At Gi-hyeon’s words, Gwok Un’s face fell as if the world had ended. The hands that had been tracing the remnants of Eun-hyeong crumbled away. At his fingertips, an aching longing surged and swelled. Gwok Un stared blankly into empty air. Through his closed lips, something like a lament seeped out.
“I know.”
“……”
“……I already know, even without you saying it.”
A single tear grazed his cheek and fell. As if suppressing the agony tearing through him, Gwok Un’s brow furrowed. Gi-hyeon stood quietly by his side.
After crying for a long while, Gwok Un’s breath came in heaving gasps — and Gi-hyeon gathered him into his arms. In Gi-hyeon’s warm embrace, Gwok Un let his limbs go limp. Gi-hyeon laid him carefully onto the bed and pulled the blanket over him. Gwok Un, buried beneath the covers, poked his head out. The reddened corners of his eyes trembled pitifully. Gi-hyeon covered Gwok Un’s eyes with his hand.
“Everything will be fine once you sleep it off.”
When Gi-hyeon moved to withdraw his hand, Gwok Un urgently caught it. Gi-hyeon’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Stay a little longer.”
“……”
“Just a little……”
In that moment, Gi-hyeon felt he understood why people fell under Gwok Un’s spell. Gwok Un was lethal — the way he showed his bare, unguarded depths without hesitation. Enough to crumble the layers upon layers of enmity and contempt Gi-hyeon had built up, all in a single instant. A sudden impulse struck him — he wanted to wipe the wetness from Gwok Un’s cheek. The abrupt stirring of his heart startled him.
“……I hope you sleep well.”
Gi-hyeon carefully removed Gwok Un’s hand and patted his shoulder. At the gentle refusal, tears spilled from the eyes looking up at Gi-hyeon.
The dark studio greeted a weary Gi-hyeon. At the sight of Do-gyeom’s back buried in the darkness, Gi-hyeon managed a tired smile. He wanted to pull Do-gyeom into his arms right then and breathe in his scent — but instead he stood there, gazing at him quietly. As the light from the corridor seeped in, Do-gyeom turned his head. Do-gyeom, looking back over his shoulder, wore a face just as exhausted as Gi-hyeon’s. Gi-hyeon dragged his heavy feet over to Do-gyeom. He cupped Do-gyeom’s cheek. The fact that he could touch him — the fact that he was real — felt like a blessing, as if for the first time.
“……Jakka-nim.”
Where does the habit of finding relief in another’s misfortune come from? Is it an instinct born of survival? Gi-hyeon pulled Do-gyeom into his embrace. He held Do-gyeom tenderly.
“Do-gyeom-ssi…… Kim Do-gyeom, Do-gyeom, Do-gyeom…… Do-gyeom-ah……”
Gi-hyeon called his name as if reminding himself that Do-gyeom existed. Do-gyeom, who had been hesitating, wrapped his arms around Gi-hyeon’s waist too. Do-gyeom rested his cheek against the firm chest. Through the thin shirt, he could hear a heartbeat. Do-gyeom breathed in and out in time with its rhythm. One by one, the stray thoughts circling in his mind faded.
This is enough. This is…… enough.
Some things become nothing at all if left unspoken. Do-gyeom knew that naming a problem gave it substance. He swallowed the questions that had risen all the way to his throat and surrendered himself to the warmth of the present.
After that day, Gwok Un no longer sought Gi-hyeon out except for their scheduled reviews. It was as if they had been sent back to the very first day Gi-hyeon had arrived at the mansion. Nothing could be read from eyes that had once projected emotion, and the emotional exchanges that had flowed between them were gone. He was as arrogant and beautiful as always — but somehow, that very fact made it more difficult to ignore.
He’s not pushing himself too hard, is he.
Gwok Un did not turn toward Gi-hyeon even under his concerned gaze. Gwok Un, who had been silently studying the painting, opened his mouth.
“The pace has picked up.”
“My arm is almost healed, so I figured I should work hard.”
“But what’s the matière in this section?”
“I felt primary colors weren’t enough, so I emphasized it through materiality.”
“Not bad — but if you push it further it’ll feel excessive. You know that, right? The other section doesn’t need much feedback. Next time, bring both to 80%.”
“Alright.”
Having finished his critique, Gwok Un left the studio without any particular farewell. Gi-hyeon let out a long sigh as he watched Gwok Un disappear. On the day the Mum Gallery director had come, it seemed he had inadvertently hurt Gwok Un.
I already knew he was more fragile than he let on.
He would struggle for a while, but he needed to face it — I thought. I couldn’t keep letting him search for traces of someone already gone. But if I’d known he’d take it that hard, I wouldn’t have done it. Gi-hyeon sighed again as he moved the easel. When he carelessly dragged it, the enormous canvas resting on top swayed. In Gi-hyeon’s place — his mind elsewhere — Do-gyeom rushed to steady the canvas. Gi-hyeon snapped back to his senses and smiled sheepishly.
“Ah, thank you.”
“Is something wrong? You look exhausted.”
The eyes looking up at him were filled with nothing but genuine concern. And here I am letting my mind wander with such a lovely partner right beside me. Gi-hyeon silently chastised himself for his thoughtlessness and wrapped an arm around Do-gyeom’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, there’s just something on my mind…… Were you worried?”
“How could I not be, with a face like that.”
“I’m sorry for worrying you — but honestly, I like it. Worry about me more.”
At Gi-hyeon whining like a child, Do-gyeom let out a soft laugh. He lightly pinched Gi-hyeon’s cheek.
“I’m still a patient, you know — is it alright to treat me like this?”
“This isn’t the first or second time that excuse has been used — it doesn’t work on me anymore, so stop lying.”
Do-gyeom cut him off firmly and carefully lifted Gi-hyeon’s right arm.
“How’s the arm?”
“Almost fully healed. You can stop worrying.”
Gi-hyeon had recovered at a monstrous pace, fast enough to surprise even the doctor. The wound had mended quickly without any particular treatment, and now only a faint suture scar remained. But Do-gyeom still stared at it with the same anguished eyes as the day the Butler had torn open his arm. As Do-gyeom’s expression grew grave again, Gi-hyeon spoke playfully to shift the mood.
“Actually, it still hurts a little — so kiss it better.”
Do-gyeom gave Gi-hyeon a playful sideways glance. He carefully pressed his lips to the suture scar. His lips traced over the needle marks. At the moist sensation, the smile on Gi-hyeon’s face gradually faded. Gi-hyeon tilted Do-gyeom’s chin up. He angled his head and captured Do-gyeom’s lips. Do-gyeom — already grown accustomed to this — parted his lips and wrapped his arms around Gi-hyeon’s neck. Slick tongues moved against each other, trading saliva.
Gi-hyeon bit down softly on Do-gyeom’s lower lip and pulled his head in by the back. No matter how deep he pressed, it never felt like enough. The hand stroking Do-gyeom’s cheek grew heavier. Gi-hyeon traced over Do-gyeom’s saliva-wet lips. He wanted to push a finger through the small gap between them.
Just imagining the soft tongue that would curl around it made heat rise through him. Gi-hyeon pulled their bodies apart. Then he wiped away the slick saliva. Keeping his gaze fixed on Do-gyeom, he dragged his tongue slowly along his fingers. At the provocative sight, Do-gyeom looked down.
If he pressed his teeth to that slender neck, it would leave a mark like a heat rash. After a brief struggle between desire and reason, he pressed his lips to Do-gyeom’s neck instead.
“Building up immunity isn’t a bad idea — but I’ll hold out a little longer for now.”
“……”
Do-gyeom desperately looked away from the meaning beneath Gi-hyeon’s words. He turned his gaze to the painting. Standing before the vast canvas, Do-gyeom’s lips parted slightly. Admiration filled those deer-like eyes.
“Aren’t you overworking yourself? Your arm still isn’t fully healed.”
Even if the critics and Gwok Un tore him apart, as long as Do-gyeom was here, he felt like that would be enough. Gi-hyeon rested his chin on top of his little admirer’s head.
“The pace is picking up — I think I’ll finish it soon. When it’s done, shall we go on a date?”
“Where?”
“Do you remember what I said at the festival before? I told you I’d take you anywhere — an island, the sea, wherever you wanted.”
An image formed in his mind — Do-gyeom dipping his feet into the sea, laughing. Waves breaking white against those slender ankles — it would surely be beautiful. Then again, Do-gyeom would be beautiful in any landscape. Gi-hyeon wished the remaining 100 days would pass quickly. He wanted to give Do-gyeom the world, as soon as possible, once he was free of this mansion.
“Sounds good.”
“Then I’d better paint like my life depends on it starting tomorrow.”
Gi-hyeon wrapped an arm around Do-gyeom’s shoulder and gazed at the painting. Everything had felt so impossible — but seeing the painting nearing completion stirred something deep in him. From the moment he had heard Gwok Un’s cryptic demands all the way to today, the turbulent days gone by came flooding back. There had been many difficult days — but the time spent here felt like something he would never forget.
“There are 100 days left now.”
“Pardon?”
Gi-hyeon looked around the studio with distant eyes. Memories were soaked into every corner — the desk where every hour of every day had been spent, the table where he and Do-gyeom had shared their first drink, the rug where he had set both Do-gyeom and Gwok Un up as models. He continued in a voice steeped in nostalgia.
“The deadline, I mean. This place has become more familiar to me than my own home — it’s strange to think I have to go back.”
“……Go back? Where?”
Do-gyeom’s words made Gi-hyeon’s face freeze in bewilderment. The sudden reaction was hard to understand, but Gi-hyeon smiled awkwardly and pressed on.
“Back home.”
“Home?”
Do-gyeom murmured the word like a child hearing it for the first time. Flustered, Gi-hyeon turned Do-gyeom to face him. The eyes that met his were wavering with unease. He spoke in a clear, deliberate tone.
“When the contract ends, so does living here — you know it’s a 200-day residency, don’t you.”
“It ends……?”
The moment those clouded eyes looked up at Gi-hyeon, he realized something was wrong. He had thought they were both looking toward the same future — but Do-gyeom had been stopped in the present. He thought he had understood Do-gyeom well, but the person who treated the present as the only tense felt like a stranger to him now. In an instant, everything felt impossibly distant. It was as though he had gone completely, blindingly white.
