Work Text:
It was troubling for Gubo to look at his friend for too long. The most difficult thing he had to face while keeping up the conversation was looking into his eyes. Gubo had known Yi Sang's eyes very well, obviously they had never been lively, they were dark and moved around with laziness, yet still they had something in them despite that. A very, very tiny spark.
Now, there was nothing in them.
Yi Sang sat on the edge of his bed and looked at a point somewhere past Gubo's shoulder. Gubo had positioned his chair so that they were almost facing each other. He was not sure why he kept doing this, it changed nothing. Yi Sang did not look at him regardless of where he sat and what he said.
Instead of confronting that lifeless stare, Gubo lowered his eyes to Yi Sang's slender hands, folded neatly in his lap.
In times like these, he always managed to convince himself that this... all of this, was not as terrible as it appeared. The medication was an absolute necessity, Hermann had been perfectly clear on this point, and Gubo had found no logical reason to disagree with her parameters—Yi Sang was a difficult man to manage, and difficult people required a harsher sort of governance. This was not a punishment, and Yi Sang would undoubtedly realize this in time. He would understand, and then things between them would return to how they had once been.
Ah, the past….
"Do you sometimes think about the first time we met?”
Yi Sang said nothing. He did not move. The random spot on the wall he was staring at continued to hold his attention instead. Still, Gubo waited for him. He did not know what he was waiting for. He had sat in this room enough times to know that this wait would change nothing anyways.
"It was raining rather heavily.”
Yi Sang breathed in. Breathed out.
Gubo folded his hands in his lap, mirroring Yi Sang's own gesture. He looked at the white door. He thought about a Wednesday afternoon, a café too full of people and a chair in front of him that was supposed to be empty.
His favorite café had been, on that particular afternoon, fuller than Gubo had ever seen it.
He didn't like it that way, he liked this particular café precisely for how quiet and almost empty it was every time he was here. In this particular cafe he liked that one particular corner table which stood beside the window with a small crack running along its lower pane. The best thing about said table is that no one ever sat across from him.
Today it was completely different, every table was occupied, the voices were overlapping with each other, it was so loud he could feel his already weak ears hurt. At one point he even thought about leaving, but eventually he let go of that thought. He did not know where else he would go. So with that, he ordered his coffee and opened his notebook. Seconds after that, a man sat down across from him. The man set down his coffee carefully and looked out the window. He did not look at Gubo, but Gubo looked at him. The colorless afternoon light came through the cracked pane, shining on the stranger's pale face.
Gubo was not sure why he kept staring at the man. After all, he was not the type to look at strangers, and had in fact spent considerable effort over the years arranging his life so that he could avoid interacting with all the strangers if possible. Plus, he had work to do. He had come here specifically to do it, and yet …
The man's eyes were on the window. They were dark and very still, looking at the street outside. He had dark circles under them. Gubo came to a thought that he looked like someone who slept very poorly, but had made his peace with it a long time ago. Gubo let out a heavy sigh and looked down at his notebook, trying to ignore the presence of the stranger. But after a few seconds, he realized that it's simply impossible. He could NOT focus. This stranger was taking up more space in his attention than he had any right to and Gubo found this mildly annoying.
It was the man who broke the silence first, but what he said was not directed at Gubo.
"It is rather loud today," he said, quietly, still looking out the window. It seemed like he was thinking aloud.
Gubo looked up. He should not have said anything, but eventually "It is," he said.
The stranger turned then as though only now registering that there was someone across from him who had heard his words. He looked at Gubo with no particular expression.
"Ah, forgive me. I did not mean to speak aloud."
"It is of no consequence.”
The stranger nodded once and looked back at the window. Neither of them said anything for a while after that. It was not entirely uncomfortable, which Gubo found strange.
After some time the stranger spoke again, still without looking at him. "There is a man across the street who has been standing in the same spot for quite some time now."
Gubo looked. There was indeed a man standing outside a closed shopfront, hands in his pockets.
"Maybe… he is just waiting for someone?" Gubo asked, unsure of what else to say.
"Hmm," the stranger hummed. He did not sound convinced. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he simply does not know where else to be?"¹
Gubo said nothing to this. It was a strange thing to comment on, but it was also, he thought, probably true. They kept talking after that, about small and unremarkable things. The street outside, the rain that had not yet come but was threatening to, whether the café had always been this loud or whether something had changed about it recently. The stranger — who introduced himself eventually as Yi Sang — spoke in a way Gubo was not accustomed to. Precise, a little formal. He was a strange man but in a good sense. He was interesting.
Gubo was not sure how long they sat there. He noticed at some point that his coffee had gone cold, but he did not particularly care. He was not the type of person who could be dragged into a conversation so simply, particularly with a stranger, but today it felt strangely nice and comfortable. He felt nice, which was amusing. Gubo had never been particularly good with people. Most conversations exhausted him quickly, especially when they drifted into pointless pleasantries. Yet with Yi Sang, even the silence itself never felt burdensome. Even when both of them stopped speaking, the silence between them remained comfortable.
That alone was enough to make Gubo grow fond of the newly met man.
After that afternoon, they began seeing each other more often. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. Yi Sang eventually began speaking about his work as an architect with a little hobby on the side, said hobby being related to technology. Gubo learned that Yi Sang was not simply an eccentric man with strange thoughts. He was an inventor. That was also when Gubo first heard about the League of Nine Littérateurs. A group of inventors, thinkers, people gathered around shared ambitions and impossible ideas. Yi Sang described them without grandeur, almost dismissively at times, but Gubo could tell regardless that the group mattered to him a lot.
And because it mattered to Yi Sang, Gubo found himself wanting to know more. So eventually, without making much of a ceremony of it even in his own mind, Gubo joined the League of Nine Littérateurs at the very last moment.
Gubo never really thought about belonging anywhere before. He was a loner by nature, and because of that, solitude suited him just fine, he did not need company to function properly. At least, that was what he believed before he met Yi Sang.
Now that he recalls it, his first actual meeting with the League stressed and unsettled him very much. The building itself was not particularly impressive, but the overlapping noises inside were making his head ache. So much that for a brief moment, he considered turning around and leaving before anyone noticed he had come at all.
Then the door suddenly opened.
A strange man with round glasses stood there holding a stack of papers under one arm. He blinked once at the sight of Gubo before breaking into an easy smile.
“Oh? You’re the new one?”
Gubo immediately disliked the man, though he could not have pointed to any particular offense at first. The stranger possessed the exact sort of temperament Gubo found entirely intolerable, he simply seemed like a nuisance, and that fact alone was sufficient to close Gubo's heart against him. Yet, before he could formulate an answer to betray his disgust, the man stepped aside with a casual sweep of his arm, gesturing for him to enter the room.
“Well? Come in.”
Gubo entered reluctantly and immediately squinted his eyes at what he saw. Papers covered almost every surface, books were stacked unevenly against the walls. Someone had left half-finished tea near some weird machine in the corner. If he were to explain what he saw with one, singular word, it would be "disgusting". Gubo stepped over a discarded crate, his leather shoes clicking against the floorboards. He felt entirely out of place. The man with the round glasses—Dongrang, as he would soon introduce himself without any formality—slammed his stack of papers onto a nearby table, sending a small cloud of dust into the air.
"We weren't expecting you until later," Dongrang said, wiping his palms on his pants. He did not look at Gubo with respect, nor even with curiosity, but rather with the casual assessment. "Or rather, we didn't know who to expect… so, you are…?”
"Gubo," he replied shortly. He did not offer his hand, nor did he look at Dongrang’s eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed on a small smear of mud on the cuff of Dongrang’s shirt. Offensive little blemish. Are they are like this...?
"Gubo…" Dongrang repeated, Gubo found his voice instantly repulsive. “A formal name for a formal man, it seems. Well, Gubo, you’ve picked a loud day to arrive. Then again, every day is loud here. We are on the precipice of several things at once. Do you have a specialty, or are you merely an observer of others' labor?"
The question was wrapped in a smile, but it was nothing else but intellectual’s passive-mockery. Gubo felt a familiar, cold irritation hardening in his chest. He looked around the room, purposely ignoring the question. His eyes searched the corners, the clusters of desks. He was looking for a specific face. He had come here because of that face, but the face was nowhere to be seen and the realization made his collar feel tight. Gubo had kept his application entirely to himself. He had wanted it to be a surprise, or perhaps, in some darker corner of his mind, he had wanted to see if he could exist in Yi Sang's world without Yi Sang having to clear a space for him first.
Instead of answering the man’s inquiry about his labor, Gubo let his eyes linger for a bit while on the dusty floorboards, the scattered tea leaves by the machine, and the smudged, ink-stained edge of the table before him.
"Is it always so dirty here?" Gubo asked. The words had left his mouth before he could properly weigh them, and a sudden, sharp pang of regret pierced his chest. Why had he said that? It was unseemly to show one’s irritation so plainly upon arrival. Yet at the same time, after being greeted so... non gracefully, it seemed reasonable.
Dongrang did not lose his temper at all. Instead, his smile widened, so much that it made Gubo’s stomach turn. He let out a soft, polite chuckle, adjusting the round frames on his nose with a single finger. His stupid, round glasses. Definitely worse looking than Gubo's own, the similarity was still pretty much annoying.
"Ah, forgive us, Mr. Gubo," Dongrang said, his tone dripping with a gentle, mocking deference. "I must apologize that we did not sweep the floors before your arrival. What exactly were you expecting to find when you walked through our door?”
He gestured broadly to the room.
"We are inventors, my dear. The mind must be permitted to be messy for the work to be grand. I am afraid if it is the spotless order you desire, you may have knocked on the wrong door.”
The insult was wrapped so neatly in the guise of common sense that Gubo could only tighten his jaw, his fingers curling into fists inside his pockets. This man… But before Gubo could formulate a response, the small door at the far end of the room creaked open.
Finally, the familiar face he was looking for so desperately before stepped into the room. He carried no papers, no tools, no books, his hands were tucked into his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, as though he were trying to occupy as little space as he could. It appears he wanted to pass them, but he immediately stopped when he saw Gubo. His eyes, dark and heavy with that familiar, chronic sleeplessness, widened just a bit as a rare flicker of utter astonishment crossed his features. He had truly known nothing of this.
Well.. obviously. How could he possibly know?
Dongrang looked between them, his eyebrows raising behind his stupid, ugly, round lenses as he caught the sudden, heavy silence that dropped between the two. "Oh? You know each other?”
Yi Sang did not look at Dongrang. His gaze remained entirely fixed on Gubo, filled with a confusion that Gubo found almost painful to witness. Was he unhappy to see him there? The possibility made him feel bad for a moment. He took three slow steps forward, his boots making almost no sound on the floorboards, unlike Gubo’s own.
"Gubo," he asked, gently "Why are you in this place?"
"I found myself with a sudden surplus of time," Gubo answered, his throat dry. He felt his posture relax slightly under that familiar gaze, though he remained guarded before Dongrang's prying eyes. "And I thought my talents might be tolerated here. I did not think it necessary to burden you with the details beforehand."
It was a clumsy shield for his pride, but it was all he had.
Yi Sang stood still for a moment, but just after Gubo's words, the corners of his mouth lifted a bit, forming a gentle, genuine smile that seemed to soften the sleepless lines of his pale face. Even his dark eyes seemed to catch a sudden, small warmth—the very spark Gubo remembered so well from the time they spoke for the first time.
"That is… a most welcome surplus," he said softly.
Dongrang blinked, looking between them with an interest clearly taken aback by the sudden change in Yi Sang’s demeanor. "Yi Sang, where did you keep this one hidden? You’ve never breathed a syllable of his name to any of us."
Yi Sang’s eyes shifted slowly to Dongrang, the small, pleasant curve of his lips remaining.
"There was no need to speak of him before. A joy that is anticipated is often worn out by the waiting."
The two of them conversed for a while, but Gubo doesn't remember what the exchange of words actually was about. He remembers keeping his eyes fixed entirely on Yi Sang’s face, his heart beating with a strange rhythm. Seeing that small, rare smile had completely undone the knot of anger in his chest. Even Dongrang’s tedious presence seemed to recede into the background, becoming nothing more than a gray, insignificant border.
"Come," Yi Sang said, turning back toward the small door he had entered through. The small smile still lingered in the soft line of his jaw. "The back room is less crowded. Let us speak there.”
Gubo stepped forward, his boots clicking once more against the floor. As he passed Dongrang, he gave the man a dismissive nod, a gesture that clearly indicated the conversation was over and would not be resumed.
Young-ji
Sang-heo
Dongrang
Dongbaek
Rim
Aneung
Yurang
Gap-ryong
Nul-in
Aseah
Those were all the names Gubo had written down in his notebook after joining the League. Though they were all eccentric people, he regarded the majority of them with indifference. But there were names on that list that provoked more negative feelings in his chest and at the very top of his grievances stood Dongrang and Dongbaek.
It was a source of constant resentment for Gubo that these two, of all people, laid claim to the title of Yi Sang’s closest and oldest companions. Gubo could never understand how a mind as delicate, as pure as Yi Sang’s could have been nurtured in the same soil that produced two such fundamentally frustrating individuals. They treated Yi Sang with this very weird domestic intimacy that Gubo coveted but could never bring himself to emulate. They spoke to him without the formal armor Gubo always wore, as if they had the right to pull Yi Sang down into their ordinary, cluttered world. To Gubo, their presence around Yi Sang felt like heavy, muddy boots trampling across a floor that had just been swept clean. Both of them did not understand the genius they were harboring; they merely saw the boy they had grown up with, and that blindness insulted Gubo on a daily basis.
Ah. Maybe he was overreacting a bit… He heard Dongrang got a good position at K Corp after the League fell. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as Gubo thought?
But then, his eyes would drift upward, past the names that vexed him, until they settled on the very first name he had inscribed.
Young-ji.
If Yi Sang was the soul of the League, then brother Young-ji had been its head. He was the only man in that entire, godforsaken building whom Gubo had ever truly respected. Even now, the mere memory of Young-ji brought a rare softness to his otherwise rigid features. He was one of the few men Gubo had ever met who possessed such an admirable intellect, kindness and a dignity that did not require a government title to sustain itself. He was the one who had gathered them all, who had looked at this collection of eccentric, difficult, and lonely outcasts and seen the blueprint for something magnificent.
Whenever Gubo closed his eyes, he always envisioned Brother Young-ji framed by the light of that lamp which continuously shone from their window during the deepest hours of the night. It was a time when the rest of the world slept, leaving only the true thinkers awake. To anyone else wandering those colorless streets, that light was surely nothing more than a faint, gray smear against the dark sky; yet in Gubo's imagination, it remained stubbornly golden. He had been such a grand man. A truly beautiful man, in a way.
It was an embarrassing thing for a man of his standing to admit, even to himself in the absolute privacy of his own mind, but the question had pursued him for months now: how had it happened?
It's an amusing fact, but it all truly began because of jealousy. Gubo had joined the League to be near Yi Sang, to enter his world, but once inside, he found himself constantly forced to share him. He had to endure the sight of Dongrang leaning over Yi Sang’s shoulder, or Dongbaek tossing her unprompted jests into Yi Sang’s space. Every time another member caught Yi Sang’s eye, every time Yi Sang nodded in agreement with someone who was not Gubo, a sharp pain would twist in Gubo's chest. It was so pathetic and nonsensical, he had to tell himself it was merely a natural irritation at seeing a delicate, glass-like genius handled by such clumsy hands as theirs.
He will never forget this one night that made him realize that his fondness of Yi Sang wasn't just a mere fascination.
The whole evening was rather fierce, the heavy wind along with rain rattling the loose windowpanes. The other members had long since departed, leaving only the two of them inside. Yi Sang had been working on some kind of complex schematic, but Gubo had no real obligation to remain there. He had still stayed simply because he could not bear to leave Yi Sang alone in that freezing room, watching with growing anxiety as his friend pushed himself past the point of human endurance. Gubo was very tired as it was a very late hour, but even now he remembers the exact moment when Yi Sang had suddenly paused his scratching pen without a word. He did not look up at Gubo, but instead reached out and pushed a small, folded piece of paper towards Gubo’s side of the table.
After giving him a puzzling look, Gubo had picked it up, expecting to see another equation or… something like that, but instead, for his surprise, it was a sketch of himself. It was an extraordinarily tender thing, and as Yi Sang mentioned, a quiet token of gratitude for the hours Gubo had spent with him. When he looked up, for the first time, he saw a faint flush on Yi Sang's usually pale cheeks as the architect quickly averted his eyes.
Gubo’s chest swelled with a sudden, dizzying heat. He carefully smoothed down the edges of the paper, his eyes dropping to the bottom corner where a delicate script marked the artist's name. It didn't say Yi Sang.
"What does 'Ha Yung' mean?"
Yi Sang’s fingers twitched against his pen after hearing the question. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the fierce rattling of the rain against the glass.
"This is still I, Yi Sang," his friend finally answered, his voice barely louder than a whisper, "But... Ha Yung is not known by the others. Let it be a little secret between the two of us.”
It was in that exact moment, staring at the tender lines of the sketch and repeating that secret name in the silence of his mind, that Gubo had fallen in love.
Back then, he thought that this, all of this, was ridiculous. It was unseemly for a grown man like him to be reduced to the state of a lovesick teenager by a stupid scrap of paper and a shy glance. Now, Gubo looked at the man on the bed. He looked at the pale, still mouth that had once shaped words only the two of them could understand. It was love. It had been love then, and it was love now. It was love that made him save Yi Sang and bring him here and it was love that drove him to force the pills between Yi Sang’s teeth everyday.
Of course it was love. What else could it possibly be?
If it were not love, Gubo would not feel this responsibility, a burden he carried without a single complaint while the rest of the world remained entirely indifferent to Yi Sang’s fragile state. The others, that entire shattered, useless League—they had all abandoned him. They had broken him. Gubo was the only one who had remained by his side, the only one who had taken Yi Sang by his slender wrist, and got him somewhere safe. Even if Yi Sang was now constantly motionless and silent, it was only because he was finally resting. Gubo leaned forward to study the blank expression of his beloved’s face. Yes, it was peace. That is why, whenever Gubo pressed a small pill against Yi Sang’s lip, forcing the pale mouth to open, he was not acting out of malice, but out of love. He was merely giving Yi Sang what he needed. It was true that Yi Sang sometimes resisted. Just some days ago, when Gubo had brought the blue pill to those dry lips, Yi Sang’s head had jerked to the side. Gubo had been patient, of course. He had used his left hand to firmly cup the back of Yi Sang’s skull, anchoring him against the headboard, while his right thumb worked to pry his stubborn mouth open. It was a delicate procedure, requiring the utmost care so as not to bruise his pale skin. But as Gubo’s index finger slipped past the teeth to deposit the medicine, Yi Sang had bitten down. The teeth sank deep into the flesh of his finger and broke the skin. Gubo had not even flinched. He had simply looked into those wide, unblinking dark eyes now shaking and terrified, trapped, and felt a surging wave of affection.
It was exactly like taming a wild bird. When a bird is first brought indoors, it does not understand that the cage is meant to keep it safe. It beats its fragile wings against the brass bars; it pecks viciously at the fingers that offer it food and water. It reacts out of a foolish, primitive instinct, entirely blind to the charity of its new owner. Gubo had simply waited, letting the pain throb in his knuckle, keeping his hand perfectly steady within his mouth mouth until the tension finally drained from Yi Sang’s body. Yi Sang had swallowed the pill then, his head slumping back against the pillow, his chest heaving with shallow, exhausted breaths.
Gubo had wiped the blood from his finger with a clean handkerchief, feeling a satisfying warmth in his chest.
Everything that happened, everything was merely a stage in the process of adaptation. Yi Sang was learning that the world outside was gone, and that here, within the perimeter of Gubo’s care, there was no longer any need for any wings. No need to fly.
Gubo often wondered if his love was requited or not. He never really confessed his true feelings, but that one winter evening remained seated deeply in his mind. ¹
It had been Christmas, the first time Gubo decided to join the group in the celebration. “Join” might be kinda too much because only a few minutes after he Gubo had fled the building and sat alone on a freezing bench, only for Yi Sang to pursue him out into the snow, shivering and terribly underdressed, driven by worry for his friend’s sudden absence. He hadn't even bothered to fetch his heavy coat, he had a very thin one instead. His hair was already catching the white flakes, his long, dark lashes dusted with frost, and his cheeks were rubbed red by the chilling air.
Even now, he still didn't understand why Yi Sang decided to follow him to his home instead of staying indoors with his friends. He was angry at Yi Sang's carelessness, but of course he had taken him home. How could he not?
The memory of what happened after they stepped through his apartment door, however, was very blurry.
He remembered the hum of a boiling kettle on the stove and making tea for Yi Sang so he could warm himself up. He also clearly recalled covering Yi Sang’s trembling shoulders with a blanket, and how they had ended up sitting so close on the narrow sofa. Yi Sang had confessed to him that he was happy right then, just sitting there together in silence. It was… very cute, Gubo thought back then.
The most important moment of the evening was when he asked Yi Sang for a kiss. He couldn't remember his exact wording, but he vividly remembered the constant and violent thud of his heart against his ribs. He remembered Yi Sang leaning forward, his small, chapped lips pressing against Gubo’s. It was so, so soft and his heart was beating so fast Gubo almost lost conciseness right here and now. But it didn't end at this. The rest of the night was even more hazy in his mind, chaotic. The creaking springs of the sofa had sounded so loud as Yi Sang climbed onto his lap. Beneath the heavy wool blanket, Yi Sang’s body had felt incredibly, beautifully warm, it was a shocking contrast to the freezing winter outside. He remembered sliding his hands beneath the hem of Yi Sang’s shirt. His fingers pressed against the bare, smooth skin, memorizing every inch and pulling him so close that there was no air left between them. He remembered the intoxicating taste of Yi Sang's mouth, the way his lips had parted beneath his own, surrendering entirely.
The incident however had not brought them closer. Neither of them ever spoke of that night again.
They still spent their time together, sure, Gubo still sat by Yi Sang’s desk during the late hours, but the comfortable atmosphere they had once shared by the café window was dead. Every time they accidentally touched or sat too close, Gubo could feel how tense Yi Sang was. They became actors playing the roles of mere friends, both of them hyper-aware of this one memory that haunted them every time they were together in the same room. Yi Sang’s gaze became more guarded, drifting away to the floorboards whenever Gubo looked at him for a second too long. He had even apologized later, saying that he hoped he had not been too forward or overstepped his bounds, this whole awkward apology made Gubo feel like he was being stabbed hundreds of times. Gubo had merely tightened his jaw and told him it was fine, his mind refusing to let the true voice of his heart out, choosing instead to bury the truth beneath a mountain of forced ignorance.
It was precisely during this period of time that their friendship began to fall apart entirely.
It began after Brother Young-ji constructed the Glass Window and Yi Sang, deeply inspired by that brilliant but terrifying invention, polished it into something else entirely—a Mirror. After that, Yi Sang drifted away from Gubo completely. He barely spent time with anyone anymore, always locking himself in the back room. Gubo did not know the truth then; his friend never told him about his new companion, all Gubo knew from the outside was that Yi Sang had become entirely obsessed with that damn mirror. It was so, so infuriating. Yi Sang was a genius, such a rare, brilliant mind, yet he treated his greatest invention as nothing more than a pastime.
What an intolerable waste. A genius of that magnitude should not remain hidden in some dusty corner; his name should be known. But Yi Sang lacked the ambition to climb up higher and more importantly, he lacked the appreciation for the one person who actually cared enough to guide him further. If Yi Sang had only listened to him instead of his stupid reflection, things would have been different. Gubo would have managed his talents perfectly, he would have taken that brilliant mind and carved a proper, glorious path for it, but Yi Sang was too stubborn.
A lesser man would have given up. A lesser man would have left him to rot in that dusty back room, but Gubo’s love and care were very stubborn. Yi Sang wouldn't climb out of the dirt on his own, then Gubo would simply have to pull him out by force.
... he thought so back then, but he never forced Yi Sang to make choices he didn't want to make.
During this time, Gubo had never forced himself into that locked back room. He had never smashed the door open, nor had he ever demanded that Yi Sang should spend more time with him, instead, he had merely waited, hoping that Yi Sang would eventually tire of his reflection and look toward the one person who truly understood his worth. He had given Yi Sang every opportunity to choose a better path on his own. He had done everything he could to keep his own desperate possessiveness locked away behind a mask of indifference.
But look where that passivity had led them.
Long before the collapse, a weird sense of suspicion had begun to rot the very foundation of their laboratory. There was a rat among them. Information was leaking and this fragile sanctuary they had built in the gray heart of T Corp was being systematically mapped out by some unseen eyes. Gubo had actually developed his own suspicions, yet he had never shared his theories with anyone.
Even though he was still barely considered a true member of that tight-knit community, he had found himself deeply worried about the eventual collapse. It wasn't the loss of the research that plagued his thoughts, nor was it the impending destruction of the League's lofty ideals. It was all about Yi Sang. Gubo had seen how deeply his friend had poured his soul into that house of cards. Yi Sang’s fragile, delicate heart was tied directly to this group, and the thought of that heart being violently broken by an act of betrayal was something Gubo could not tolerate. He had wanted to shield him from the ugly truth of human malice, to keep the dirt of the outside world from hurting his poor, delicate heart. But of course, his silent wishes haven't been enough to stop the inevitable.
He perfectly recalls the day when the end finally came, the panic, smoke and the screaming as the whole League tore itself apart, its members scattering like frightened birds into the gray smog of the district, some of them captured and arrested. Gubo hadn't wasted a single second on anything else, navigating the room until he found Yi Sang standing paralyzed in the center of the ruin with his precious mirror in his hands. Gubo had immediately reached out, his hand clamping violently around Yi Sang’s slender, trembling wrist, and pulled him bodily out of the already burning wreck, dragging a completely unresponsive Yi Sang through the street until he could secure a vehicle to ferry them across the district, leaving the dead dreams of the League behind.
The engine had rumbled a low, monotonous drone as the dark, featureless landscape blurred past the windows. The interior of the car was freezing, the air heavy with the sharp, bitter scent of ozone and burnt oil that clung to their clothes. Yi Sang had sat beside him like a corpse, his body entirely drained of volition, completely broken by the sudden, violent death of his little paradise. As the car jostled against the rough road, Yi Sang’s head had slowly, heavily dropped sideways, his forehead resting against Gubo’s shoulder. Through his coat, Gubo could feel the cold, shuddering breaths leaving his friend’s lips.
It was in that very vehicle that the small spark in Yi Sang's eyes had completely vanished. The sight of that vacancy had pained Gubo, he felt a sickening wave of guilt for not acting sooner, for letting those parasites drag his beautiful genius down into their mutual ruin. But as his fingers tightened around the steering wheel, that pain had rapidly hardened into determination. The League was dead. The dirty nest that had fractured Yi Sang's mind was gone, and Gubo would never allow its ghosts to touch him again. By bringing him to N Corp., Gubo was fiercely determined to change Yi Sang’s life for the better. He would rebuild his friend from the ashes, he would construct a sanctuary so perfectly managed, that Yi Sang would never have to experience the agony of a broken heart ever again. It was a promise he had made in the quiet, freezing interior of that car. And following his promise, he did everything just to ensure that Yi Sang would never be hurt by the outside world ever again.
So why was he the one being punished for it?
As Gubo stared at him, he noticed that Yi Sang’s gaze kept drifting toward that damned mirror standing tall against the far wall. A suffocating knot of resentment began to tighten in his throat. Of course, he was waiting for Gubo to leave so he could return to his precious mirror.
So selfish. So incredibly selfish. What had he done to deserve such an ignorant treatment?
Gubo stood up from his chair, the legs scraping sharply against the floorboards, but Yi Sang didn't even flinch. He remained perfectly still, his eyes glued to his precious mirror. Driven by a sudden urge to shatter that everlasting distance between them, Gubo stepped forward and sat directly next to him on the mattress, the bed sagged heavily under his weight. Instantly, Yi Sang’s body flinched. Before Gubo could even speak, Yi Sang shifted away, practically throwing himself onto his side, turning his back to Gubo. He pulled his knees slightly toward his chest, burying his face toward the cold plaster of the wall, completely refusing to look at his friend.
Pathetic.
He had given Yi Sang everything. He had rescued him while his precious childhood friends abandoned him, and gave him safety but Yi Sang treated him with such hostility. He sat there day after day, ignoring Gubo's presence, refusing to utter a single syllable, deliberately withholding the voice that Gubo so desperately craved to hear. He was treating him horribly and it wasn't fair. Gubo was the victim here, he was the one breaking his own heart every morning and all he received in return was nothing. And it was all because of that stupid, cursed reflection.
Slowly, Gubo reached out, letting his gloved hand rest on Yi Sang’s slender shoulder, his fingers sinking slightly into the fabric of his shirt.
"Do you want me to go?" he asked softly, his voice calm, completely devoid of the furious storm raging inside his head.
He leaned in closer, his breath stirring the stray, dark hairs at the back of Yi Sang’s neck. He waited for an answer, but got nothing in return. Even now Yi Sang’s mind was still thoroughly poisoned by that damn mirror. Such a sickening display of pure selfishness. Yi Sang was being too stubborn, too blind, too utterly ungrateful to see that a reflection could never love him the way Gubo did. The mirror hadn't pulled him from the crumbling League, it hadn't driven the car through the district while his head rested heavily on its shoulder. Gubo had done that. Gubo.
A sudden spike of anger flashed behind Gubo's eyes, breaking through his usual restraint. He leaned down further, his gloved fingers tightening against Yi Sang's slender shoulder, desperately wanting to shake him, wanting to drag him back into reality. His friend made no sound, only curled himself further into a ball.
If Yi Sang wouldn’t let him love him the way he deserved, then maybe Gubo could force it upon him. Make him feel it anyway.
He imagined pressing Yi Sang face-first against that damn mirror and spreading those pale thighs wide, forcing himself inside, deep and brutal, until Yi Sang finally made a sound. Yi Sang’s body would clench around him, unwilling but helpless, while Gubo fucked every last trace of that mirror out of his mind. He would ruin him completely and the only thing Yi Sang would see in that mirror would be his own ruined, tear-streaked face.
It would be so easy. He wouldn’t even fight. He’d just take it, like he took everything else Gubo gave him.
But then, he stopped himself, snatching his hand away as if Yi Sang’s skin had burned him.
What the fuck was he thinking? This was awful. Disgusting.
He stood up abruptly, his heart hammering against his ribs, shame twisting in his gut. He took a step back, fists clenched at his sides as he realized that this shameful fantasy made him actually hard.
He risked one last glance at Yi Sang, but the other man hadn’t moved at all.He remained curled on his side, facing the wall, completely unaware of the storm raging inside the man who claimed to love him.
Gubo ultimately forced himself to walk to the door. His hand hovered over the handle for a long second before he finally opened it and stepped out into the corridor. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound.
Inside the white room, Yi Sang remained motionless.