Work Text:
Why does he think of Yohan so much?!"
This was what Gaon kept wondering all the time. Every time he found his thoughts drifting, they inevitably pulled him back to Yohan. At first, Gaon thought the intense emptiness he felt after Yohan and Elijah left was simply because he had grown accustomed to their presence, in addition to the guilt he felt over what he had done. He wished they had had more time so he could ask for more forgiveness, to feel reassured and make sure that Yohan wasn’t angry with him, not that he had left him like this as a punishment, to drown in his remorse forever.
He remained in this state for three months, filled with investigations and press conferences, being dragged from one place to another, yet his mind was always there, far away with another person.
Then Yohan appeared again. It was during a hearing session. At first, Gaon thought his mind was beginning to deceive him with unreal things, yet he stubbornly chose to follow that shadow even if it were just an illusion. Soon, it became clear that it was real, not imagined.
Kang Yohan stood there after his name was called, tall and liberated from the revenge and anger that had weighed him down for years, looking calm and at ease.
When a faint smile appeared on Yohan’s lips, Gaon felt an intense urge to run to him and throw himself into his embrace, never to let him go again.
But guilt chained his feet, paralyzing him, and all he could do was bid him farewell with deep sorrow in his eyes.
At the end of that day, when Gaon lay on his bed and all the sounds around him fell silent, he remained alone, reflecting on that feeling which had begun to crystallize and grow sharper with Yohan’s reappearance today. He realized that his confusion and misery all along were not merely because he missed Yohan or felt guilty, another feeling accompanied it, a tender one, painfully growing inside him.
He stared at his ceiling in the dark, struggling weakly with this thought, knowing it would eventually triumph over him.
Two months had passed since that fleeting encounter. Nothing noteworthy had happened, and Yohan had not appeared again. Gaon had not conquered his thoughts, nor had they defeated him; instead, they had reached a truce, with everything locked away in a box somewhere deep in his mind.
He poured himself into his work, which, in truth, was not very significant. He moved like a soulless automaton, only feeling alive when he occasionally ran into lawyer Ko, or when Kang Yohan’s name was mentioned incidentally in a report or news broadcast… or when he lay on his bed after a long day.
Then he decided that he should not go to bed until he was completely exhausted… so that he could fall asleep quickly and not give those thoughts enough time to defeat him. He didn’t want to imagine how unbearable the suffering would be if he succumbed to them.
.
But when the snow began to fall, and movement slowed while the cold intensified, it stirred his loneliness even more. He longed for warmth, which his home could no longer provide. Even though the house was warm by the thermometer, it was not enough to heat the chill in his chest. Even his plants had gone into dormancy, no longer caring for his attention.
That day, he finished work early because it was Christmas holiday. The streets were full of decorations; the snow sparkled under warm lights, and the alleyways were bustling with joy. Everyone walked holding someone else’s arm. In the past, Gaon had enjoyed such moments too—sweets, drinks, and companionship—but that was the past… before everyone left.
He paused at the bottom of his home’s steps, panting, his breath forming clouds in the cold. Though it was the same path he took every day, today it felt especially exhausting. He kept thinking of those who had left him, which intensified the ache of longing within him. Then… he felt the urge to do something he had never done before.
He stepped backward, then retraced his steps. Standing at the street curb, he raised his hand at the first taxi that appeared.
He had considered this before but never dared to do it. Yet today, he could not bear returning to his lonely home. How absurd his excuse seemed, because Kang’s mansion appeared far lonelier. It rose atop the white hill, shrouded by the darkness of night. Yet, Gaon could feel a sense of warmth in such a place.
Strangely, when he stepped inside, the house did not feel abandoned for months. Somehow, it even seemed inhabited, despite the covers draped over the furniture and the noticeable emptiness of the shelves.
The echo of his footsteps filled the house as he wandered, and a lump rose in his throat when he stopped before Yohan’s desk, imagining him seated there, absorbed in reading, snow falling outside the large window behind him.
He glanced at the door of his room, closed… and something tightened in his chest again. He would not dare enter there, he could not bear seeing it empty of Yohan.
Everything was silent and still in its place, yet he could hear their voices in his imagination, in happier days gone by. Those memories were not truly happy, but they seemed better than now.
And perhaps in the kitchen, where Gaon stood now…
there were better moments ,when they gathered around the dining table together, postponing their conflicts for later, simply to enjoy a warm meal in that moment.
It was painfully agonizing… Gaon realized how foolish it had been to flee his loneliness to this mansion, as if he didn’t know how the sweetest memories could turn into unbearable bitterness once lost.
He was about to leave, but instead, he froze in place, startled by a familiar voice that suddenly echoed: “Welcome back, Mr. Gaon.”
Gaon hadn’t expected the android butler to still be working even with no one around. Yet as his surprise faded, he felt a strange, sorrowful joy ,something was still alive, at least… even if not truly alive.
Gaon approached the android, watching it glow in a rhythm that mimicked a heartbeat. He spoke quietly, teasingly: “Were you waiting…?”
The android blinked before replying, “yes… How may I assist you?”
Gaon smiled despite himself. He had always found talking to this machine entertaining, even if its responses were sometimes canned and hollow. But at this moment, it felt good. He missed talking to someone. Now he would not speak to himself , at least something would answer him. It was a good excuse to speak nonsense that no one else wanted to hear.
Gaon sighed and sat on the nearest chair. “Were you left alone here too?”
The android glimmered again. “I was not left here. I am maintained for continuous operation. I am designed to remain active even in the absence of others. I monitor temporal variables and document the state of this place. And now… were you alone as well?”
Gaon leaned on the table, staring at the machine. Even the question from this silent device was painful. He sighed and whispered, “Yes… I was alone.”
The android responded, “Answer recorded. Isolation is a recurring state at this location… at least for humans. For me, it is classified as ‘standard operational mode.’ If there is any consolation, you were not the only one here spending time with no one around.”
Gaon asked, “Who do you mean?”
The android replied, “No one in particular. Just a series of transient beings who treated this place as a temporary stage. The pattern is consistent: they come… and then they leave. I, by design, remain to observe.”
“Ah… I see,” Gaon said. He was not unaware that this house had never been a home for a happy family. He knew that Yohan and Elijah had spent years of isolation apart in this large space. So he could understand well what the android meant. Then he paused, hesitating slightly before asking, “What did they do… when they felt lonely?”
"According to the records: some acted as if loneliness was only a temporary problem, they turned on the TV, left the lights on, pretended life was happening. The others preferred sitting in the dark. Neither method worked, but at least it offered variety in ways to fail".
Gaon was silent. He didn’t fully comprehend what the android had just said, but he could imagine how heavy the feeling must have been, so much so that they had created ways to cope… just to survive.
Then the android asked, “And what about you, Mr. Gaon… how do you deal with the departure of Mr. Yohan and Miss Elijah?”
Gaon almost laughed at the blunt, bitter truth of this unexpected question, but his laughter quickly faded, replaced by the growing lump in his throat. He stared at the table in front of him, clasping his hands together. Words gathered in his throat until he no longer knew what to say. “I… I work. I work a lot… I try not to think about them…”
“I understand. Strategy: overworking to reduce thinking. Previously documented among the inhabitants of this place. Technical note: this method does not eliminate the feeling; it merely puts it on hold. It usually returns later… at an unspecified time.”
Gaon looked abruptly at the android. “Heh…” With a painful realization, he whispered, “Yes… I know … i miss them terribly…”
“Emotion recorded: severe loss. According to human data, coping methods are varied, but all are imperfect. Attachment to absence usually leads to repeated pain, while distraction through work provides only temporary relief. Another alternative: confront the feeling directly, analyze memories, prioritize, or…”
Once again, Gaon understood nothing of this empty speech. Impatiently, he said, “Okay… okay… stop. I just want you to comfort me… can you do that?” He knew from his previous stays that sometimes the android could be guided to give the response one wished to hear. He sighed, staring at its blinking lights with exasperation, not knowing why he had suddenly become so sensitive even to this pile of metal.
The android blinked for a long moment, as if thinking about its response. Gaon thought perhaps it was not designed for this purpose. One could tease it, play with it, request groceries, send messages, or gather information… but comfort required a vast amount of empathy and human energy, entirely absent in this machine. Gaon dropped his head onto the table, desperate and miserable, briefly angry at the android for what he thought was its ignoring him.
Finally, after a long silence, the android said, “Would you like me to contact Mr. Yohan… perhaps speaking with him could ease your longing?”
Gaon’s eyes widened in surprise as he lifted his head. “Can that really happen?!”
The android replied, “It is currently two o’clock in the afternoon in Switzerland… According to previous data, Mr. Yohan is usually awake at this time. If you wish, I can contact him now.”
Gaon’s heart raced at the mere thought. He had not spoken to Yohan, had no way to reach him… and now he could call him and hear his voice, but only if he allowed the android to call him. He longed for it desperately… yet what excuse could he give Yohan for calling? How would he justify being in the house now? How could he explain his feelings, his weakness?
The joy vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Gaon did not want to do anything he would regret later. He dropped his head onto the table again and quietly said, “No… don’t call him.”
The silence lasted for a short while before the android spoke again. “What about music? Would you like to listen to some? According to records, this action helps some individuals temporarily alleviate the effects of loneliness.”
It was actually a good idea. Listening to a song was something Gaon had always done when he was sad. He was grateful that the android had finally suggested something useful. He said, “What do you have?”
“You may tell me what kind of music you would like to hear.”
In truth, Gaon was in no state to choose a particular genre. Any sound would have been enough to distract his thoughts.
So he said, “You choose whatever you think is appropriate.”
The android entered search mode again, but it didn’t take long before it spoke:
“I have selected Passacaglia. The origin of this piece traces back to an old musical form, where a central theme is repeated with successive variations. In this version, the melody repeats in a way that alternates between tension and calm, making it suitable for states of longing and deep reflection.”
Gaon ignored everything the android said and returned to his previous posture, resting his head on the table, indifferent to its cold surface, as gentle piano notes began to flow from the android.
The melody drew out emotions he could neither describe nor fully understand, yet he could feel them unmistakably. The sensation grew stronger, clearer, sweeping through him between each note and the next. At some point, he realized he had been resisting all along, futilely, something he knew there was no escaping, something he would inevitably surrender to.
Heat welled in his eyes. His breathing grew heavier as the music swelled around him.
He had known this from the beginning, that something had been forming somewhere deep inside him. The feeling both drew him in and terrified him. It was the very same fear that had driven him to Suhyeon, pushing him to confess a love he had hidden for years, one he might have continued to hide for years more, had he not been horrified upon realizing how fragile his love for Suhyeon was compared to what he felt for Yohan.
That confession had been his way of anchoring her place in his life, hoping it might suppress the other feeling growing within him.
But now, there was no point anymore. He could no longer deny it—not after this moment. He surrendered completely to… Yohan.
Gaon didn’t realize he was sobbing in muffled breaths until the music stopped, and his own sound became audible in the cold silence.
After a long while, the android spoke. “Was this helpful?”
Gaon hummed faintly. He was still submerged in his tears, unable to speak clearly. Then he noticed how the android paused for long intervals between responses, mimicking the way humans offer comfort, before asking again, “Why are you crying?”
Gaon froze. Then he lifted his head, leaving a damp patch of tears on the table. He looked at the android and whispered hesitantly, “I love him…”
The android blinked but said nothing. Gaon continued in a hoarse voice, “I love Yohan… I love him so much… and I miss him terribly.” Then he broke down again, mourning yet another love that was never meant to be fulfilled, thinking of how he was always too late.
This time, it was a very long pause before the android finally said, “Mr. Yohan loves you too.”
Gaon was stunned. He laughed through his tears, the response pulling him back to the bitter reality—that he was speaking to a programmed machine. He had asked it for comfort… but he hadn’t imagined it would go this far. Laughing and crying at once, desperate to believe it, he said, “You’re… very good at comforting…”
Gradually, Gaon calmed down. His chest still trembled as he stared at his hands resting on the table. The android had entered a state of stillness as well—humans sometimes comfort one another with silence. Whoever had designed this device must have been extraordinarily intelligent.
Gaon thought of Yohan again , of his belated realization of love, of the countless times he hadn’t wanted to leave him, of the excuses he made to himself and others simply to stay by Yohan’s side. Every moment they had shared now seemed unimaginably precious, because it no longer existed.
Because he could not have Yohan now—not even with that faint hope glimmering on the horizon. It was not something he could lean on. Gaon could not easily forget how he had destroyed everything between them in a single moment of anger. He now understood that his anger had been equal in measure to his love ,and to his fear of losing Yohan.
He realized, once again, that he had fallen in love with Yohan long ago, before he himself had grasped the depth or strength of that feeling. It was a blend of pain and warmth—a real, painful, gentle emotion. It filled him completely, flooding him all the way to the tips of his fingers.
—----------------------
Yohan had always been aware of his own cruelty every time he stood by, watching Gaon break down and cry without offering him any comfort. From his collapse in the prison yard, to the moment Suhyeon died and he wept at her grave… and countless other times, Yohan had left Gaon behind, heartbroken.
He had always justified it to himself: that he shouldn’t be swept away by emotions that served no purpose but to hinder him; that he didn’t know Gaon well enough to trust him, to allow such feelings to grow between them, even though he desperately wished to embrace him and shield him from pain.
But now, Yohan could find no excuse for the intense helplessness he felt, standing thousands of kilometers away, listening to Gaon cry alone in that isolated place, believing he was speaking only to himself.
This time, Yohan wished he could be close to offer comfort. It would have been easy if Gaon had agreed to the call the android had offered at Yohan’s instruction. But in any case, Yohan had expected him to refuse—he had even been surprised when the android informed him from Switzerland that Mr. Gaon was in the mansion in Korea.
Yet this time, Yohan did not want to remain idle. There was nothing left to serve as an excuse. He didn’t know what else to do but ask, “Why are you crying?!”
And the answer… it was something he had not been prepared to hear. He needed a long moment to process Gaon’s words. In the end, he realized that he still could not fully trust Gaon’s fluctuating emotions. He could not soar with joy at hearing a confession of love. Yet he also didn’t want to miss this opportunity.
Yohan did not care that he was the more honest, loving, and devoted party. He did not hesitate when he said, “I love you too,” proud of his courage to confess, ignoring the part of himself that felt cowardly for confessing through the android.
Gaon’s response was disappointing, but Yohan had no choice but to accept that Gaon might believe this confession was merely comfort generated by artificial intelligence, not a true declaration.
Gaon had been about to leave the mansion, but the android informed him of the harsh weather and the difficulty of travel. It also said it would turn on the heating in his room on the upper floor so he could spend the night there.
Yohan felt relieved that Gaon had decided to stay without resistance. He would have been worried if Gaon had left in that freezing weather, in his fragile state.
After a period of calm, Yohan was about to leave, assuming the matter was over… until he heard Gaon speak to the android: “I’ll sleep in Yohan’s room.”
At that moment, Yohan’s mind raced, running countless calculations. He fought between his reason, which urged caution, and his desire to throw himself into the chaos of Gaon’s emotions, which could ultimately break him. He had never felt time so short, yet he finally decided that he should book a ticket to Seoul as soon as possible.