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Doubt lingers.
Yoon is familiar with the feeling. He’s spent his whole life doubting, covering up that doubt with devotion until it became as routine as breathing.
Water laps at the shore, washing over the rocks before returning to the sea in waves. It smells like salt and brine, like drowning, like waiting for the coast guard to find a body.
Footsteps scuffle behind him, the sound of Hwapyung’s tired shuffling, his broken down shoes. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Yoon hums quietly in agreement as Hwapyung joins him, giving an exaggerated groan as he sits down beside Yoon.
“I warned you it was going to be too hot,” Hwapyung continues. His glass eye seems to glow in the moonlight, even as his hair hangs down to hide most of the cold gray surface.
It’s August, and Hwapyung’s single floor fan does little to keep his home cool. Yoon’s small apartment in the city isn’t much better, though. “It’s not.”
“Ah,” Hwapyung says lightly. “Nightmares then?”
Hands around his throat, knives sinking into his skin, the demons laughing, Park Ildo, laughing, whispering through Hwapyung’s lips, “you thought I was gone? I will never leave. He is mine.”
Yoon’s hands are shaking in his lap, and he stares at them rather than meeting Hwapyung’s gaze. There’s no use in lying to Hwapyung. Even if he didn’t have his uncanny ability to read people due to being a medium, he also knows Yoon too well. Funny, how being through some of the worst moments with Hwapyung left Yoon cracked open, fractures in his soul.
“I still get them, too,” Hwapyung says. His voice is light and matter of fact. “They feel too real. Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m awake or still dreaming.”
Yoon looks at Hwapyung again and finds him staring out over the water. “You’re awake.”
Hwapyung lets out a small laugh. “I know. It’s easier to tell when you’re here. Not that I’m saying I like having you here, since you complain about how much I drink and how I need to clean the kitchen and threaten to sic Kilyoung on me.”
“I don’t threaten you.”
“You do!” Hwapyung protests, voice taking on a childlike quality. He turns his good eye on Yoon. “And we both know she wouldn’t show me any mercy.”
Yoon’s lips quirk, and he knows Hwapyung catches the amusement on his face.
“Ah, there we go,” Hwapyung says with a sigh, and he braces his hands behind him on the rocky shore. “I was worried your face was going to be stuck in that permanent scowl.”
“I don’t scowl.”
“Fine, you brood well enough without scowling, I admit it.” Hwapyung grins at Yoon.
Yoon pretends to ignore him, but relief is working its way through his body. The tension in his muscles relaxes slightly. It’s Hwapyung. It’s just Hwapyung.
They sit quietly by the sea, and as faint traces of gold and pink appear on the horizon, Yoon thinks the smell of salt and brine is a little less suffocating.
-
Yoon visits more often now.
He tells the truth when he says the parish is assigning him more visitations in the area, but he doesn’t say he is asking for them. He thinks Hwapyung probably knows anyway.
But Hwapyung said it was easier to tell dreams from reality when Yoon is around, so Yoon is there whenever he can.
Part of it is the doubt. The twisted, hissing whispers he hears in his sleep telling him Hwapyung is lying, that he’s Park Ildo, that he is a trick of Yoon’s own broken mind, that his body is still at sea.
Part of it is that he wants to be near Hwapyung. Even when temptation flickers in the back of his mind, in his fingertips, on his tongue, he would still choose to be near Hwapyung. He’ll take temptation every time if it means knowing Hwapyung is safe and here, not a corpse in the deep.
“Hey, I’m going to finish this before you even take a bite,” Hwapyung says around a mouthful of beef and perilla leaf. His disheveled hair hangs into his eyes. “Less staring, more eating.”
Yoon blinks back to the restaurant, to the meat sizzling between them, to the warm yellow lights overhead. He slowly makes himself a wrap, and despite Hwapyung’s insistence he was going to eat everything, he patiently waits for Yoon, even pushing some of the best pieces of meat towards him.
As they leave, some of the townspeople at a table behind them whisper about the one-eyed hermit who lives up in the hills. Hwapyung just snorts quietly to himself, then shamelessly waits for Yoon to pay.
They walk back to Hwapyung’s house close enough that their arms brush, and Yoon feels the temptation rear its head. “Does it bother you?” Yoon asks, searching for words.
Hwapyung makes a confused noise, glancing at Yoon in the darkness. “What?”
“That people still talk.”
“Oh, that?” Hwapyung shrugs. “Not really. I mean, being the crazy man in the hills is better than the possessed kid whose family died. What, do people not talk about you anymore? I assumed priests gossiped as bad as village old women.”
Yoon’s mouth twitches in amusement. “They do. But they’re also not eager to talk about what happened with Father Yang.”
“Ah, true, true.” Hwapyung bumps his shoulder gently into Yoon and grins. “Guess you’re going to have to go do something to rile them up again.”
Yoon could kiss Hwapyung right now. He could give into temptation. He could start the relationship that he’s heard the other fathers murmur about, confirm their suspicions, break his vows.
“I don’t make a habit of breaking rules,” Yoon answers instead, and he looks away from Hwapyung’s sun-tanned skin and wavy, unkempt hair.
“Only when you’re with me, hm?” Hwapyung laughs again, then sticks his hands into the pockets of his thin jacket and walks ahead of Yoon, whistling as he goes.
Only when I’m with you.
-
Kilyoung drops by with a grocery bag full of tupperware. “Detective Ko’s wife keeps making too many side dishes,” she says as she slips out of her shoes. “I had to throw out half of the last batch.”
Yoon steps back, letting Kilyoung into his small apartment before closing the door behind her. “Does she know you’re giving them away?”
Kilyoung throws Yoon a vaguely unimpressed look before going to his kitchen, which is only a pace away from the entry in the small space. “I’ve told her I can’t eat this much, and she just tells me to get married then so my husband can share it with me.”
Yoon arcs an eyebrow at her. “And I’m a stand-in for your husband.”
“Well, you are a father. Technically.” Kilyoung opens the refrigerator and starts haphazardly shoving the tupperware inside. “Take some to Hwapyung next time you see him if you can’t get through all of it.”
Yoon doesn’t say he has a trip planned for tomorrow. “I will.”
“Good.” Kilyoung, seemingly satisfied with the crammed-in side dishes, closes the fridge door and gives Yoon a once over. “How is he?”
Yoon folds his arms over his chest. He’s still in his work clothes tonight, and the collar of his shirt feels a little tight. “He insists on staying alone by the coast.”
Kilyoung frowns, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. “You know he’s stubborn.”
The we all are goes unsaid. Maybe it’s how they all survived that night nearly a year and a half before. They were too stubborn to give up on each other. Too stubborn to let someone die.
“You’re still visiting when you have work up there, right?” Kilyoung asks, and her eyes turn sharp as she waits for Yoon’s response.
“I am.” Yoon glances at the dish rack where several glasses are still drying. “Would you like anything to drink?”
“I can’t stay. We have a stake-out tonight.” Kilyoung’s expression doesn’t change, still seeming to watch Yoon’s face for something. “You know you’re the only person he lets stay with him.”
Yoon didn’t know.
“Yoon-ah,” she says, a rare moment that she calls him affectionately by name, rather than the annoyed Choi Yoon or the highly irreverent Father Matteo. “Just… be good to Hwapyung.”
Yoon feels his brow furrow.
Kilyoung sighs before brushing her hands off on her slacks and wadding up the bag she used to bring over the side dishes. “You both have been through enough. But you’re also stubborn kids with matching martyr complexes. Let yourself be happy with him, okay?”
Yoon’s mouth opens, then closes. Relief hits first, then shame. He looks at the tiled floor beneath his socks, face burning. He’s been so careful about his feelings, so quiet.
Kilyoung pats his arm once before walking back to the front door. “Yah, Choi Yoon.”
Yoon’s head jerks up, feeling unsteady as his mind reels.
“You deserve to be happy.”
With that, she leaves as brusquely as she entered, door clicking shut behind her.
Yoon stands alone in his kitchen for quite some time.
-
It’s a feverish haze of lips and teeth and hands. There are whispers clawing at the inside of his skull, and Yoon pants from the heat and from the touch and from the laughter. He is ours, they chitter.
Yoon holds Hwapyung closer, digs his fingers into his messy hair, drinks in every moment of Hwapyung’s calloused touch on his skin.
He is ours, he is ours, he will forever be ours. Sinner, covetous sinner, you will die before you have him. We will kill you and feed on his soul, his is ours.
Seawater pours over them both, freezing as it crawls up his nose, down his throat, gagging him. Salt and brine, no chance for air, Hwapyung floating beneath him, blood-stained shirt and mangled skin.
He is OURS.
Yoon gasps for air, sitting up with a thin blanket tangled around his legs. He curls over on himself, gagging. Phantom pain stabs at his chest, an echo of the prophecy that nearly killed him. He presses his hand over his heart, willing its frantic beating to slow.
His eyes search the room in the dark, but Hwapyung’s own pillow and blanket across the room are messily tossed aside. Yoon’s throat tightens as he staggers to his feet. “Hwapyung,” he rasps.
There’s no answer. No lights are on in the house, and Yoon steadies himself as he heads to the porch. Hwapyung’s sneakers are gone, and nausea sweeps over him, voices of the demons in his sleep lingering.
Yoon shoves his shoes on, his legs shaking as he takes off toward the coast.
You can’t have him. He’s not yours, Yoon tells the voices as he runs.
“Hwapyung!” Yoon shouts. “Yoon Hwapyung!”
The sound of waves draws closer and Yoon lurches to a stop when he sees Hwapyung standing at the edge of the water. “Yoon Hwapyung,” he says, and his heart hammers against his ribs.
Hwapyung turns, a silhouette in the dark but unmistakable. Yoon would know him anywhere. “Choi Yoon.”
Yoon’s hands tremble almost violently as he lifts one. “Come back.”
Hwapyung doesn’t move for a horrible moment, and then he’s coming closer, worn down sneakers crunching over sand and rock. His face is covered in shadows, but his glass eye glows silver. “Yoon-ah?”
Yoon doesn’t breathe. He looks across Hwapyung’s face, searching. You can’t have him, you can’t have him, you can’t have him.
Hwapyung’s fingers curl around Yoon’s, warm and calloused. “It’s me, okay? It’s me.”
Yoon’s lungs expand again, a rush of sea air burning his throat.
“Hey, last time we did this I punched you in the face and you tried to exorcize me. Would that make you feel better?” Hwapyung’s voice is teasing, but he doesn’t let go of Yoon’s hand. He moves closer.
“I’m sorry,” Yoon says. It’s always the doubt, always the doubt lingering over him like a funeral shroud.
“Is that a no for the punch-and-exorcism combo?” Hwapyung asks easily.
Yoon shakes his head. “No. I,” he exhales shakily, cutting himself off. “I overreacted. I’m sorry.”
“You said that already,” Hwapyung points out. He’s still holding Yoon’s hand. His voice is quieter, no longer joking as he says, “I worry about it, too. Park Ildo could still be somewhere inside of me. I don’t feel him. I don’t think he’s there, but I’m not sure.”
Yoon stares at Hwapyung, his heart finally slowing though the smell of the sea and the conversation leave him nauseous. “Will you ever be sure?”
Hwapyung drops Yoon’s hand now, and he takes a step back before casting his gaze out to the sea once again. “Maybe not. It’s funny, isn’t it? I used to be so adamant that Park Ildo had left me and possessed someone else. And then I invited him in, and now I can never be sure he isn’t still here.”
“You didn’t react to the holy cross,” Yoon says quietly.
“I know. But you still thought I was about to walk into the ocean again.” Hwapyung doesn’t sound hurt or defensive. He sounds tired instead. Tired and weary.
“Doubt.” Yoon could quote plenty of biblical phrases about doubt and skepticism. It doesn’t make a difference, though. His faith took root in desperation. His brother wasn’t a murderer, he was possessed. His family wasn’t the cause of it, there was a powerful demon at work. He joined the church not because of devotion, but because he wanted to find his brother and save him. “We still both doubt.”
Hwapyung cocks his head to the side to give Yoon a half-hearted glare with his good eye. “Please tell me you’re not going to start preaching. You know I don’t do the church stuff.”
Yoon breathes out in what might be half a laugh. “I wasn’t. It’s not a topic I could speak to either way.”
“Ah,” Hwapyung says thoughtfully. “I guess it’s just something we have to live with now.”
“Perhaps,” Yoon answers, but he thinks Hwapyung is right. There will always be doubt, like there will always be shadow. Father Yang’s twisted last sermon, his black mass, spoke of the darkness swallowing the day.
“And on that horribly optimistic note,” Hwapyung says, clapping his hands together, “let’s go home.”
Home.
Yoon holds that word in his mouth the rest of the night, safe but unspoken.
-
Yoon kissed a boy when he was seventeen. It was so long ago that he barely remembers anything about it other than the rush of guilt that followed, the fear of getting caught.
There are so many rules in the church, so many passages pulled from the Bible and twisted into weapons to use against those the clergy declares as unholy.
Yoon is far beyond caring for the church’s approval. It might get him removed from the priesthood someday, but he does what he knows is right and deals with the consequences.
It’s a gray day in December when Yoon sits down on a pew beside a girl who tells Yoon with tears on her face that her parents arranged this meeting so she could confess to Yoon her sins. She’s seventeen, guilty and afraid, and Yoon can’t hide from a living mirror.
“It’s not the work of demons,” Yoon tells her quietly, both of them staring ahead at the cross that hangs on the wall. “Demons are possessive and cruel. They thrive on feelings of hatred, on the unholy.”
“I don’t understand,” the girl says. Her nose is red from crying, but for the first time in their entire consultation, she looks Yoon in the eye. “If it’s not a sin, then what is it?”
Yoon smiles at her, small and knowing. “It’s for you to find out for yourself.”
-
There’s a lighthouse on the shore not far from Hwapyung’s house in the hills. Yoon sees it sometimes, a flicker in the distance. He walks to it the next time he visits Hwapyung. It’s bitterly cold, and Yoon is wearing a second-hand jacket with holes in the pockets.
He doesn’t know what he expected to find, but he stands outside the lighthouse quietly as the icy wind stings his cheeks. The white plaster along the outside of the lighthouse base is cracked and peeling, but it’s reinforced with metal beams. It’s unremarkable, but Yoon thinks about it even after he returns to Hwapyung’s house.
“You’re going to catch a cold,” Hwapyung says in annoyance, slipping a cup of tea into Yoon’s grasp. “You should’ve at least borrowed my jacket. Yours is too thin.”
Yoon curls his fingers around the mug, warmth soaking into his skin. It smells like ginger. “I didn’t mind.”
Hwapyung makes a dismissive noise. “Well I do. Why’d you even want to go out to the old lighthouse in this weather?”
Yoon looks from the tea to Hwapyung. “I’ve been thinking about the last sermon Father Yang gave.”
Hwapyung stills at the name, his eye narrowing. “Are the priests bringing him up again?”
“No,” Yoon says, and he raises the mug to his lips, taking a small sip. Ginger and lemon. “They avoid speaking of him whenever they can.”
Hwapyung seems to relax at that. “I guess sometimes that makes things worse. All the things that go unsaid.”
Yoon nods, drinking a little more of the tea even though it’s almost too hot on his tongue.
“What about his last sermon made you think of a lighthouse?” Hwapyung presses after a few moments. Yoon can’t tell if he’s curious or concerned or a mix of both.
“He changed the words of a Bible verse,” Yoon says. “Instead of saying the light will prevail, he said the light will be consumed by darkness. It’s been on my mind.”
Hwapyung hums in understanding. “So what’d you think of it?”
Yoon stares at him for a moment before saying flatly, “it’s a lighthouse.”
Hwapyung snorts. “Yeah, it is.” He stretches then, yawning before scratching the back of his head. “What do you want for dinner?”
-
Yoon wakes to Hwapyung talking in his sleep.
Even in the dark, Yoon can see him writhing, blanket kicked off of him entirely despite the cold. The room is small enough that Yoon can lift himself to his knees and reach over to Hwapyung, touching his shoulder.
“Hwapyung,” he murmurs, then shakes him a little harder.
“Don’t,” Hwapyung rasps. His eyes are still closed. “Don’t come closer. I have to—I have to—”
Yoon shakes him again, and Hwapyung jolts upright.
“Don’t!” Hwapyung shouts into the silence of the room.
Yoon retracts his hand quickly, searching Hwapyung’s face. His forehead is sweaty, hair plastered to his skin, and he looks terrified.
Hwapyung takes in a sharp breath, then buries his head in his hands. “Shit. Sorry.”
“A nightmare?”
“Yeah. I just—I need a second,” Hwapyung doesn’t lift his head. “To make sure this isn’t a dream, too.”
Yoon waits, knees digging into the wood floor. Several minutes pass before Hwapyung looks up at him. “You’re still here.”
Yoon feels his brow furrow. “Yes.”
“In the dreams you always leave,” Hwapyung says. His voice is wracked with exhaustion, and his shoulders are slumped as he rubs at his forearm, where the scars from the binding ritual stand out on his skin. “Makes it easy when you’re really here, because you stay.”
Yoon’s throat starts to ache. “I won’t leave.”
“I know,” Hwapyung mutters. “Stubborn bastard. I was dreaming about that night, actually. The one in the water, when you wouldn’t just leave me be.”
He doesn’t need to specify. That night used to be the one when they were children and Yoon ran from a blood-soaked house. Now, it means the night they almost lost each other. The one where Yoon did lose Hwapyung, spent a year grieving until he found Hwapyung again.
“I’m glad I didn’t,” Yoon says. He finally settles back off of his knees, exhaling quietly as the tension and worry ease.
Hwapyung’s expression is unreadable in the dark, but as he lies back down, Yoon hears his breath hitch. “I guess I am, too.”
-
“Thank you, Father,” the man says, bowing low even as he continues wringing his hands. He has dark circles beneath his eyes. “I know the trip here is long.”
“It wasn’t a problem. Thank you for calling me.” Yoon moves to the edge of the hall as a nurse rushes past them. “Please contact me if you need anything.”
Yoon leaves the hospital with a bow, catching a taxi across the street. The sky above is gray, and thunder rumbles in the distance. He gives Hwapyung’s address to the driver, having long since memorized it.
The taxi driver asks Yoon what parish he belongs to after eyeing his clothes, but doesn’t make small talk beyond that. He lets Yoon off down the hill from Hwapyung’s house, and Yoon makes the trek up to the top with his bag as storm clouds continue to gather overhead.
Yoon steps up to the porch and knocks, but there’s no answer. He pulls his phone out of his pocket when thunder rumbles again, and dials Hwapyung’s number — also memorized.
Hwapyung picks up after only two rings. “Ah, Choi Yoon,” Hwapyung’s voice is already apologetic. Wind howls in the background, causing static to crackle through the speaker. “You’re already there? Sorry, I’m just finishing up some work.”
“It’s fine, I’m early,” Yoon says. He glances up at the sky again. “You’re on the docks? Did you bring a rain jacket?”
“I didn’t check the forecast this morning.” Someone’s shouting on Hwapyung’s end, yelling to get everything strapped down before the storm hits. “I’ll be back soon. There’s a spare key under the laundry basin.”
Yoon frowns. “I’ll meet you. I have an umbrella.”
“It’s fine,” Hwapyung complains. “A little bit of rain never hurt anyone.”
Another loud rumble of thunder rolls over the hill. “I’ll be there soon.”
Hwapyung sighs loudly, but it morphs into what sounds like a laugh. “Alright. Just don’t blame me when your dress shoes get soaked.”
Fifteen minutes later, with wind blowing the umbrella around and rain drenching him head to toe, Yoon doesn’t blame Hwapyung. He does, however, shiver and struggle to keep his grip on the umbrella.
He knows he’s only halfway to the docks, maybe less. The dirt path has completely turned to mud, making it difficult to keep his footing as he struggles against the storm. The rain is starting to come down harder, and Yoon feels three parts underprepared and one part foolish.
Another gust of wind rips the umbrella from Yoon’s hand, and he grits his teeth. He hopes Hwapyung took cover somewhere dry before the storm worsened.
Or at least, Yoon assumes that he’d be reasonable enough to do so when he hears his name in the distance.
“Choi Yoon! Choi—” the voice cuts off, and a dark figure straggles forward in the wind. It’s unmistakably Hwapyung coming over the crest of the hill from the direction of the docks. He’s soaked, arms wrapped around his middle until he sees Yoon. He waves one arm above his head. “Hey! Choi Yoon!”
Water is starting to stream down the hill, mud and muck up to Yoon’s ankles as he shivers again. Hwapyung hurries toward him. “You should’ve taken shelter at the docks,” Yoon says, but any potential for a chiding tone disappears as Yoon’s teeth click together in the cold.
“Yeah, and you should’ve waited for me at the house,” Hwapyung says, and he throws his arm around Yoon’s middle. “Come on, the lighthouse is just over there. We can stay there until the storm blows over. I don’t want to be caught in a flash flood.”
Yoon leans on Hwapyung as they stumble up the incline to the east, rainwater blurring his vision. The wind howls, and Yoon tries not to let himself of how much it sounds like demons wailing inside his head.
When the top of the lighthouse appears over the hill, Hwapyung pulls Yoon closer. “Come on, before the wind blows you away.”
Yoon thinks it’s more likely Hwapyung would be blown away given his stature, but he doesn’t want to pick a pointless fight. And he doesn’t think he could get the words out around the shivers wracking through him.
The door at the base of the lighthouse is open, and Hwapyung lets them both inside. The wind still screeches, but it’s muted within the circular walls. They both drip all over the stone floor, puddles forming beneath their feet and mud tracked in the few steps they’ve taken.
Hwapyung looks disgusted as he shakes his head rapidly like a wet dog. Drops of water fly from his hair, and he wipes his eyes with the back of his wrist before looking up the spiraling stairs. “Hello?”
There’s no answer at first, then the sound of footsteps as an elderly man appears with a flask in hand.
Yoon is barely aware of the exchange between the lighthouse keeper and Hwapyung. He bows when Hwapyung gestures at him, but then he keeps his arms wrapped around himself and tries not to shudder too violently as his teeth continue clicking together. He lets Hwapyung do the talking, then gently lead him up one floor to an empty landing.
The lighthouse keeper brings them two blankets, the first of which Hwapyung uses as a towel for them both, and the second he huddles beneath, sitting pressed into Yoon’s side.
“You look like a drowned cat,” Hwapyung says helpfully, bumping his shoulder into Yoon. “Let’s wait out the storm and then get soju to warm up, hm?”
Yoon shivers again. The lighthouse keeper is moving around on the floor above, the sounds echoing down the stairwell. The storm continues to rage outside with no signs of it letting up. Yoon squeezes his eyes shut.
“Hey, Yoon. Choi Yoon. You’re scaring me with how quiet you’re being.”
Yoon, drenched and still freezing, cracks open his eyes and looks at Hwapyung, his concerned face coming into focus. His long hair is still wet, though the waves are exaggerated while damp, fluffy and sticking up in every direction. “You remind me of a wet dog.”
Hwapyung stares for a moment before laughing, and he elbows Yoon sharply in the side. “Asshole.”
“A drowned cat?”
“Fine, that’s fair. I think I preferred it when you weren’t talking, though.” Hwapyung tilts his head back against the wall before his body shakes with a shudder of his own. “Storm’s probably going to last for a few hours. We might as well get comfortable.”
Yoon is going to say he doesn’t think he can get comfortable with rain-soaked clothes clinging to his skin, but he’s not sure if it’s a minute or five before he’s nodding off, drifting off to sleep to the sound of Hwapyung’s quiet breaths.
-
It’s dark when they leave the lighthouse. The paths are mud covered, so it’s easier to walk along the rocky coast now that the rain has stopped. The smell of rain mingles with saltwater, and Yoon wants very much to wash off and change into his sleep clothes.
Hwapyung is surprisingly quiet as they make their way to his home. He keeps looking over his shoulder, and it’s making Yoon uneasy.
“Do you sense something?”
“Huh?” Hwapyung startles at Yoon’s voice, and he stops after a few more steps. “No. I mean — no.”
Yoon frowns as he turns to look at him. “Yoon Hwapyung.”
“I’m serious,” Hwapyung protests. He scratches the back of his head in what seems to be frustration. “It’s stupid, anyway. And your fault.”
“My fault?” Yoon asks, his frown deepening.
“The lighthouse,” Hwapyung answers in annoyance, like that should be clear enough for Yoon. He waves his hand back at it, a speck of brightness in the distance at this hour. “When you were here a few months ago, you went to the lighthouse because of some sermon Father Yang gave. I don’t remember what you said, but it was about dark swallowing the light or whatever.”
Hwapyung still sounds frustrated, and Yoon isn’t entirely sure where this is going. He’d forgotten his own attachment to the metaphor of light. “It’s not the right verse. He changed it.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t really care about the religious stuff anyway.” Hwapyung looks over his shoulder again. “But there’s something reassuring about the lighthouse. We found it in the storm, and it’s always there to guide ships home.”
Yoon nods after a moment. “A light even the dark can’t overtake.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Hwapyung turns back to Yoon. “It’s just — that’s what you are. Were. That night. That whole time we were tracking down Park Ildo. Even when we disagreed or when you didn’t trust me, you were still there . And I was ready to die once I trapped Park Ildo inside of me, but you wouldn’t let me.”
They stand on the edge of the rocky precipice, and Yoon’s hands curl into fists, fingernails pricking at the soft skin of his palms. Hwapyung was covered in blood, and Park Ildo kept speaking through his mouth, and Yoon was losing him.
“You could’ve died. I still don’t know how you didn’t, with the prophecy of the possessed,” Hwapyung says, and he tilts his face up at the cloudy night sky. “I wanted to save you , you idiot.”
Yoon’s heart twists in his chest. “I know.”
Hwapyung clears his throat, scuffing his muddy tennis shoe on the rock. “Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about.” He starts walking again, brushing past Yoon without looking at him.
Yoon’s fingers close around Hwapyung’s thin wrist, and though Hwapyung stops, he doesn’t look back at Yoon. “You’re the same for me,” Yoon tells him quietly. “You saved me then, too.”
Hwapyung exhales shakily but doesn’t reply. Yoon carefully lets go of his wrist. The two of them resume the walk back to Hwapyung’s house, the lighthouse behind them.
-
Kilyoung orders for them before pouring the soju. There’s a bandaid on her cheek, though she brushes off concern when Yoon brings it up.
“Just a bastard who didn’t know when to stop talking,” Kilyoung supplies casually.
Hwapyung makes a disapproving sound from beside Yoon. “You still have a temper.”
Kilyoung grimaces at him. “He deserved it.”
“Alright, alright,” Hwapyung says quickly, raising his hands in surrender. He refills Kilyoung’s shot glass when she drains it. “You’re just getting scarier with age.”
“Good,” Kilyoung says definitively, pouring Hwapyung and Yoon refills once the bottle is back on the table.
She drives them back to Yoon’s apartment that night, waving to them and telling them to drop by the station tomorrow before Hwapyung’s bus leaves. Hwapyung cheerily says goodnight, but some of his good humor fades as Yoon rolls out blankets for him.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” Hwapyung says. His voice is light, but when Yoon looks up at him, he finds Hwapyung’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I haven’t been around this many people in a while. If something happens, everyone in this neighborhood could be in danger.”
Yoon glances at his beaded crucifix still hanging around Hwapyung’s neck, a souvenir from that night. “Do you think there’s a risk?”
Hwapyung’s good eye is downcast, and he sinks down to the floor beside Yoon. “I don’t know. There always could be. I just — I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Yoon knows. He knows well. Hwapyung almost died trying to be sure Park Ildo never hurt anyone else again. His fingers twitch as he smooths out the blanket. “I’ll be here.”
Hwapyung picks at a hole in his jeans, right over his knee. “And you’d stop me.”
“Yes.” Yoon would stop him from hurting himself, too. He won’t lose Hwapyung again, not to demons, not to himself. “I can stay close.”
Hwapyung nods. He wraps a thread around his finger before laughing quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”
“I know,” Yoon says softly. It was the moment Hwapyung, possessed by Park Ildo, was about to plunge a dagger into Yoon’s heart that he pulled himself from the possession. If there is anything Yoon has faith in, stronger than any doubt, it’s that Hwapyung would die before he hurt Yoon.
And Yoon would die for him.
Yoon moves the blankets and pillows closer together, trying to ignore the increase in his heartbeat. The church would say it’s temptation, when Hwapyung emerges from the bathroom in a worn sleep shirt and flannel pants, looking so much like home that it makes Yoon’s chest ache.
But Yoon told the girl months ago it wasn’t the work of demons, it wasn’t a sin. It was something to figure out for herself.
Yoon changes quickly only to find that Hwapyung’s dragged his blanket even closer, and he peers up at Yoon with his good eye. “We could tie our wrists together,” he suggests.
Yoon nearly chokes at that, but manages to turn the rush of heat into one of indignation instead. “Yoon Hwapyung,” he says, and his voice sounds only slightly strained. “I’ll be right there.”
Hwapyung seems to consider this seriously before acquiescing with a sigh. He lies down beneath the blanket, and Yoon tries not to let his breathing betray his racing pulse as he lies down next to him.
He can feel the heat of Hwapyung’s body a reach away.
Yoon stares at the ceiling.
“G’night.”
“Goodnight.”
Yoon stays awake for quite some time, eventually beyond when Hwapyung’s breathing evens out and he rolls over, pressing his nose into Yoon’s shoulder.
It’s not temptation. It’s love.
Yoon falls asleep not long after Hwapyung.
That night, he doesn’t dream.
-
Breakfast is small, Yoon making a soup for them both before Hwapyung showers and repacks his overnight bag.
Yoon is still in his sleep clothes as he sees Hwapyung off at the door, their breakfast dishes drying beside the sink and morning light filtering into his quiet apartment.
“Detective Ko is going to complain that I’m there,” Hwapyung whines as he slips into his shoes, his bag slung over his shoulder. “I should’ve just said goodbye last night.”
Yoon’s lips quirk into a smile. “I’m sure Kilyoung-ssi will defend you.”
Hwapyung snorts. “Hilarious.” He pauses once his shoes are on, and his amused expression fades. “Thanks for letting me stay here last night. And trusting that I wasn’t going to…”
“I trust you,” Yoon says. It’s not a surprise now, how sure the words sound. “I know you more than I have doubts.”
Hwapyung’s eyes widen slightly, his lips parting around whatever response he’d been ready to give. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. He looks down at the tile floor by the front door. “Thanks.”
Yoon’s chest warms. “You can stay here if you want to come into the city again.”
“I might take you up on that.” Hwapyung clears his throat, running his hand through his shaggy hair. “Don’t make me feel too welcome, though, or you’ll never get rid of me.”
I hope, Yoon thinks. He tries to hide his smile this time. “I stay with you sometimes twice a month,” Yoon points out. “If you start coming to the city again, this might as well feel like home to you, too.”
Hwapyung’s bag drops to the floor, and Yoon almost goes to pick it up before he sees Hwapyung’s expression, the way his good eye is bearing directly into Yoon. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly small. “Choi Yoon. You can’t just be like that all the time.”
Yoon blinks at him. “Like what?”
“Like that,” Hwapyung says before making a frustrated noise and rocking up on his toes.
They’re kissing.
Yoon feels Hwapyung’s lips. He barely has time to process before Hwapyung starts to pull away and his hand flies to the back of Hwapyung’s head, burying his fingers in the thick strands of his hair.
Hwapyung gasps in response before he’s gripping Yoon’s shoulder, pressing in closer.
It’s not feverish or muddled, like Yoon’s dreams.
It’s nervous. Tentative. A question. A conversation.
Their hands move slowly, first Hwapyung’s from Yoon’s shoulder to his neck, then Yoon’s from Hwapyung’s hair to his cheek, cradling his face. Every kiss is followed by a breath, and every kiss is followed by one of them leaning in again for more.
Even with his eyes closed, Yoon feels the warmth of the sunshine on his skin. He holds Hwapyung and they stand together in the light.
“So,” Hwapyung says, fingers tracing down Yoon’s neck along his spine.
Yoon leans down to press his forehead to Hwapyung’s. “So,” he echoes.
They both laugh, Hwapyung’s short and bright, Yoon’s breathy and soft.
“Think Kilyoung is going to mind if I’m late?”
Hwapyoung asks.
Yoon considers for a moment, struggling to think about something other than the warmth of the sun and the way Hwapyung grins at him. “If she’s not running late, herself.”
“Ah.” Hwapyung shrugs. “I’ll take my chances, then,” he says, and leans in to kiss Yoon again.
-
Any good theology teacher will say the Bible is mostly written in metaphors.
Yoon sits on the edge of the shore beside the lighthouse and thinks sometimes they’re the best way to describe things too complicated to put into other words.
The sun is setting behind him, sky already dark over the East Sea. Park Ildo, or whatever the name of the ancient demon might be, is still out there. Yoon knows. Hwapyung and Kilyoung know. In twenty years, it’ll return. Maybe before twenty years. Maybe a small part of Park Ildo still lies dormant inside Hwapyung, waiting.
Doubt will always linger.
Yoon tilts his face back, a beam of light from the top of the lighthouse shining over his head and out into the water.
“Even the darkness will not be dark to you,” Yoon says quietly. He listens to the waves crash, closing his eyes to take a slow breath.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Hwapyung’s voice isn’t a surprise, and he glows faintly in the setting sun. His hands are in the pockets of his worn jeans as he strolls over to join Yoon.
It’s been three years now.
The smell of saltwater and brine no longer makes him weary, though he still sometimes dreams of drowning, though he still sometimes hears the whisper of demons, though he still feels that jolt of fear when he wakes up and Hwapyung isn’t beside him.
A hand appears then, and Yoon looks up to see Hwapyung reaching for him with a small smile. “Yoon-ah,” he says, “let’s go.”
And like a ship finding light in the dark, Yoon follows him home.