Work Text:
In-ho wakes up reluctantly — tired, drained, his head heavy from restrained emotions and yet he’s hollow inside.
It’s been the same every morning lately. His mind knows what happened, but somewhere deep inside, he refuses to believe it.
He buries his face against the officer’s shoulder on purpose, though he tries to make it look accidental — a sleepy gesture. The officer, out of habit, brushes a hand through his hair, presses a soft kiss to the crown of his head, and lingers closer for a few more moments, assuming that In-ho won’t remember.
But In-ho always remembers. And that single moment is enough to incriminate them both.
In-ho twitches when his body begins to drift into sleep, but his mind drags him back to consciousness. The officer notices, turns onto his side, slips an arm around In-ho’s shoulders, and pulls him closer — as if he’s afraid In-ho might pull away, might escape.
“Want me to make us some breakfast?” the officer asks, instead of „good morning“. His voice voice low and husky, and that soft tone makes it harder to breathe for inho.
In-ho just shakes his head, wrapping an arm around his waist.
“Na-h. Stay in bed.”
A faint smile plays on the officer’s lips. He lets out a short hum of amusement but doesn’t argue. He stays — because it’s what In-ho wants, and against him, he’s powerless, either at work or here.
And while In-ho breathes in the scent of his skin, it almost feels like the world will never fall apart.
But now he feels nothing.
He opens his eyes.
The space beside him is dark and cold, disgustingly tidy.
His hand still remembers the comfortable position on the officer’s chest, as if that was where it truly belonged. He want to lean against that warmth with his forehead, to wake to the sound of a fucking alarm and fall back asleep for a few more minutes, wrapped in that scent of the officer.
But even the sheets no longer smell like him — the detergent washed it all away long ago.
Shower. Breakfast. Gym. Another shower. Nothing.
Mechanics instead of living. Routine stripped of meaning, a protocol he keeps following without purpose, as if his system runs on autopilot, refusing to stop even though it no longer works.
He brews coffee in the kitchen automatically — two cups, out of habit. One spoon of sugar for himself, two for the officer. Lactose-free milk for both, so he doesn’t mix them up.
The soft thud of the door catches his attention. Or not the sound itself, but rathe the footsteps that follow — the ones he could recognize anywhere.
The officer returns from his morning run: the sleeveless shirt clings to his body, dark patches of sweat marking his chest, his hair sticks damply to his forehead. He approaches slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile calm of In-ho’s morning. His hand settles at In-ho’s waist — a familiar touch — and his lips brush against his neck.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, barely audible.
In-ho resists the urge to roll his eyes, to ask who exactly is having a good morning and why.
“You smell like sweat,” he says instead, stirring the sugar in his cup. “And now I do too.”
The officer chuckles under his breath — rare for him, the wide grin, so unlike him, the kind of smile you don’t want to see when you’ve woken up in a bad mood.
The officer teases, “We could shower together.”
He walks away, and In-ho lifts his head too late, ready to toss some dry remark after him — but the officer’s coming back again, stands in front of him. In-ho frowns in surprise.
There’s a small bouquet in his hands. He offers it almost lazily — or rather, nudges it against In-ho’s chest as if doing him a favor. The smirk fades just a little, replaced by a flicker of unease. He wets his lips quickly.
In-ho hesitates, but takes the flowers anyway, staring at him in confusion.
“What is this?” he blurts out like an idiot.
Something stirs in his stomach, fluttering awkwardly, and he can’t tell whether it irritates him or warms his heart.
“Just felt like it,” the officer shrugs.
“Flowers?”
“For a change.”
A faint flush creeps across In-ho’s cheeks when the officer’s gaze lingers on him, and he can’t tell whether it’s a joke — or if this is how it’s going to be from now on.
“I’ll be waiting,” the officer says casually and finally disappears into the bathroom.
In-ho sets the bouquet down on the counter. Small, tied with a ribbon, filled with bright wildflowers that don’t belong in this apartment or in the pattern of their relationship.
But… why hadn’t he thought to do something like this first?
What could he possibly give in return?
He turns to follow him, but no one actually waits for him in the shower. He’s already been there today. Alone.
He moves through the room like a silent ghost, stopping at the wide window, watching the city wake below, fingers warming against his coffee cup.
He’s already dressed in a suit — it’s easier to force himself into work mode when the outfit matches the idea.
A quiet laugh behind him — the officer again. In-ho turns.
He taller man stands calmly, hands in his trouser pockets, a faint smile on his lips. He looks stunning.
“Suits look good on you,” In-ho remarks, giving him an assessing look.
The officer steps closer.
“Where’s your tie?” he asks, fastening the top button of In-ho’s shirt.
A brief nod toward the chair, and the officer smoothly takes the tie from the backrest, looping it around his neck.
He pulls sharply at both ends, wrapping the fabric around his fists. Their faces close, breaths mingling. But he doesn’t kiss him, just exhales against his lips — teasing. He ties it neatly and precisely, as if the very purpose of his life were to knot ties around In-ho’s neck.
Still not kissing him. He steps back, almost indifferent — and it’s that deliberate indifference that sends a shiver down In-ho’s spine.
He loves this closeness too much, this warm illusion of normalcy, the feeling that maybe, somehow, they could just be like this, here, in the middle of the apartment, before leaving for work.
In-ho blinks.
There’s no one beside him.
The tie still hangs over the back of the chair, and he won’t wear it today. Just like he didn’t yesterday. And he won’t tomorrow.
He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, grits his teeth, eyes burning, but he won’t let that stupid ache out.
He leaves for work reluctantly, as always now.
No more dinner reservations for two. The commute feels endless, colorless. He forgets something important at home, and no one texts him to remind.
No new messages, and none will come, yet he keeps turning his phone in his hands, opening the chat just to see those sharp, cruel words: “last seen…”
The last message he sent was when he was already leaving the island, just to make sure the officer had boarded the ship with the rest of the staff.
The message was never read.
And each time he checks it, the lump in his throat only grows heavier.
This is supposed to pass.
That’s what they told him before — but In-ho knows better. Things like this never pass.
He never thought he’d manage to build something real, something alive, on the ruins of his past life. Never thought anyone could bring warmth into his cold apartment and turn it into a „home“. Never thought he’d hear the words “let’s go home” again, and believe them.
And when it was finally in his hands, he never thought he could lose it again so quickly.
He comes home late. The officer pulls off his jacket and shirt, leaving fleeting kisses on his shoulders. When In-ho catches his gaze, the man arches his brows slightly, almost innocently.
They could spend half the night on the couch with a laptop, watching yet another mindless thriller suggested by the streaming app. Their schedules insane, but on the mainland there were always more days off than workdays. There was time simply to stay beside each other.
And even now the officer is still there, in the space of the apartment.
But only in In-ho’s memory.
An actor on the screen looks eerily like the recruiter, and they smirk at the same time. They don’t say a word, they never needed to.
“Who’s better looking, me or the recruiter?” the officer asks, almost seriously, leaning close to In-ho’s ear.
In-ho gives him a condescending look, frowning as if he’s actually considering it.
“Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re all scruffy.”
He runs his knuckles along the short, prickly stubble, deliberately pushing the man’s head aside. Pretending he doesn’t like the feeling of his lips brushing that rough skin. The officer grins, turns away, but doesn’t reply.
“Let’s go to bed,” he says wearily when the movie ends. His elbow rests on the back of the couch, his palm on In-ho’s shoulder. He closes his eyes, waiting for an answer. And when In-ho nods, he slowly lifts his hand, letting him stand, while he snuffs out a cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table.
In-ho straightens his home clothes — loose pants, a t-shirt.
“You coming?” he asks quietly, turning back.
But the couch is empty, and the laptop lies closed on the table.
The ashtray isn’t there either — it was thrown away long ago. But the circular stain on the black glass surface won’t wash away. It stings his eyes, and In-ho finds himself angry at it even more than he once was angry at the ashtray itself. It used to annoy him just by taking up space in his apartment, but now its absence is worse. It hurts.
He’s still wearing the business suit he came home in. He doesn’t care.
He won’t sleep well tonight. Or tomorrow.
He lies down fully dressed, pulls the pillow close, bites its edge.
He misses him more than he ever thought he could. More than he’s willing to admit again.
Even with his eyes squeezed shut, he can’t run away.
The emotions still find their way out.