Chapter Text
He opens his eyes.
The view of his garden outside unfolds in the long span of the wide windows, showing off all of its late fall glory. He blinks away the sleep that stubbornly clings to him, and spends a moment taking in the orange and red leaves along the branches of the maple tree in the middle of the garden, and a newly planted apple tree that has yet to yield any fruit. The yellowing grass that could use some mowing soon. The deep-set blue sky that you can only see during clear autumn days.
He used to detest these signs of the autumn that heralded the oncoming winter.
He found Yoo Yeon yi in the dead of winter.
But now he can almost feel the cool, crisp taste of the autumn air even from the inside, and it slowly settles him. The hazy late afternoon sunlight intrudes into the living room, leaving the fine dust on the floor a touch more noticeable.
He contemplates vacuuming, but only idly and without deigning to move an inch while still sprawling on the couch, where it’s decidedly warm and comfortable. It’s a small surprise that the young master hasn’t rushed to get the cleaning done by now.
"Go back to sleep," says Joo Won.
The young master himself hasn’t moved from his corner of the couch, eyes on the book in his hand, with his other hand absently stroking Dong Sik’s hair.
"Mmmph," says Dong Sik, cheek mostly pressed into the soft leather and sounding unintelligible even to his ears. "We aren’t late?"
"There’s still time," Joo Won answers mildly.
"Oh, and the gifts?"
"I’ve got them ready."
Dong Sik can already picture Min Ah’s face when she gets her grabby little hands on them tonight. Maybe they do overly dot on her despite Jae Yi’s continued protests that they’re spoiling her daughter rotten and could both of you quit it, she’s already sky-high on sugar and bouncing off the walls. Dong Sik is seriously not at fault here, but since he isn’t the one who surreptitiously feeds Min Ah sweets while maintaining a perfectly bland face, Jae Yi always pegs Dong Sik as the main perpetrator, to Dong Sik’s absolute and steadfast outage.
Joo Won flips a page of his book.
Dong Sik glimpses a few English words here and there, but he doesn’t try to make heads or tails out of them. Instead, he watches the way Joo Won’s hand traces over the crinkled pages and smoothes out the edges before turning them carefully with his long fingers.
Years back when Joo Won moved in, not a lot of what he’d brought with him had been a particular surprise. His small box of books was one of the exceptions. Joo Won has a tablet for non-fiction and an e-reader for fiction, all neatly categorized and maximized for space and efficiency, and persistently insists on the lack of sentimental attachments to older, non-utilitarian objects.
What are these completely new and utilitarian items? Dong Sik asked then, poking at the small collection of hardcover books, mostly with yellowing edges.
The first few books I managed to read for myself when I was in England, Joo Won said, not necessarily with hesitation but with a pause that Dong Sik has come to associate with the stories from his childhood. Only one of them was in Korean: a small book of Korean fairytales, well-read and well-kept, one that you could conceivably imagine being read by a dotting mother to her very young son.
At times Dong Sik pictures Joo Won in the foreign lands, not too much older than Min Ah now and no one to hold onto except for these books. Time might have put some distance between the memories and the present, but the loneliness from it is still only palpable.
Joo Won flips another page, and Dong Sik notes the slight red indentations on either side of his nose. His glasses are on the side table, temporarily abandoned. Instead, the book is held a little closer to his face.
One day Joo Won came home with a pair of glasses, citing stress-related eyesight issues, and also recommended a visit to the optometrist to Dong Sik. Dong Sik insisted his eyesight was still 20/20, unlike someone else here, thank you very much; Joo Won countered that his own would be still 20/20, if he hasn’t been tested for several years.
Time has put some distance between the memories and the present; it has also worn down the sharply drawn lines of Joo Won’s face to softer edges. Still irritatingly handsome, but softer. Gentler.
Even the young master ages.
There are whites at Dong Sik’s temples now, the stiffness in his creaking joints seemingly worsening daily.
"What time did we say we’re heading over?" Dong Sik asks, chasing away unwelcome thoughts by rolling over on the couch and putting his head on Joo Won’s lap.
Joo Won checks the time. "We can leave in two hours or so."
There’s a steady tally going on who Min Ah would come running to first for a hug. So far Ji Hwa is edging them out, with her big laughs and tight snuggles, but Joo Won and Dong Sik are not far behind. She loves to climb on Dong Sik’s back for piggyback rides, and Joo Won would gently toss Min Ah and catch her in the air, to the girl’s infinite joy.
It should’ve been strange to find that all of these moments suit Joo Won so well, despite having grown up without them, but it’s easy enough to imagine him with children of his own, with carbon-copied stubbornness backed by the well-hidden but bottomless affection.
Then it’s only a hop, skip and a jump away to other familiar, just as unwelcome, thoughts.
I should’ve let you go a long time ago. Let you find happiness elsewhere.
You’re still young. It’s not late for a family of your own.
It’s been greed, pure selfishness. To hold you here with me.
"You’re thinking very loudly," says Joo Won. His book is back on his lap. "And no."
Dong Sik tilts his head up. "No?"
"No."
The single word is imbued with such arrogant certainty that Dong Sik has to hide his grin behind a snort. "You read minds now?"
Joo Won gives him a pointed look, a fine picture of a haughty and superior young master. "I don’t have to retort to mind-reading skills to tell where your thoughts are, so no."
"Oh?" Dong Sik wiggles an eyebrow. "Then tell me all about my innermost thoughts, Chief Inspector Han."
But the thoughts, still with the mind of their own, wander:
I thought once I could read you like a page of an open book. Here’s a young, arrogant rich kid, hot-headed under the cool exterior, the exact type that I’ve seen in truckloads in Seoul. Thought I could read every line in your book, and that I’d easily hook you in before I’d willingly release you, just so I could end all the things that came before you.
But now, even when I can read every line of you, know you inside and out, I—
"I’m here," says Joo Won, his thumb brushing Dong Sik’s collarbone.
"Yes."
"That won’t ever change."
Dong Sik, implausibly, has to remind himself sometimes: Han Joo Won is made of this kind of seriousness that always bellies the impossibility of such far-fetching statements.
I had a dream, Dong Sik almost tells him. And you were dead.
But he knows better than to give voice to that fear. To articulate it and make it tangible.
Because of all the possibilities that have gone wrong—or right—here they are, still.
Dong Sik’s hand finds Joo Won’s cheek from a fierce, inexorable pull.
"Don’t mind 'em," Dong Sik tells him. "Just some idle thoughts of an old man."
Joo Won leans into the air between them, like there are no barriers of clothes and skin that exist in that space. Curving, and fitting right into him.
The kiss is slow and lingering.
"What was it you said?" asks Joo Won, a moment later, an eyebrow raised rather significantly. "Something about an old man?"
"Call all Jae Yi now," orders Dong Sik, reaching for the top button on Joo Won’s shirt, "we’re running a little late."
Joo Won’s laugh is swallowed by another kiss.
END