The night is particularly quiet—unnaturally so. No wind rustles the trees. No distant sounds echo through the empty streets. Even the insects seem to hold their breath. Francis lies still in bed, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling above him.
He doesn't know if he should feel grateful, or deeply alarmed. It's the first moment of peace he's had in weeks. Not since Yoon's disappearnce. Not when he left their home, and didn't come back for months. Not when Francis is not sure, that he might be doing something. Hurting himself in the process.
And now, Francis waits. Waits for the inevitable.
He knows Yoon won't stay hidden forever. He still has to catch him, contain him, before someone else does. Before someone less forgiving gets their hands on him. Yoon belongs to no one else. He never did. And he won't, not as long as Francis is still breathing.
His thoughts blur, folding into each other like half-remembered dreams. Exhaustion finally wins. His body gives in. His eyelids droop heavily until the room fades into black.
But the stillness doesn't last.
In the deep hours of the night, something stirs.
Francis's eyes snap open, heart pounding against his ribs. It isn't a sound that wakes him, nor a dream. It's a presence.
He knows it. Feels it like a prickle at the back of his neck. The air thickens, heavy with the scent of rain and iron. He pushes himself into half-lying position, fingers clenching the sheets.
"What are you waiting for?" he mutters, voice raw with sleep and suspicion. "You know I can tell you're here."
No answer. Only silence. Thick. Mocking.
His jaw tightens.
Then, he sees it.
A figure by the window, half-swallowed by moonlight. Yoon. Leaning casually against the sill, watching him with those unreadable eyes. Always watching. Always there, even when he wasn't.
Francis doesn't move, but his gaze sharpens, cutting through the darkness like a blade. Yoon doesn't flinch. Doesn't speak. For a long moment, they only look at each other, time frozen between them. One can hear the other's heartbeats.
Then Yoon begins to walk slow, deliberate steps that seem louder than they should be, even on soft carpet. He moves like he owns the space, like he's returning home.
And he is.
Francis's chest tightens with something that he can not name.
When Yoon finally reaches the bed, they're just inches apart.
"You still haven't answered me," Francis breathes, his voice weights a whisper in the dark. "What were you waiting for?"
Yoon only shrugs, a lazy smile curling his lips. He climbs onto the bed like he's done it a thousand times before, like he never stopped.
"Nothing," Yoon says lightly. "You know I love playing with you.", he added with a teasing tone.
Their faces just inches apart.
Yoon looks down at his lips, lingering there briefly, then he shifts his attiention back to Francis's eyes. His gaze changes, deeper.
The atmosphere around them shifts, as if there is a weight in the air. A tension that pleads to be broken.
But Yoon doesn't do anything about it. Doesn't move closer. Doesn't break the distance between them.
That's at least what Francis thought he would do. But then, he felt it...soft, cold, but warm, and undeniable, the weight of Yoon's lips pressing gently against his own.
The kiss was slow at first, almost hesitant. It seems as if Yoon knows that he is in wrong. It makes Francis smiles into it.
The kiss deepened, and Francis felt himself fall into it, his hands instinctively reaching for Yoon, pulling him closer. This is what he was missing the most. It lasted for a while.
But when they finally pulled apart, breathless, their foreheads resting together, they both gasped for air.
His head rests on Francis's lap, fitting like a long-missing piece. He shifts until he's comfortable, sighing as though this, this exact moment, is what he came for.
"Play with my hair," he mumbles, eyes fluttering closed. "Please?"
Francis almost scoffs. He knows that tone. Knows it's not a plea, but a command wrapped in softness . Brat. Bastard. He should say no. He should push him away, demand answers.
But his fingers are already in Yoon's hair, threading through the soft strands, slow and careful. His touch lingers, slipping to trace the sharp edge of Yoon's cheekbone, then his cheek.
Yoon just pushes himself into his space more, nuzzling against Francis's abdomen.
They stay like that for what feels like forever, the room cocooned in quiet intimacy. There's nothing but the rhythm of breath, the warmth of contact, the aching sense that this could never last.
And then Yoon moves.
He sits up too quickly, and Francis flinches, startled by the sudden shift.
"No", Francis says, reaching out instinctively, grabbing Yoon's wrist. His voice cracks. "Stay. Just a little bit more… please? Just a little?"
Yoon doesn't speak. He only looks at Francis, gaze heavy with something that might be regret, or conflict. He hesitates, the faintest tremor in his fingers.
But it's not enough.
"I can't.", he says, voice colder now. Distant.
And then he's gone. No sound, nothing. Just... gone.
Francis sits there, hand still outstretched, breathing shallow.
"Don't go...", he whispers to the emptiness, to himself, voice barely audible," please."
Francis woke before dawn, breath caught in his throat like a name he dared not speak aloud.
The scent of ash clung to his senses. A dream, no....a memory. Of cold lips, of silver eyes that never softened, until they were in love. He touched his chest instinctively, fingers grazing the spot where his heart ached the most.
He stumbled out of his chambers. He needed air.
The cold night's breath outside warped around him, yet it did nothing to ease the aching in his chest.
He gripped the railing of the balcony, his knuckles turned white.
This is not fair. Not fair at all.
These memories always haunt him, daring him to have a peaceful sleep. And he is always losing. Every time his eyes flutter closed, they're waiting....shadows curled in the corners of his mind, whispering reminders of everything he couldn't hold onto. They taunt him with the past, with what was, and with what might never return.
He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nose, trying to ground himself in the moment. It's alright, Francis, he told himself, his thoughts louder than his breath. He's close now. Not just fragments, not just echoes or broken pieces of a fading dream. He's real, near-
Too close to lose again.
His fists clenched slightly, nails pressing into his palms. When you catch his petty ass, he growled inwardly, a bitter smirk twitching at his lips, you'll make sure he remembers. Make sure he never forgets what it means to leave you behind. Teach him a few lessons so he doesn't dare disappear again.
The ache in his chest didn't subside, but it sharpened, into something clearer. Determination. He wasn't just haunted anymore. He was hunting.