I am the abyss.

Gaon knows he’s about to have a really rough week or so when he ends up snapping at Jinjoo over something really stupid. 

His face goes white almost immediately after the words come out of his mouth and he’s stumbling apologies before Jinjoo has a chance to react. 

“It’s okay, Gaon-ssi,” she says after he’s already apologized three times, “are you alright? You…seem to be unwell.”

Gaon huffs, dragging a sleeve over his forehead. “That’s a strange way to say ‘bit my head off for no reason.’”

“That too.”

He opens his mouth but he’s cut off by a hacking cough that shudders his lungs. Jinjoo’s eyes widen. 

“Definitely unwell.” She throws his coat at him and plants her hands on her hips. “You need to go home, Judge Kim.”

“We’re back to titles now?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Jinjoo says firmly, “then yes, Judge Kim. You need to go and rest.”

“Alright, alright,” he mumbles, gathering his things, “at least I know I’ve got time stored up.”

“When I said you’d work yourself sick, I didn’t mean it literally.” Jinjoo rests her hand on his shoulder. “But really, Gaon-ssi, you do need to rest.”

“I know.” He gives her a smile. “Don’t start the next war without me.”

“Get out! Get out,” she laughs, shooing him out the door. 

Gaon has to admit, about halfway home, that he really is coming down with something. Everything just seems like too much. The sound of the train is too loud, the sound of the bus is too loud. The glare of the sunlight that flashes through the windows is enough to make him shy away from it. The feeling of his coat collar rubbing against his neck is like sandpaper. The sudden jolt of coming to a stop threatens to send him staggering. 

He doesn’t remember getting off at his stop, only blinking and fumbling for his keys at his front door. He looks behind him, checking to see if this is the right path he’s walked up. He can’t remember coming up the stairs. But his babies are there, in their little pots, his watering system still giving them what they need. He makes a point not to neglect them before shutting himself inside. 

No use in more of them getting troubled by whatever this turns out to be. 

‘This’ turns out to be a fever. A bad one. He cautiously checks the guide on the back of the thermometer package and, well, according to what it says, there’s no way he should have gone to work this morning. Gaon shrugs and sets it aside. He should, uh, eat something? Get changed? He really doesn’t feel like he’s all that bad, maybe it’s just an exaggeration. 

He goes to take a shower. His bathroom is really shiny. Why is it so shiny? He fumbles and slaps the wall for the light switch and thanks whatever past versions of himself put a nightlight in there so he can shower without gouging out his eyes. The water feels good. It beats down over his shoulders and neck, tipping his head forward with a sigh. He lets himself collapse under it, the spray making the pressure on his chest lift a little. Maybe if he stays here long enough, he can remember how to breathe. 

He blinks. Oh. It’s dark outside now. The water’s gone cold. How long has he been in here?

Getting up is a bad idea, his head thinks, sending him almost careening through the shower curtain. He manages to grab onto the counter and haul himself upright enough to struggle into the pajamas in here. 

When he emerges from the bathroom, he blinks blearily at the clock. 

It’s ten in the evening. 

He—uh. Wow. Maybe he should just go to bed. 

Gaon shuffles over to his bed and lies down, pulling the blankets up to his chin with a sigh. It’s cold. He doesn’t like being cold. He would rather not be cold. He scrunches down into the blankets, frowning so hard it makes his head hurt. It’s no use; soon he’s shivering and cursing whatever decision-maker put his bed right next to his window. He turns his head, an unbidden whine slipping from his throat. 

He doesn’t remember being this sick before. Is this how having a fever always goes? What is he supposed to do? Is he supposed to get something? Does he try and sleep like this?

A memory. From several lifetimes ago. 

“You just need to rest, Gaon-ah,” his mother says softly, stroking his hair back from his sweaty forehead, “feed a cold, starve a fever.”

“Don’t starve me,” a Gaon mumbles, trying to lean further into the touch as his mother chuckles, “please don’t leave me, it hurts so bad.”

“I know, shh…” His mother gives his cheek a pat. “It’s alright. We just have to let it run its course.”

Gaon blinks and he’s twenty-six again, shivering under mountains of blankets and rubbing his cheek half-heartedly against a pillow. Only it’s not dark anymore. He blinks, shifting around only for everything to try and stick to him. Sweat glues his pajamas to his skin, his skin to the blankets, and he’s not shivering, he’s sweating. 

With a groan, he kicks all of the blankets off the bed and winces at the throbbing in his temples. He gropes blindly for the curtains and yanks them shut, breathing out a sigh of relief that turns into a hacking cough, 

Water. He needs water. Water’s okay to drink, right?

Getting up is a whole ordeal, sending him staggering left and right as he strains to get to the kitchen. Glasses. He needs to take a glass down. He fumbles for the cabinet and gets it open. He takes a glass and fills it with water. He drinks it. What is he drinking? He needs water. He opens the cabinet—there’s something in his hand. He can’t open the cabinet with something in his hand. He looks. Oh. It’s a glass. He fills it with water and drinks. As he finishes drinking, he looks down at his hand. He’s holding a glass. Why is he holding a glass? Did he need to drink something? He puts it down. He’s not thirsty. 

He should get changed. Everything feels awful. He stumbles to the bathroom and starts trying to change. His arms are useless, flappy things that can’t grab the ends of his shirt. His legs don’t work and he can’t put pants on. His head pounds as he keeps trying. Why is this so hard? He does this every day, doesn’t he?

He blinks and he’s back in bed. Oh. He must’ve figured something out. He should go check on his plants. They’re probably thirsty. It would be rude to neglect them. After all, who would take care of them if Gaon won’t?

Someone laughs behind him and he turns. 

“Soohyun-ah?”

“Of course, you big idiot,” Soohyun laughs, slapping his chest, “who else is here to look out for you?”

She shakes her head as Gaon just stares at her. After a moment, she notices him looking and rolls her eyes fondly. 

“I’ll take care of you and your precious plants,” she says, coming over to cup his face in her hands, “that’s how this works, remember?”

“Remember?”

“Yes,” she says, her hands beginning to stick a little to his skin, “I do all of the work to take care of you and you just stand there.”

Gaon blinks. “Just…stand there?”

“Yes, Gaon-ah.” Her hands aren’t warm anymore. “You just stand there.”

Gaon blinks again. There’s something on Soohyun’s face. He raises his hand to wipe it off and his hands turn red, red, red. 

“You just stood there.”

Soohyun’s hands are red. They grope dumbly for something to hold. 

“You just stood there.”

His hands are full of blood. Soohyun lies in his arms. He’s shuddering, gasping, she’s dying. Soohyun is dying in his arms and his face is smeared with her blood. She stares up at him with her eyes full of a forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. 

“You just stood there.”

Gaon gasps, jolting upright in bed. In bed? When did he get to his bed? Everything hurts. It’s dark outside. He’s cold. 

As soon as the adrenaline wears off, which only takes a moment, he collapses back down onto the bed. His head pounds. It hurts. The gaps of light are too much. Something blurry moves far away. His throat is sore. His nose is all stuffy and he flails for a blob of blue that looks like it could be a tissue box. 

Something dark is flitting around the room. He tries to swat it away. He doesn't like bugs. He doesn't know if this is a bug. It’s big, it keeps skulking around. He opens his mouth to ask what it’s doing but he doesn’t know how to speak bug. 

The blob just gets closer and it sounds like it’s talking. Can bugs speak human?

“One day,” the blob says, “one day, you’ll understand.”

Understand? Understand what, bug? A hand rests on his shoulder and pats once, twice. 

“You’ll understand, Gaon, one day.”

He knows this voice. He squints and Min Jungho’s face swims into view. He blinks again and the old professor gets closer. 

“Someday,” he says in a voice that hurts his chest, “you will understand why you’ve been left here.”

“No,” Gaon pleads, “don’t leave, why—what are you doing? Why did you betray me? They killed Soohyun-ah, what—why are you doing this?”

“We all do what we have to.” He starts to walk away as a storm brews, threatening to swallow him up. “One day you’ll understand.”

Gaon doesn’t want to understand Min Jungho. He doesn’t want someone to leave him. 

But one by one, he watches them go. 

He watches his parents leave. He watches Soohyun leave. He watches his professor leave. 

He watches reality leave. 

He spins in a downwind of voices, of blood, and of memory. Sometimes it’s Soohyun telling him she needs him to be careful with her mouth full of ash. Sometimes it’s Min Jungho with a pair of scissors in Gaon’s back. Sometimes it’s his parents and no matter how hard and long he screams, he can’t find them. 

He hits the floor. 

“I suppose you have a good reason for barging in like this.”

Gaon whips his head up. Yohan sits at his desk in his study, closing a book and looking at him. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Ch-chief,” Gaon mumbles, clumsily getting up, “you’re—you’re back.”

“This is my house, unless you’ve forgotten that.” Yohan stands up. “Why are you still here?”

Gaon just stares dumbly. “I—I thought you left.”

“Left?”

“You were gone,” he says, trying very hard not to pout, “you and Elijah, you…you weren’t here anymore.”

Yohan hums, coming around the desk but refusing to touch Gaon. “Of course we did.”

“W-what?”

“That was the plan, Gaon.” Yohan tilts his head. “Why would we change it for you?”

The words bruise. Gaon sways. “I…”

“Sunah broke you, Gaon,” Yohan says, turning his back on Gaon and walking away, “and I don’t make a habit of playing with broken toys.”

He’s falling again. 

He’s caught by the throat and slammed against the wall. Yohan glares at him, his eyes full go fire as his grip tightens. 

“How could you,” he hisses, Gaon’s vision starting to black out, “how could you betray me? Is that how you think this goes?”

“Yohan—“

“You don’t get to do that,” Yohan snarls, pushing Gaon further into the wall, “you don’t get to use my name. You don’t get anything.”

“I’m sorry—“

“Sorry won’t bring anything back.”

He’s falling again. 

Now everything is Yohan, Yohan, Yohan. Sometimes he’s angry, choking Gaon until he loses consciousness, throwing him across the room, or yelling until his ears bleed. Sometimes he’s cooly indifferent, treating Gaon as if they’re nothing but strangers and not privy to any of the details. Sometimes he thinks he catches glimpses of Elijah but she’s snatched away before he can chase her, find her, tell her he’s sorry, he’s so sorry. Sometimes Yohan is crueler, treating Gaon with the same fake tenderness that he treated so many with, hands gentle yet firm on Gaon’s shoulders as he whispers how of course, they left Gaon behind, what else could he possibly expect? Gaon was worth no more to them than a memento, a memory, his value on par with a photograph or a necklace worn around a wrist. He’d been left behind because he wasn’t important, but if he was so determined to believe otherwise, he could think of this as punishment. He was being punished for being a stupid baby deer. 

Gaon cries. He screams and begs and claws for a proper grip no matter which Yohan he gets, but every time Yohan leaves and he feels his chest rip open every time he does. It never stops hurting. 

So when he opens his eyes and sees Yohan sitting on the edge of the bed, he just sobs. 

“No,” he whimpers, trying to turn away, “it hurts, make it stop, I don’t want this anymore, it hurts.”

There’s a pause, then a hand carding through his greasy hair. “Stop what, Gaon-ah, what hurts?”

“No—don’t be nice to me, that makes it worse when you leave—just—just—“

“I’m not leaving, Gaon-ah, I’m right here.” Gaon shakes his head furiously, wanting it to end, just let him suffer in peace. “Stop that, you’ll make your headache worse. Shh, shh, just relax. Stop moving so much, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“But you did,” Gaon sobs, “you left and it hurt and it won’t stop.”

Yohan is quiet for a moment. Then he’s reaching out to take Gaon’s hands and wrap them around his neck. He leans down and keeps stroking Gaon’s hair, the other hand propping him up next to his head. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Gaon blinks. “Y-Yohan? You’re…you’re actually here?”

Yohan hums, his expression softening. “You’ve been very sick. You didn’t charge your phone and Elijah got worried.”

“Elijah?” Gaon swallows. “She’s not…mad at me?”

“She’s mad at you for letting yourself get this sick,” Yohan says, frowning, “which she should be. You were hallucinating. Badly.”

“I’m sorry.”

He sighs. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“Okay.” He’s still drinking in the fact that Yohan is here, something Yohan picks up on as he adjusts his hand. 

“What did you see,” he asks softly, “you were crying.”

Gaon swallows. “…things that hurt.”

Yohan bends closer, resting their foreheads together. “I’m here now, Gaon-ah. I’ll make it better.”

“Why…why did you leave?”

“There wasn’t time. I didn’t mean to leave you all alone.”

“It hurts,” Gaon sobs, “it still hurts.”

“Show me where,” Yohan murmurs, “show me where it hurts.”

Gaon has a fleeting worry about Yohan getting sick but it’s chased away by warm hands on his chest, helping him breathe. He rubs in slow, careful circles, shushing the little cries with too much patience. Gaon isn’t sure if this is real but he knows he wouldn’t dare imagine Yohan being this…tender. Especially not when he starts to cry again and Yohan lets out a soft noise, pulling away to get a tissue box. 

“If this is a dream,” Gaon mumbles, “don’t wake me up, please.”

Yohan chuckles. “Are you sleepy, baby deer? You still need to rest.”

Gaon sighs and lets Yohan settle him back into bed. “I meant it. Don’t wake me up if you won’t be here.”

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, the hand on his chest a warm promise, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

———

There are no anchors this far out to sea and the water is so, so cold. 

He does not remember the last time he felt as though he had a grip on his life, that it was his and only his. 

He does not remember the last time he could look in the mirror and see only his eyes looking back at him. 

Not Soohyun. 

Not Min Jungho. 

Not his parents. 

Just him. 

When he wasn’t haunted by the mess of what his parents’ suicide had left, when he could breathe without the constant weight of promise, potential, possibility drowning him. When every time he passed his reflection, he expected to see himself being followed by the bodies of every person that had a hand in shaping who he is now. 

He remembers the weight. He always remembers what it feels like to be weighted down. 

He remembers two weights shackling themselves irrevocably to either side of his ribs, making it almost impossible to breathe without feeling their presence. 

He remembers another, smaller weight around his wrist. It was not heavy, not really, nothing that prevented him from moving, but still noticeable. But he noticed that he could no longer hold his arm outstretched, lest his shoulder begins to ache and his hand begins to tremble. 

He remembers a third, tied around his ankles, dragging him slowly and inexorably in one direction. At times, he remembers it helping, just to keep him moving, distract him slightly from the pressure of the other weights. But then he remembers the grind, the way he was sure his feet would bleed if he stayed on them one moment more. 

Someone remarked once that he looks like a man walking for a crowd, not just himself. 

He remembers laughing. 

How true it was. 

Gaon never chose the weights. They tethered themselves to him and irrevocably shaped the way he moved. Some had greater influence than others, some constant reminders just by the slightest touch against his lungs or his heart. 

And then someone had come along and cut them loose. 

He remembers a sudden increase in the weight around his chest. He remembers suffocating under it, scrabbling at the loose material of his shirt in the middle of the night, wondering what, what, what he’d done wrong. 

He remembers struggling to hold a pen, his arm aching after barely a moment, his fingers trembling either too tight or too loose as his shoulder screamed in pain. He remembers clenching his fist and worrying his lip between his teeth and struggling to figure out why he couldn’t do anything right. 

He remembers collapsing to the ground and being unable to move. He remembers crawling, digging his hands into the floor, trying to move, to make it to the bed, to get up, wondering what he’d done now. 

The answer to all three questions came in the form of golden scissors and a new weight that held him around his waist. 

He can’t tell whether he’s the one that cut the tethers loose or whether it’s a consequence of accepting the new weight, but suddenly all he can think about is the new sensation of being held. 

Does he remember the last time he was held and not restrained?

The weight around his waist makes him look. Guides his gaze as best it can and holds him, unyielding, as he stares into the face of reality without letting him shy away from seeing, seeing, seeing. 

Sometimes he feels as if his eyes will turn black from all he’s seen. 

But he’s always held. 

It’s an unfamiliar sensation at first, to sink into the weight as opposed to against it, but there’s an arm around his waist and someone pressed up against his back and if he tries very hard, he can feel another heartbeat against his. 

For the first time, he starts to search for the pressure. He looks for it instead of gritting his teeth and accepting it. In response, the weight…it does not ease, but it shifts. The hold gentles, never absent, never breakable, but propping him up when his legs threaten to give out of pressing into his stomach to ground him. 

Sometimes, when the world is too much and he feels like he can’t breathe, he imagines finding the hand at the end of the arm and lacing his fingers through it, just to know that it’s still there, that he can have something to hang onto. To hold. 

In his dreams, it holds his back. 

But we all have our weights to cast off, and he makes the mistake of thinking he was not one. 

And now…now he floats. 

It hurts, being weightless. He doesn’t know what substance he has without everything weighing him down. He doesn’t know what shape he leaves in the air around him without anything to give him shape. He finds himself winding his arms tightly around himself, trying to remember what it felt like to have the weight there, how it felt to have something to lean against when he grew weary of the world. 

But his hold is now halfway around the world and he is alone, trying desperately to stay afloat in deep water with no anchor. 

It’s cold here. He wishes it weren’t. 

He wakes up almost sobbing because of how cold he is, about how much he aches to fly apart and never come back. In his agony he clumsily fits together an afterimage of the weight around him, what it felt like to be held, pleading for what he’s done wrong so it can come back. 

Warm. Something warm is around him and he doesn’t dare hope. 

“Gaon-ah?”

———

“Gaon-ah.”

Gaon blinks. And blinks. 

Kang Yohan is sitting on a chair next to his bed. 

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” the supposedly-dead man says as he passes him a glass of water, “how are you feeling?”

“…not good.”

“Mm.” Yohan frowns at him as he tries to raise the glass to his mouth. “You’re going to spill it.”

“Wha…?”

“You’re going to spill it,” he sighs and reaches out to steady Gaon’s hand. “Let me.”

Maybe he’s still hallucinating because it looks like Yohan is standing up to sit on the edge of the bed, holding the glass and quietly bidding for Gaon to lift his head. It feels like a hand slots around the base of his neck and lifts so he can drink. 

The water certainly feels real. 

“That’s enough for now,” Yohan’s voice murmurs as he pulls it away despite the bereft noise that leaves Gaon’s throat, “you’re still sick.”

What—okay, so he’s here. Why…why is he here? Isn’t this the last place he should be, in a country that thinks him dead and where his enemies still claw at the walls? 

And why is he with Gaon?

“You’re staring.”

What?

“You’re staring,” Yohan says, reaching out to flick Gaon’s cheek, “did you miss me that much?”

His smile drops as Gaon’s eyes fill up with tears.

“Yah,” he says, leaning forward, “are you in pain? Do you have medicine? Did you take anything when this started? Did you fall and hurt yourself?”

Hands. Cool hands. On his face. Cool hands on his face and his chest hurts. 

“Kim Gaon.”

“Sorry,” he blurts out, “I’m—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—“

Yohan visibly startles before leaning down a little closer. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I’m sorry—“ he can’t say anything other than apologies, and how could he? When he’s done so much, he ruined so much, he—he—

“Breathe,” comes the low voice, “and tell me what you’re sorry for.”

Breathing. Right. He should do that. His chest protests, groaning and wheezing as he drags air through labored lungs. Yohan just waits, holding his face still, apparently not minding the tears. 

“I ruined everything,” he finally manages, “I…I ruined everything.”

Yohan scoffs. “You young people are so melodramatic.”

If Gaon were less sick or emotionally traumatized, he would point out that he’s not the one who seduced someone younger than him, dramatically quit his job, faked his death twice in as many days, and ran away to Switzerland. 

“The world has been around much longer than you have,” Yohan continues, “and it’ll be here long after you. You’re not so important as to break it irreparably.”

“But I hurt Elijah. I hurt you. I—I—“

“Shh,” comes his voice, softer than it should be, “I forgive you.”

Everything stutters to a glorious pause. 

“I forgive you,” Yohan repeats, easing his head back to the pillow, “if you need to hear me say it, I forgive you.”

“Wh—why?”

“Didn’t I hurt you too?” He tilts his head. “Didn’t you forgive me?”

Gaon nods. 

“Then yes, Gaon-ah, I forgive you.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

He’s…he’s been forgiven. Yohan isn’t angry at him. 

“Are you…staying?”

“Elijah would kill me if I left you like this.” A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “She’s been doing well with the physical therapy.”

“That’s good,” Gaon mumbles, sleep tugging at him—good sleep, proper sleep— “that’s…that’s good.”

“How about this,” Yohan says as he runs a hand through Gaon’s hair, “go to sleep, rest, and then we can call her when you wake up, hmm?”

“But I was just asleep.”

“You were also very sick, hallucinating, and having a nightmare,” he remarks dryly, pulling the blankets up around Gaon’s chin. 

Wait.

“You could tell?”

The hands pause, then Yohan looks back up at him. “Yes, I could tell. I know what nightmares look like.”

“O-oh.”

A sigh. “Are you afraid to go back to sleep?”

“N-no.”

A gentle tug on his hair. “Don’t lie to me, Kim Gaon.”

“…maybe.”

Yohan laughs, low and gentle. “I’ll be right here, baby deer. Go to sleep, now. Elijah will be quite anxious to see you.”

If this is a dream, he thinks as he closes his eyes again, I don’t ever want to wake up again.