out.

They collapsed together, sweat-slicked and spent, Baekjin's arms wrapping around Seongje in a fierce hold. No words needed; the passion had spoken for them, burning away the shadows.