Chapter Text
Heeseung’s second year at SNU started with a cup of coffee forgotten on the windowsill and Jongseong walking into the room with a bag of pastries and some news.
“Hyung, did you hear about the new exchange student? An Australian, his name is Jaeyun. He got lost trying to find the physics classroom and ended up in the cooking class with me.”
Heeseung laughed, without lifting his eyes from the notebook. “And you want me to adopt him?”
“No. I want you to meet him. He is… different.”
And, as truthful as Jongseong's words, Jaeyun really was different. He had an interesting way of observing things, as if the world were a real‑time experiment. His brown eyes always seemed to be searching for something, and his easy smile hid a shyness that only revealed itself in the pauses between sentences. He studied physics, but spoke about music with a passion that surprised Heeseung.
They started meeting by chance. Then by habit. Then by necessity.
They studied together in the library until late, sharing headphones and packets of cookies. When tiredness hit, Jaeyun appeared with coffee bought at the 24‑hour convenience store. When Heeseung forgot to eat, Jaeyun left some pastries on the desk with a note: “In case you didn’t eat.”
And Heeseung reciprocated: with improvised dinners of ramyeon, with energy drinks slipped into Jaeyun’s backpack before exams, with short “Good luck today” messages. They never said they were taking care of each other, but everyone saw it.
In the third year, Heeseung received the news of his cousin’s pregnancy. She had moved to Osaka with her Japanese husband, and the baby was expected at the end of the year. Heeseung traveled during the winter holidays, and Jaeyun stayed in Seoul. They talked through videos and messages every day.
“Is it cold there?” Jaeyun asked in a call, his face lit by the lamp.
“Yes, but the baby is warm. His name is Riki. Nashimura Riki”
“Riki… I like that name.”
“He’s cute, being with him lessens the feeling of missing…” you, especially.
It went unsaid, and Jaeyun did not answer, but the feeling was there. In every silence, in every photo sent, in every “don’t forget to eat.”
When Heeseung returned, Riki was already part of the stories. Jaeyun listened to everything attentively, as if he knew the baby. As if he were a part of it too.
The fourth year passed too fast. And Heeseung’s graduation arrived like an inevitable tide. Jongseong organized a party in a rented house near the Han River. Everyone was there: Sunoo making a glitter crown, Jungwon trying to balance a tray of shots, Sunghoon already planning a dance competition that no one could win.
Heeseung wasn’t one to drink much, but that night, every glass seemed necessary. The joy mixed with the fear of the end made everything feel urgent. Jaeyun was always nearby, leaning his shoulder against his when the noise became too loud, bringing him water when the alcohol started to weigh.
Near midnight, the group gathered in the yard. The river’s breeze was fresh, and the city lights flickered, as if laughing with them.
“Will you miss us, Hyung?” Sunoo asked, throwing his body back on the grass.
“’ll be the one missing you.” Jaeyun answered softly, as if afraid of being heard.
“What do you mean? You’re not staying?” Jungwon asked.
Jaeyun hesitated. “My visa ends at the end of the semester. Even if I receive the master’s scholarship, I still won’t be able to stay. I have to go back.”
“And if you marry someone here?” Sunghoon asked, half joking, half curious. “Does the visa work?”
“It does,” said Sunoo, already with his phone in hand. “Marriage with a Korean citizen guarantees extension of the visa; there’s even a clause for studies.”
Jongseong laughed. “So you just need to find someone to marry you.”
The group laughed, but Heeseung stayed silent. The alcohol made his heart beat louder. He looked at Jaeyun, who stared at the sky with eyes full of unsaid things. He felt a sudden courage rising along with the bile.
“Then marry me, Heeseung said, suddenly. The voice came out firm, but with a hidden tremor.
Everyone went silent.
“Hyung…” Jaeyun murmured.
“You want to stay. I… I mean… We… Yes! We want you to stay. So… marry me, I’m already graduated, I have a house…”
The silence was broken by Sunoo, who stood up with a shout. "It makes sense! I totally support it.”
Between nervous laughter and hugs, the idea became reality. A friend knew someone at the registration office. The papers were signed. That night was turned into history.
Days later, the documents arrived as the marriage was officially registered. Along with it came Jaeyun’s master’s degree approval. A spot at one of the most respected observatories in Korea.
The marriage kept the visa. It kept Jaeyun there.
Heeseung read everything in silence and said nothing. Because, deep down, he only didn’t want Jaeyun to leave.
That night, after the papers were signed and the laughter of friends had faded into memory, the apartment felt different. It wasn’t bigger, nor brighter, but it carried a weight. The quiet certainty that something irreversible had happened.
Heeseung sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the marriage certificate folded neatly on the desk. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the enormity of it all. Jaeyun entered the room carrying two mugs of tea, his smile hesitant, as if unsure whether to laugh or cry.
“So… we’re married” Jaeyun said softly, setting the mugs down.
“We are” Heeseung replied, his voice low.
They looked at each other for a long moment. No words, just the weight of shared years, of late‑night coffees, of notes left on desks, of silences that had always meant more than speech.
Jaeyun sat beside him, their shoulders brushing. “Do you regret it?” he asked, almost whispering.
Heeseung shook his head. “No. I just… I don’t want you to leave. I don’t think I could bear it.”
Jaeyun’s eyes softened. He reached out, fingers brushing against Heeseung’s hand, then holding it firmly.
“Then I’ll stay. Not just because of the papers. Because of you.”
The night unfolded slowly. They didn’t rush. They talked about the future, about the observatory, the small apartment that now felt like a home. They laughed nervously, they cried a little, they held each other as if afraid the world might try to pull them apart again.
When sleep finally came, it wasn’t heavy. It was gentle, like a blanket woven from relief and hope. Heeseung drifted off with Jaeyun’s hand in his. The marriage certificate was still visible on the desk, a quiet witness to the choice they had made.
In that first night, more than legality, more than visas, more than fear, there was belonging.
Two weeks after graduation, life seemed to have returned to normal. Or to what could be called normal when sharing an apartment with Jaeyun – now officially his husband, even though neither of them dared to use that word out loud.
Heeseung spent his days working at home, immersed in lyrics and instrumentals for a new song. Jaeyun, in turn, divided his time between classes before graduation, preparing himself for the master’s thesis evaluation committee, and nights at the observatory, where he was beginning to familiarize himself with the telescopes, as if they were extensions of his own body.
They lived as they had always lived: sharing silence, forgotten cups of coffee on the counter, ramyeon dinners at two in the morning. But something had changed. There was more care in the gestures. More hesitation in the touches. More silent longing in the glances.
That afternoon, the sky was gray. Heeseung was sitting at the dining table, eyes fixed on the notebook screen, fingers dancing across the keyboard. The sample he was composing played in a loop through his headphones, but he no longer heard it. He was immersed, lost in lines of rhymes and unfinished melodies.
The phone vibrated beside him, an unknown number. He almost ignored it, but something made him answer.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Lee Heeseung?” said a female voice, firm, leaving no space for smiles. “This is the Seoul Adoption Agency. We received unfortunate news that your cousin and spouse passed away in a car accident… There is a one‑year‑old boy, their son, Riki, the only survivor.”
The phone nearly slipped from his hands. The entire world seemed to spin in slow motion. The light of the monitor flickered, indistinct, and the sound of something falling to the floor, perhaps the keyboard, perhaps a book, perhaps himself, reverberated in every corner of the apartment, mixed with the pounding of his own heart.
“You were the closest relative located. Can we talk about temporarily sheltering the boy?” the voice continued, patient, but with a gravity that seemed to pierce the soul.
“I… I…” Heeseung could barely form words, his throat tight, his eyes wide, the world collapsing in seconds.
When he realized it, something entered his peripheral vision: Jaeyun. Always so present, so close, but at that instant, unexpected. He was standing at the doorway of the living room, eyes full of concern.
“Hyung? Are you okay?” Jaeyun’s sweet voice cut through the fog of shock. “You’re so pale… What happened?” He asked, face becoming full of worry.
But not even his sweetness could calm the storm inside Heeseung. Each breath felt heavy, as if the air were too dense to pass through his lungs.
“My… My nephew… Riki…” he finally managed to whisper, his voice trembling. “Car accident… alone…”
Jaeyun approached slowly, resting a light hand on his shoulder, trying to transmit security even without fully understanding. Heeseung closed his eyes for a moment, letting that minimal touch anchor his still‑trembling heart.
“Hey… Hyung, calm down. We’ll figure this out together” Jaeyun murmured, firm, unhurried.
Then the initial shock began to evolve into something more complex: fear, responsibility, the sensation that something larger than them had entered their lives. Riki, that small being he had barely known, needed him. And Heeseung felt, deep in his chest, a spark of something that was not just duty.
“I… I don’t know if I can do this alone” Heeseung said, his voice low, almost a plea for help. “I need… I need help…”
Jaeyun squeezed his shoulder lightly, confirming without words that he would be there. “Of course, Hyung. We’ll take care of this together. You’re not alone.”
The sensation of care and responsibility mixed with something unexpected: a silent charm, almost imperceptible, that began to form for Riki. Every thought of the child already made Heeseung’s chest tighten in a strange way, sweet and painful at the same time. He did not know yet if it was love, protective instinct, or the beginning of something deeper, but he knew he could not turn away.
“So… shall we go get him?” Jaeyun asked, his voice soft, as if he was uncertain too.
“Yes” Heeseung replied, swallowing the anxiety and fear. “He will not be alone.”
Riki, though a stranger yet familiar, had already stirred something inside him. And even though everything seemed wrong, frightening, and unexpected, Heeseung felt that, for the first time in a long while, something made sense.
Jaeyun remained there, silent, not only offering support and protection but also allowing Heeseung to begin dealing with that new reality at his own pace. Their shared silence in the living room was heavy with contained emotions, but also full of promises: to care for the child, to face the unexpected, and perhaps, finally, to allow themselves to feel what they had hidden for so many years.
The coffee was hot on the table, but Heeseung could barely feel the aroma. Jaeyun had sent a simple message to the group, “CODE RED” it said. And now they had Jongseong, Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Jungwon in their living room, with Heeseung sitting in the center.
He held the mug tightly, his fingers white from the pressure. The initial quietness was nearly uncomfortable; everyone knew he had something to say, but no one dared to ask.
“So…” Heeseung started, his voice low, trembling, swallowing several times before continuing,”What happened… There was an accident. My cousin and her husband… they passed away. And… Riki, their son… my nephew… he was left alone… I’m the closest relative…”
The impact of the news lingered for a few seconds, like gravity. Jongseong leaned forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sunghoon furrowed his brow, and Sunoo narrowed his eyes. Jungwon rested his chin in his hands, waiting for Heeseung to continue.
“And…” Heeseung took a deep breath. “I’m going to lose my mind, because of all the paperwork… the marriage, the work, Riki, the grief… I’m… I’m so scared… What if…”
“Will you manage?” Jongseong asked, trying to not sound harsh, but his worried look easing the tone of the words. “A child… that’s not easy.”
Heeseung looked away, feeling his throat tighten. ‘I know…” he murmured. “He’s only two years old. Speaks little, his Korean is almost nonexistent, only understands Japanese, cries a lot at night and doesn’t sleep well. And I… I’m a music producer, I don’t have a routine, I don’t know how to take care of someone so small.”
Sunghoon tilted his head, thoughtful. “You’re going to need help. You’re not going to do this alone, right?”
“I… don’t want to do it alone,” Heeseung admitted, looking at Jaeyun, who was sitting further away, quiet but attentive. Jaeyun’s simple gaze conveyed strong support. “I don’t know if I can, but I can’t abandon Riki. He needs me. I… I need him.”
Sunoo gave a slight smile, trying to ease the tension. “It will be hard, but you can do it. He’s an incredible boy, and he’s lucky to have you.”
Jungwon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Sunoo and I will be the godfathers! We’re on the front line of the family drama too,” he said lightly, provoking a restrained laugh from the group.
Heeseung breathed what felt like the first time in days, feeling a small hint of relief. “Tomorrow” he said, looking at everyone, “I’ll start organizing his routine. School, psychologist, food, schedules, every detail. I don’t want him to feel lost or alone, or think it was his fault.”
Jongseong nodded. “You need to plan carefully. Children have their own rhythms, and trauma doesn’t resolve overnight.”
“I know…” said Heeseung, with a weight in his chest, “but I need to try, I can’t fail him.”
Sunghoon patted his shoulder. “And you won’t. We’re all here for you.”
“Thank you” Heeseung murmured, looking at Jaeyun. His hand touched Heeseung’s hand almost imperceptibly, but enough to send a shiver up his arm.
The silence that followed was no longer heavy, but full of promises. Each one there understood the gravity of the situation and, even without saying it, they were ready to support.
Heeseung felt that, despite the fear and the crushing responsibility, he was not alone. Riki might be small, fragile, and frightened, but he already had something very strong: an entire network of care forming around him.
“Let’s go” Heeseung finally said, setting the mug down on the table. “Tomorrow it really begins. And I… I need to learn how to be the adult he needs.”
At that moment, sitting among friends who were like his family, Heeseung felt a mixture of fear, responsibility, and a strange spark of hope. He still didn’t know if he was ready for the full weight of it, but he knew he couldn’t back down, not now, not ever.
Riki arrived in Seoul on a cloudy morning, wrapped in a blue blanket with star patterns and a gaze that did not match his age. He was only two years old, but his eyes seemed older, as if they had already seen too much. He spoke little, and when he did, he mixed Japanese words with disconnected sounds in Korean. Although Heeseung understood almost nothing, he learned quickly. Not only because he had to, but because he wanted to communicate with Riki.
The apartment, once silent and organized, became a field of scattered toys, forgotten diapers, and sudden cries. Heeseung tried to maintain his routine as a music producer, but deadlines began to slip. The company for which he worked was understanding, but he knew he could not fail.
Jaeyun, on the other hand, became increasingly present. Even with his master’s classes and nights at the observatory, he always returned with something in his hands: sliced fruit, a new toy, a children’s book in Japanese. And when Riki cried, it was Jaeyun who managed to calm him with a soft song. A song he had recorded years ago for one of Heeseung’s assignments, the same one that had helped him secure his job in the music industry.
“He likes your voice.”
“And I like him,” Jaeyun replied without hesitation.
In the first days, Riki did not eat well. He refused rice, cried at the soup, and threw fruit on the floor. Heeseung tried everything until Jongseong appeared with a pot of ramen and an apron. “Children need food with soul,” he said, handing Riki a spoon. The boy finally opened a timid smile.
Sunoo and Jungwon came the next day, bringing costumes and books. Riki was enchanted by Sunoo’s fox costume. Jungwon danced with him around the living room, spinning slowly, as if the world could be light for a few minutes.
But not every day was good.
On a Tuesday morning, Heeseung received an urgent call from the company: an emergency meeting. Jaeyun had a practical class at the observatory. Riki was not yet enrolled in any school. Panic struck.
“I can stay with him,” Sunghoon said over the phone. “I’m free today, bring him to the rink.”
Heeseung hesitated, but he had no choice.
The skating rink was close to empty. The cold light reflected softly on the ice, creating a diffuse glow that seemed magical to Riki’s eyes. He held Sunghoon’s hand tightly, his steps small and hesitant.
“Samchon, it’s slippery,” he murmured, like a secret.
Sunghoon smiled, kneeling in front of him to adjust the tiny skates. “Yes, but it’s fun. And I’ll be here the whole time. Do you trust me?”
Riki hesitated, then nodded, his eyes still fixed on the ice as if it were a sleeping monster.
“Have you ever played in the snow?” Sunghoon asked, guiding him slowly.
“Mama… snow fight,” Riki said, nearly whispering.
Sunghoon paused for a moment. The name of the mother seemed to hang in the air. “I used to play in the snow, too. Once I tried a trick on the ice, I fell in the middle of a performance. Everyone saw. It was horrible.”
Riki looked at him, curious. “Did you cry?”
“No, I laughed. Because sometimes, falling is just part of the dance.”
They skated unhurried, as if time had slowed down. Riki laughed for the first time in days. Sunghoon spun him carefully, and the boy opened his arms, imagining he was flying.
When Heeseung returned, he found Riki asleep in Sunghoon’s arms, with the skates still on his feet and a smile on his face. “He’s strong,” Sunghoon said, covering the boy with a blanket. “But so are you.”
Heeseung did not answer. He only looked at Riki, his heart filling with something — the same feeling he had when he first saw Jaeyun, the same feeling that had been torn from him many years ago. “Thank you,” Heeseung said softly.
Sunghoon stepped closer, lightly touching his arm. “We’re in this together, Hyung.”
And in that touch, in that look, there was more than words. There was care. There was affection. There was something growing slowly, like a melody that did not yet have a name.
The night fell over Seoul with a merciless slowness. The sky was clear, but the air felt denser, as if something were about to happen. In the apartment, the silence was broken only by the low sound of the track Heeseung was adjusting in his notebook. A composition for a psychological horror game, full of dissonant sounds and spaced beats.
Jaeyun was in the bedroom, reading an article on stellar spectroscopy, his glasses slipping down his nose, his hair messy from his hands combing through it, and he had already passed his third cup of coffee. Riki slept between the two rooms, in the small improvised crib beside the sofa, wrapped in a blanket with rockets and moons.
It was an almost imperceptible sound that changed everything.
A whimper. A muffled cry. A sound that should not be there.
Heeseung removed his headphones, his heart racing. Jaeyun appeared at the bedroom door at the same time, his eyes wide.
“Hyung… did you hear that?”
They approached the crib. Riki was red, his face too hot, his eyes half‑closed, and his body restless. He cried with a hoarse sound, as if his throat hurt. Heeseung touched his forehead and recoiled at how hot the little boy felt. “He has a fever,” he said, his voice trembling.
Jaeyun already had his phone in hand, searching for 24‑hour clinics, while Heeseung tried to remember where he had put the thermometer. His hands shook. The air seemed not to find its way to his lungs.
“Thirty‑nine point two,” Jaeyun said after measuring. “It’s high, very high.”
Heeseung sat on the floor beside the crib, his eyes fixed on Riki. The boy cried, but with less strength, too tired to feel anything.
“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.
“Hey,” Jaeyun knelt beside him, placing a firm hand on his back. “You’re not alone, remember?”
They called Sunoo, who recommended a nearby pediatric clinic. Jaeyun rushed to prepare a bag with diapers, documents, and a bottle of water. Heeseung dressed Riki with trembling hands, trying not to let the panic show.
In the car, Riki slept in Heeseung’s arms, his head resting against his chest, his body far too hot. Jaeyun held both Riki and Heeseung with one hand, saying nothing, dividing his focus between driving and worried glances. The silence between them was full of fear, but also something deeper: an unspoken promise that they would not leave that boy alone.
At the clinic, the doctors were quick. Diagnosis: viral infection. Nothing serious, but it required care, hydration, rest, and cold compresses. Heeseung listened to everything carefully, but his mind seemed far away, too far.
While they waited for the medication, Jaeyun went out to buy tea and fruit. Heeseung stayed alone with Riki, sitting in a chair too small for the exhaustion he carried.
That was when the memory came.
He was seven years old, feverish, crying in a dark room, waiting for someone to come. His mother was in a meeting. His father is traveling. The maid brought cold soup and told him to stop making a fuss. No one sang to him. No one held his hand.
He looked at Riki, his little fingers clutching the sleeve of his shirt. The boy slept peacefully, even with a damp forehead. Heeseung felt something break, something old, something he hadn’t known was still there.
Jaeyun returned with a bag and a tired smile.
“I brought ginger tea and apples. He can eat them tomorrow.”
Heeseung nodded, unable to speak. Jaeyun came closer, touching his neck gently.
“You’re doing well, Hyung.”
“I don’t know how to be this…” Heeseung murmured. “An adult, I mean. A caregiver. Someone who doesn’t fail.”
Jaeyun sat beside him, their knees touching.
“You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be here.”
Heeseung looked at him, his eyes misty.
“How can I be something I never had? My parents were never there.”
Jaeyun didn’t answer, only held his hand tighter.
The apartment was dark when they returned from the clinic. Riki slept, exhausted, his forehead still warm but less intense. Heeseung placed him in the crib carefully, adjusted the rocket blanket, and checked his temperature for the third time in ten minutes. Jaeyun watched in silence, leaning against the door, arms crossed, gaze attentive.
“He’ll be fine,” he said softly.
Heeseung nodded but didn’t reply. He walked to the kitchen and began to prepare tea, his movements automatic, as if his body knew what to do even when his mind couldn’t keep up.
Jaeyun approached slowly, placing two cups on the counter.
“Do you want to talk?”
Heeseung hesitated. The water boiled. The steam rose like a curtain between them.
“When I was little, I had a high fever. I was alone at home. My mother was in a meeting. My father… I don’t even remember where he was. The maid gave me cold soup and told me to stop pretending. I remember the feeling of fear, the feeling of knowing I was alone, that my only company was the monsters in my mind hiding in the shadows.”
Jaeyun said nothing, only came closer, touching Heeseung’s arm lightly.
“You’re not alone now.”
Heeseung exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding it for years.
“I know. But it’s hard to trust that.”
They drank tea in silence, sitting on the living room floor, leaning against the wall. Riki slept in the crib, his breathing filling the space like a fragile melody.
“Do you remember when you recorded that demo?” Heeseung asked, breaking the silence.
“Of course. You sent me the guide at three in the morning. Said you didn’t know if it was good.”
“And you sang it as if it were yours.”
Jaeyun smiled, shy.
“It was yours. But it felt like you were trying to say something you couldn’t put into words.”
Heeseung looked at him, his eyes tired but intense.
“I was. I always am.”
The silence between them grew denser, not uncomfortable, but full of things unsaid. Jaeyun moved a little closer, their knees touching, shoulders brushing.
“Hyung… you don’t need to carry everything alone.”
“I don’t know how to do it differently.”
“Then try to share it with me.”
Heeseung laughed softly, almost soundless.
“You always talk as if it were easy.”
“It’s not. But it’s possible.”
They stayed there for more than an hour, saying nothing else. Just listening to Riki breathe, feeling the warmth of tea in their hands, and the weight of the world slowly dissolving.
When sleep came, it was Jaeyun who got up first, took a blanket, and covered Heeseung carefully. Then he sat beside the crib, watching Riki sleep, his eyes full of tenderness.
Heeseung, half awake, saw the gesture, and for the first time in a long while, felt that maybe he could trust. Maybe he could build something new, something not made of absence and silence.
Something that began there, that night, between tea, fever, and silent promises.
The fever passed, but left invisible marks.
Riki woke that morning with swollen eyes, a slower body, and a hoarse voice from crying so much in the previous days. Heeseung was sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by clean diapers, a bottle of water, and a packet of pastries he had forgotten in the microwave. Jaeyun, in socks and messy hair, appeared with a cup of tea and a tired smile.
“He slept better,” he said, handing him the cup.
“He did,” Heeseung confirmed, taking the tea with trembling hands. “But I didn’t.”
Jaeyun sat beside him, their knees touching, as they always did when silence was more comfortable than words.
“You need to rest, Hyung.”
“I know. But if I sleep, who takes care of him?”
“I do. Do you trust me?”
Heeseung hesitated, not from lack of trust, but from fear of depending. He had never learned to do otherwise. He grew up in a house where affection was too silent, where his parents spoke more about performance than feelings, where fevers were treated with medicine but never with hugs.
“I trust you,” he said finally, and Jaeyun smiled as if that were the greatest gift of the day.
Riki crawled across the rug, his eyes half‑closed, and rested his head on Jaeyun’s leg. He murmured something in Japanese, something Heeseung didn’t understand, but Jaeyun replied with a soft "daijoubu,” and the boy smiled.
“He understands you better than me,” Heeseung joked, though there was a hint of truth there.
“He understands whoever sings to him,” Jaeyun replied, and Heeseung laughed softly.
Music had always been the bond between them.
The week passed slowly. Heeseung reorganized his work schedule, negotiated deadlines with the company, and began composing at night, when Riki was asleep. Jaeyun divided his time between the observatory and the apartment, always returning with something new: a toy, a book, a different fruit.
One night, while passing through the living room, Jaeyun let his gaze slip toward the cabinet. Among the objects, he imagined the book he had always wanted: a children’s astronomy book, full of pop‑up pages, with stars that leapt from the paper and planets that spun in miniature. He remembered seeing that book in a bookstore in Brisbane years ago, standing in front of the window, almost hypnotized. The price, however, was far too high, nearly inaccessible, and he had once mentioned it casually, without any intention, just as someone who dreams out loud.
At that instant, his heart raced. The book was there. On the shelf. It did not draw attention, it did not shine, but it stood out discreetly, as if it had always belonged in that place. The dark blue cover seemed to breathe with the room, and Jaeyun felt a shiver run across his skin. He approached slowly, as if afraid the object might disappear if touched.
He ran his fingers along the spine, feeling the rough texture, and pulled the book out. When he opened it, the smell of new paper mixed with fresh ink filled the air. The pages rose in three‑dimensional forms: constellations unfolding like flowers, planets spinning on tiny axes, rockets leaping from the paper. Every detail was an invitation to imagination.
Jaeyun smiled, moved. He thought of Riki, of the boy’s curious eyes, and imagined what it would be like to read it to him. He pictured Riki opening each page carefully, laughing when Saturn appeared in miniature, pointing at the stars that popped out of the paper as if they were real. It was more than a book. It was a silent gift, a bridge between the sky Jaeyun studied and the child’s world Riki was beginning to discover.
He closed the book slowly, as if storing a treasure, and placed it back on the shelf. He did not want to draw attention, did not want to turn it into a spectacle. But inside him, something settled: the certainty that even in the simplest details, the universe seemed to conspire to unite his passions and his affections.
Riki began to adapt. He spoke more. He mixed Japanese with scattered words in Korean. He called Jaeyun “hyung” naturally, and Heeseung “heehee,” as if the name were too difficult for his small mouth.
“He likes you more,” Heeseung said one night while washing the dishes.
“He likes whoever makes dumplings,” Jaeyun replied, placing a towel over Heeseung’s shoulder.
“You make dumplings?”
“No. But he thinks I do.”
They laughed. And the laughter lingered in the air longer than it should have.
On Friday, they arranged to visit a bilingual daycare. Sunoo had recommended the place, saying he knew the coordinator and that the space was welcoming. Riki held Heeseung’s hand tightly, his eyes wide at the colors, the toys, the unfamiliar voices that appeared in photos and videos.
“It will be good for him,” Jaeyun said, watching the boy curiously look at the children on the phone.
“And for me too,” Heeseung replied. “Maybe I’ll be able to work without feeling like I’m failing as an adult.”
Jaeyun looked at him tenderly.
“You’re not failing. You’re trying. That’s already more than many ever did for you.”
Heeseung looked away, swallowing his emotion.
“My parents never came with me anywhere. Not to school, not to the doctor, nowhere. They always sent someone else, always outsourcing affection.”
“You’re not repeating that. You’re breaking the cycle.”
Riki ran, grabbed a star‑shaped toy, and said “Hyung!” with a wide smile. Jaeyun crouched down, picked the boy up, and Heeseung felt something tighten in his chest. It was love. It was fear. It was everything at once.
The next night, Jaeyun took them to the observatory.
Riki was excited, wearing a coat far too big and a hat that covered half his face. Heeseung carried a backpack with snacks and blankets, and Jaeyun guided them through the silent corridors of the building.
On the terrace, the sky was clear. The stars shone brightly, and Riki pointed at them with small, curious fingers.
“Mama,” he said suddenly, and the world stopped.
Heeseung froze. Jaeyun too.
“Mama,” Riki repeated, pointing at a brighter star.
Heeseung knelt beside him, his eyes misty.
“She’s there, right?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
Jaeyun came closer, placed a hand on his back, and said nothing. He just stayed there. Present. Steady.
They remained in silence for a long time. Riki fell asleep in Heeseung’s arms, and Jaeyun covered them both with a blanket.
“Do you think she knew this would happen?” Heeseung asked, his voice low.
“I think she knew you would take care of him. That he would be safe.”
“I don’t know if I’m enough.”
“You are more than enough.”
Heeseung looked at him, his eyes full of things.
“And you? Why are you still here?”
Jaeyun smiled sadly. - “Because you make me feel like I belong.”
The silence between them was stronger than any word. And that night, among diapers, stars, and memories, something settled.
Something that did not need to be said.
Something that already was.
The school was two blocks from the apartment, with large windows and walls covered in children’s drawings. The name was simple: Little Star. Sunoo had recommended it enthusiastically, saying that the coordinator was kind and that the space was bilingual, Japanese and Korean, perfect for Riki.
Heeseung held the boy’s hand tightly, as if the world could swallow them both if he let go. Jaeyun walked beside them, carrying a backpack with diapers, snacks, and a notebook.
“Are you nervous?” Jaeyun asked while they waited in the reception. “A little,” Heeseung replied. “It’s the first time he’ll be with other children. And… I don’t know if he’ll feel safe.”
Jaeyun looked at Riki, who was playing with a toy car on the floor. “He has you. That’s already more than many have.”
Heeseung smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
The coordinator welcomed them kindly. She showed them the spaces, explained the routine, and spoke about adaptation. Riki entered the room hesitantly, but soon approached a boy who spoke Japanese and began playing with colorful blocks. “He’s smart,” the coordinator said. “He’ll adapt quickly.”
Heeseung watched through the window, his eyes fixed on the boy. Jaeyun came closer, leaning his shoulder against his. “Are you okay?”
Heeseung hesitated. Then, he spoke softly: “When I was his age, my parents put me in a school that felt like a prison. Everything was about performance, never about affection.”
Jaeyun didn’t answer; he waited. “I realized I was gay at fifteen. I thought… maybe it was just a phase. But it wasn’t, and when I told them…” Heeseung swallowed hard. “They said I was a shame, that I couldn’t keep living there. At eighteen, I left and never went back.”
Jaeyun touched his hand gently. “You built everything on your own. That’s strength, Hyung.” “I didn’t want to have to be strong so early.”
The silence between them was heavy, but full of understanding.
On the way back home, Riki slept in the stroller, his head tilted to the side. Heeseung pushed slowly, and Jaeyun walked beside him, his gaze distant. “I received an offer,” he said suddenly.
Heeseung stopped. “An offer?” “A scholarship. For a research program in astrophysics in Switzerland.”
The world seemed to freeze for a second. “You’re going…?”
Jaeyun looked at him and smiled. “No, I refused.” “Why?” “Because you need me. And I… need to be here. I’m only telling you because I feel I have to. This marriage may be false, but I don’t want our honesty to be too. Before being my husband, you’re my best friend, that’s why I’m telling you.”
Heeseung didn’t answer. He only nodded, his eyes misty.
That night, while Riki slept on the sofa, Heeseung prepared tea for Jaeyun. They sat on the balcony in silence, watching the city lights. “Thank you,” Heeseung said finally. “For what?” “For staying.”
Jaeyun smiled, and the silence between them was stronger than any word.
Riki’s first week at school was calm. He cried on the first day, but soon grew attached to a teacher who spoke Japanese with a perfect accent. Every day, Heeseung left the boy at the door with a kiss on the forehead and a careful whisper of “I’ll be back soon.” When Jaeyun could go along, Riki smiled more on those days.
But on Friday, everything collapsed.
The torrential rain beat hard against the window. Heeseung’s body shivered from the cold weather and the lightning that lit up the space.
The phone call came at 10 a.m. Heeseung was revising a soundtrack for a TV drama with an upcoming release date when his phone vibrated. “Mr. Lee? This is Little Star School. Riki had a crisis, he’s been crying nonstop. Called for his mother and father. Could you come pick him up?”
Heeseung ran out. He didn’t even change clothes. Even in the rain, he reached the school with his heart in his throat, his eyes burning, and the clock marking a record time. He found Riki curled up in a corner of the room, his eyes red, his body trembling. “Heehee…” the boy cried, stretching out his arms.
Heeseung picked him up, holding him tightly, as if he could protect him from the entire world. “I’m here. I’m here, Riki, it’s all right now.”
The coordinator explained that one of the children had spoken about “mom and dad” during an activity. Riki stayed silent for a while, and when the crash of the storm frightened them, he began to cry and didn’t stop. “He needs psychological support,” the coordinator said kindly. “This isn’t just grief, it’s trauma.”
Heeseung nodded, his eyes fixed on the child who wasn’t his, but who already meant everything.
On the way home, Riki slept in his arms in the taxi. Heeseung looked out the window, the city passing by like a blur. He felt small, powerless, as if he were failing at everything.
When they arrived, Jaeyun was already waiting at the door. His class had ended early, and with worried eyes, his hands reached out. “What happened?”
Heeseung told him everything. Without hiding anything. And when he finished, he sat on the sofa and cried. For the first time since the accident, he truly cried. Not at the edges, but at the center. In his chest.
Jaeyun knelt in front of him, holding his hands. “You’re not alone. I’m here. We’ll get through this together.”
“And what if I’m not enough?” Heeseung asked between sobs. “What if I ruin everything? What if he grows up and hates me?”
“He won’t. Because you love him, and that’s what matters.”
Heeseung closed his eyes, trying to believe. “I never had this. When I was expelled from home, no one held me. No one told me I was enough. They only told me I was wrong.”
Jaeyun leaned closer, resting his forehead against his. “You were never wrong. You were just alone. But you’re not anymore.”
The silence between them was warm. Alive. Riki was there, holding his uncle as if the world, suspended by an invisible thread, might break if his fingers let go of any feeling. “I wish I could go back in time,” Heeseung whispered. “And tell the boy I was that he would be okay.”
“Then say it now,” Jaeyun replied. “Say it to me.”
Heeseung took a deep breath. And said: “You will be okay. You will find people who love you. You will build a home with your own hands. You will have a child who calls you ‘heehee’ and someone…” He stopped, his eyes meeting Jaeyun’s. “And someone who sings you to sleep.”
Jaeyun smiled, his eyes misty. “I’m here, Hyung. And I’m not going anywhere.”
That night, they slept together on the sofa. Riki is between them. Their hands were intertwined over the blanket. And the world, for the first time in a long while, seemed like a place where love could grow.
Even among diapers and stars.
The envelope arrived on a silent morning, left in the mailbox with the coldness of someone who did not want to be seen. Heeseung opened it with trembling fingers, already sensing that something was wrong before even reading.
It was a judicial notification.
A custody contestation for Riki.
Signed by his parents.
The paper said that Heeseung had no emotional structure, no financial stability, no adequate family environment to raise a child. It said that his marriage to Jaeyun was “fraudulent,” and that Heeseung’s “sexual condition” put Riki at risk of “moral deviation.”
He read each line as if he were being stabbed. Not because of the content, which was disgusting, but because of the origin. Because of the signature. Because of the surname he had tried to forget. Jaeyun found Heeseung sitting on the living room floor, the envelope open, his eyes fixed on nothing.
“Hyung…?”
Heeseung did not answer. He only handed him the paper.
Jaeyun read in silence. Then, he sat beside him, saying nothing for a while.
“They have no right,” he said firmly. “This is hate, not care.”
“They never wanted to care,” Heeseung replied, his voice low. “When I told them I was gay, my mother cried as if I had died. My father said I was forbidden to use the family surname. At eighteen, they gave me a suitcase and told me I could leave.”
Jaeyun squeezed his hand. “And you built everything on your own. Now they want to take away what you have.”
“Riki isn’t just my nephew. He is… he is everything I have.”
“And you are everything he has.”
The process would be long. The hearing was scheduled for three weeks later. Heeseung would have to prove that he was capable of caring for Riki. That his marriage to Jaeyun was legitimate, that the environment was safe. That love was enough.
Sunoo and Jungwon offered to testify, Jongseong began gathering documents, and Sunghoon recommended a lawyer who had already dealt with cases of family homophobia.
But the fear was constant.
Riki felt it. He cried more at night, called for Heeseung more often, slept clinging to Jaeyun’s arm, as if sensing that something was trying to separate them.
One night, Heeseung woke to the boy crying in the bedroom. He ran to him, picked him up, and nestled him against his chest, rocking him gently.
“It’s all right, Riki. I’m here. No one will take you from me.”
Jaeyun appeared with a blanket and placed himself beside them.
“He feels what you feel,” he said. “And you need to show him that you won’t give up.”
“I’ve never fought for anything,” Heeseung confessed. “I’ve always left. Always hidden.”
“Then fight now. For him. For you.”
Heeseung looked at Jaeyun. And for the first time, he felt that he could.
The night was clear, as if the sky had been washed from the inside. The air was cold, but not cutting. The city slept in silence, and on the building’s terrace, three bodies settled under a blanket with rockets and moons.
Riki was in the middle, his hat crooked and his eyes wide. Heeseung held him carefully, as if the boy were made of glass. Jaeyun adjusted the telescope with steady hands and precise movements, as if he had known that sky for a long time.
“Hyung said there are shooting stars tonight,” Riki murmured, looking up.
Jaeyun smiled, without taking his eyes off the lens.
“There are. And with the telescope, we can even see the meteor.”
Riki frowned, curious.
“Meteor is different from a shooting star?”
Jaeyun crouched beside him, patient.
“Actually, it’s the same thing. When you see a ‘shooting star,’ you’re seeing a meteor. It’s the flash that appears when a tiny piece of rock or dust from a star that died comes close to Earth and burns in our air. It’s not a real star, just a fragment of it, as if the universe believed something so beautiful should be shared with everyone. And you can even make a wish. It’s really beautiful, isn’t it?”
Riki nodded, enchanted.
“And… make a wish?”
“Yes! But it has to come from the heart; it has to be true. The wish has to come from here inside,” Jaeyun explained as he placed Riki’s hand over his heart and rested his own hand over it.
Riki looked at the sky for long seconds. Then, he turned to Jaeyun with a gaze far too serious for his age. “I want to see my family up there.”
Heeseung came closer, touching the boy’s shoulder tenderly. “You can. Your parents are stars in the sky. At night, they appear to put you to sleep. They are light in the darkness, protecting you.”
Riki curled up a little more under the blanket. “I’m afraid of the dark.”
“I know. That’s why they’re there. Even when you don’t see them, during the day, they’re hidden in the sun. They’re still there, watching over you. Always.”
Riki thought for a moment, then looked at both of them. “Like you two? You won’t leave me either?”
Heeseung and Jaeyun exchanged glances and, without hesitation, answered together, confirming they would always be there.
“We’ll be like the sun and the moon, always shining on you. We’ll never leave you,” Heeseung said with all the certainty of his being.
The silence that followed was deep, not empty, but full. Full of things that did not need to be said.
Jaeyun adjusted the telescope once more. It was the same one his parents had given him when he was accepted into the exchange program years ago. A gift that said, “Look at the sky and remember we are looking at it too, searching for you.” He had never told anyone that, but now, with Heeseung beside him and Riki between them, it felt right.
“They gave me this telescope when I left Australia to study here,” he said softly. “It was the most beautiful gift I ever received. They said that even far away, I could look at the sky and remember they were looking too.”
Heeseung touched his hand lightly. “They sound incredible.”
“They are. You should meet them.”
“We’ll visit them. When all this is over. When Riki is better. When our family settles.”
Jaeyun looked at him, his eyes shining. “You really want to?”
“I do. I want to meet the people who taught you to be like this.”
The sky grew darker, and then, a line of light crossed the horizon. A quick, intense glow, like a whisper from the universe.
Riki saw it and closed his eyes. He said nothing, but inside him, the wish was made: that this family would stay, that Heehee and Hyung would never leave, that love would have no deadline.
The same wish, unknowingly, was made by Heeseung and Jaeyun too, in silence. Also afraid to say it out loud, because sometimes, the feeling is too big to fit into words.
Jaeyun covered the three of them with a blanket, and they stayed there until late, without hurry, without fear. The telescope pointed at the sky, but their eyes were on each other.
And when the cold pressed harder, they went down together, as if carrying the universe in their hands.