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Gun-woo stares at the two gold bars in his hands and can't recognise the man in its reflection. The gold is heavy, but it weighs nothing compared to the hole in his chest. He tilts them in the light and catches sight of an unfamiliar face — yellowing bruises curling around his cheeks and blood-stained hair matted to his forehead. Then, there's the scar — the moment it all began — a memory permanently carved into his skin. The weight of all that's happened, of every life lost and destroyed, is something Gun-woo will have to carry until he's gone. 14kgs of gold bars is nothing compared to everyone he'll never see again.
He slips the gold bars into his bag as Woojin comes out of the bathroom. Steam billows from the door as the man runs a towel through his hair. He's wearing their matching pair of red shorts and an old grey shirt that might be Gun-woo's, not that he knows now — their wardrobes have blended a tad over the last few months.
Woo-jin pauses in his step and arches a brow, asking, "Why are you on the floor?"
Gun-woo isn't sure how to explain how rotten he feels in a room worth thousands of dollars. Director Hong was kind enough to lend them a place in one of his many hotels as they gathered their bearings. Being in such places felt daunting before, but now, covered in blood and bruises, and with an identity in splinters, Gun-woo feels out of place in his body, as he does so in this room. How could someone like him ever be deserving of a space filled with satin and velvet and food at a press of a button? Of lavish money and skyline views and a place fit for royalty?
So, he sat on the floor with his bag at his feet, and gold bars tucked away. He leaned against the cool wall and tried to ease the stammering of his heart to no avail. There are jaded colours in his mind, a fog that will not lift. Where else could a person like him sit?
Gun-woo simply shrugs. "I felt like it," is all he says. Woo-jin stares at him with narrowed eyes as if all of Gun-woo's thoughts are projected into the air. The man sighs, and Gun-woo isn't sure if it's exasperation or disappointment. He's too nervous to ask. Instead, Woo-jin sticks a thumb over his shoulder towards the bathroom.
"Go clean up. You stink," he says with a small curve on his lips. "I'll order some food for you when you come back. It'll be nice and hot and most importantly, free!" Ah, Gun-woo thinks, he's not disappointed. There's a release in his chest, a moment of cool relief tingling down his veins like a cold drink on a hot summer's day. A simple cock of the head and a cheeky smile, and the fog clears a little.
Gun-woo's shower is painful, to say the least. The stitches sting and the bruises ache, but finally, he can get the dirt out of his hair. When he wipes the steam from the mirror, his short, cropped hair falls across his forehead. In a glimpse, he sees his face. The wide eyes, the straight nose, the curve of his lips. Familiar. The scar, the bruises, the cuts. Unfamiliar. The see-sawing creates a dull throb in his head.
He dresses comfortably — sweatpants and a shirt that is Woo-jin's. It's clean and washed, yet remnants of his scent linger on the material. Gun-woo is towel drying his hair as he walks out of the bathroom to see Woo-jin talking to a hotel assistant.
There's no doubt that he's uniquely charming — a chatterbox with a warm smile and eccentric demeanour. It always takes a few moments of baffled looks before a stranger is laughing. The assistant does so, a genuine chuckle through their facemask. He passes over the food and the corner of their eyes crinkles because ultimately, Woo-jin is kind. Gun-woo smiles for the first time that day. Woo-jin spots him and returns the grin in an instant, boyish and rugged and glowing.
"It's time for a feast!" Woo-jin exclaims and, to Gun-woo's surprise, he walks past the table and props open the door of the balcony. A cool breeze fills the room, a moment of grace against the blaring summer heat. Woo-jin sets up their meal on the outside tables and beckons Gun-woo over.
The young man takes a tentative seat and a glimpse of the view — the Seoul skyscrapers arching towards the clouds, and the life of the city sounds catch the wind to where they sit. People bustle around like ants, all wandering about in their little microcosms with both aches and joys in their hearts.
Woo-jin takes a seat beside Gun-woo and makes sure the younger man has a bite before he does despite his reservations. Woo-jin wins, and takes a heaping mouthful himself afterwards, before turning to Gun-woo. The young man is pointedly looking at cars worming their way through the streets.
"What is it?" Woo-jin asks the same thing he asked hours earlier. An ache spreads through his chest and a lump forms in his throat. Gun-woo looks down at his bruised knuckles and still remembers the thump of his fist crushing into— he can't even think of his name without recoiling.
"Everything feels—" Gun-woo pauses and glances up at him. The colours are blurred and the fog is heavy and he isn't sure how he feels. But Woo-jin looks at him earnestly, patiently, his whole body turned towards him. They've only known each other for half a year, but it feels like a lifetime.
Gun-woo clears his throat and tries again. He's not good at words but he is good at trying.
"Everything feels strange," Gun-woo begins slowly. Yes, he thinks, that seems like the right word; strange. And it's like the floodgates have opened. "Everything feels surreal. We worked so hard, for months and months and now it's all over. But I can't help feeling like—" Gun-woo wrings his fingers together and the bruises pinch at his skin. "When I see myself, it's just—" The gates are closed once again.
Gun-woo sighs heavily and clenches his hands into fists. He feels like punching something. He freezes at that thought because violence was never a reaction he had to frustration. But now, with the purple and yellow splotches against his skin, maybe that's all he is now. Violence. Bloodhound.
"You have the heart of a boxer," Woo-jin says in a tone so sincere Gun-woo looks up, surprised. It's something they usually laugh at, but a tiny moment has become so much more. It's become a lifeline. His gaze is strong and piercing, as if no one else exists in the world but him. "What you have been through is something no one else in the world should have experienced. But you did. And now, all you have to do is find your way back."
Gun-woo wants to believe that so badly. Tears well in his eyes and he does his best to blink them back. He stifles a shaky breath.
"What if I can't?" Gun-woo whispers. Woo-jin looks at him with such warmth in his eyes it makes his heartache.
"Then you will find another way. And another. And another until you do," Woo-jin replies with such conviction that Gun-woo can't help but believe him, just like he always has. Then he notices something.
Puzzled, Gun-woo adds, "You mean we will."
"Hm?"
Gun-woo presses his hand into Woo-jin's shoulder, and the elder glances down at it briefly. "We will find a way together," Gun-woo says. "You deserve peace more than anyone."
They sit there in silence for a little while. Gun-woo waits for Woo-jin to say something, anything, but he just looks at him. He takes in every inch of Gun-woo's face, eyes glowing in the afternoon sun. After a short time, Gun-woo sheepishly takes his hand off his shoulder and drops it back into his lap.
Finally, Woo-jin speaks. "Thank you," he says softly. The corner of his eyes crinkle and the sun hits his face as the clouds drift past, bathing him in gold. Unlike the gold bricks sitting in their bags, this is wealth Gun-woo could never have enough to witness.
Gun-woo looks away, blinking and darting his gaze. He can't find something to stick it on.
"Okay," is all he manages. Woo-jin simply laughs and wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close.
"I deserve peace even more than your Mum?" Ah, there's the joke. Gun-woo smiles at the cheeky grin on Woo-jin's face.
"You're second on the list," he says, holding two fingers up. Woo-jin nods knowingly.
"Of course, that's only fair." He squeezes Gun-woo's shoulders but doesn't let go. Gun-woo leans into him, only a little, enough for the warmth to seep into his skin. It's hot today, the humidity drenching everything in stickiness but up this high and catching a breeze, it's only fitting to be this close together. That's what he tells himself.
The colours in his head pool into their original shades and the fog lifts, warping and evaporating like the clouds in the sky. It's almost miraculous how the tension eases from his muscles and the stammering of his heart slips into a gentle hum. But the thing is, it's not miraculous. It's not divine intervention or fate or something sent from the heavens.
Gun-woo tilts his head to look up at Woo-jin, just as he tilts his head to look down. They both smile, forever in sync, and it's as warm as the summer breeze.
No, it is not a miracle. It is a truth. It is right here and now, together. Gun-woo is aware that things going forward will be rough. Adapting to a new world once again isn't going to be easy, but as Woo-jin adjusts his arm around his shoulders, he knows one thing for sure: neither of them will have to face anything alone.