Chapter 10: The Past & the Present

Est.

The street was quiet, save for the sound of the car's tires rolling up the driveway.

Est's heart hadn't stopped hammering since they took the car and sped off, not since the gun and the blood and the silent threat followed him home in the same car.

When he finally killed the engine, the silence settled like a heavy fog over everything.

The sunlight painted the edges of William's face in a deathly pale glow, sharp and cold. His hand firmly clutched his side, blood leaking sluggishly through his fingers, staining the fabric of his shirt dark.

Est moved first, unbuckling his seat belt with shaky hands. The metal click sounded too loud it almost startled him.

William didn't speak.

He only leaned back against the seat, breathing through his teeth. The effort it took just to sit there was clear in the heaviness with which he drew breath, but his eyes— his eyes were still sharp, dangerous.

He still had the look of someone you shouldn't dare cross.

Est knew it too well.

He pushed open the car door and stepped out into the warm air. Then he circled to the passenger side, just as William forced the door open and staggered out.

"Don't touch me..." William hissed when Est instinctively reached out, gun concealed by his side but still pointed at Est. His voice was hoarse, weak, but determined.

He straightened and walked towards the door with the precision of a man who had spent many years ignoring pain, maybe even fueled by it.

His steps faltered once, twice, and Est caught the tremor in his hand as he pressed it harder against his wound.

Slowly, steadily, they made their way to the front door.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and loneliness but it was cozy— a quiet, lived-in kind of place that didn't belong to men who bled to survive.

Est shut the door behind them, locking it, and then hovered uncertainly near the hallway, unsure whether to guide William to the couch or the bed upstairs.

Before he could decide, the doorbell rang.

He froze.

William's head snapped towards the door. "It's the doctor." He said weakly.

Est only nodded, before turning to click it open.

The man who stepped in was older, late-thirties, with a small face and dark hair lightly streaked with grey. He had the eyes of a man who was used to violence, who'd patched it up a million times before.

"What took you so long?" William asked coldly, hunched forward, held only by his bloodied hand on the wallpaper

"Traffic." The doctor answered, monotonously.

He didn't say anymore.

He just moved past Will and set his medical bag down on the table. "On the couch." The doctor— Aou, Est remembered— said simply.

William dragged himself to the couch, gritting his teeth as he lowered himself down, every movement taut with repressed pain. His jaw clenched, his knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the cushion.

Est hovered behind, breaths uneven, standing useless and terrified.

The doctor cut William's shirt open and peeled it away from the wound. Est flinched at the sight of the blood— dark and slick, some dried. It coated William's pale, unmarked half in uneven streaks.

The doctor didn't flinch. He worked quickly, efficienly, with sturdy hands and clinical precision.

The metallic smell of blood filled the room, sharp and heavy, making Est stomach tighten.

William didn't make a sound as the man pulled the bullet out.

Not one sound.

His chest rose and fell, each breath shallow, but his jaw was locked. His head laid weakly on the headrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as though trying to keep himself tethered to something invisible.

Then for a quiet terrifying moment, they rolled upright, meeting Est's, who stood behind him.

And those eyes burned into him, that cold, impenetrable gaze.

Est's throat tightened.

He couldn't decipher what the look meant — whether it was a threat... or something else. He just knew a cold shiver crawled through him and suddenly, he found it hard to breathe.

The stitching was quick but brutal.

The sound of the needle pricking skin, the thread pulling through flesh made Est's throat tighten.

He forced himself to stay, to not look away from William's unyielding, half-dead gaze.

He told himself it was not to look weak.

But he knew it was something more.

Something worse.

When the doctor finally wiped the blood away and pressed the bandage down, William exhaled like he'd been holding his breath the entire time.

His face was pale, sweat dampened his hair, but even then, he didn't look fragile. He still looked like he could break a man with his bare hands.

When it was over, they both pulled William upstairs and sat him on the bed.

There Aou carefully freed him from his sweat-soaked, blood-stained clothes.

Est looked away then, his breathe catching faintly in his throat. He didn't need his mind wandering to improper places— not right now.

William looked at him, and smirked despite himself— his gaze sharp and knowing.

Aou requested a bowl of warm water and a towel, which Est quickly provided. With gentle, deliberate motions, he wiped William free of blood and dirt.

Not long after, William fell asleep in between the sheets.

And everything fell quiet.

Aou stood then, turning to Est. "He lost alot of blood..." He said, tone matter of fact, practiced. "He's going to need rest... I'll come back to check on him regularly. I'm leaving you a bottle of saline, keep the wound clean. Change the bandages the day after tomorrow. Watch out for fever or infection. If it gets worse, call me."

Est nodded numbly, throat tight. "Okay..."

"I'll take the car... and the gun."

Est chest tightened. His throat bobbed. "Okay." The words were hushed.

The doctor gave him a simple nod, before returning downstairs without another word. The door clicked after, followed by the rough start of the car, then nothing..

Just quiet again.

Just Est.

And William.

Alone.

Est drew closer to the bed.

William lay on the bed, head tilted to the side, his breathing slow but uneven. His lashes cast faint shadows on his cheek, softening the sharpness of his face.

Est stood there, staring longer than he should have, and something ugly and unwelcome grew in his chest.

William didn't look like a man who had killed.

Not like this.

His face in sleep— or unconsciousness, Est wasn't sure which— was softer, almost delicate, cherubic.

Like an angel who had fallen hard and learned how to fight.

The thought hit Est so hard, he shuddered.

He took a step back, shut his eyes and pressed palm against his head, trying to push back the invasive thoughts.

He shouldn't think that— not about him.

Not about someone who had dragged him into this never ending circle of violence.

He turned away abruptly, picked up the bowl and towel, and left the room.

He busied himself that day with everything but William.

He grabbed a bucket and mop, and started scrubbing away the trail of blood William had left across the floor.

He spent another hour cleaning the couch, sweat streaking his forehead with the pressure. The red had smeared into the fabric, leaving stubborn marks that refused to disappear fully.

It felt like trying to wipe away a crime.

The bloodprint on the wallpaper couldn't be saved. So he tore it off.

Every now and then, Est checked in on William, half expecting to be fully awake— or maybe dead.

But he wasn't.

His chest rose and fell slowly, his skin was slick with sweat.

Est checked his temperature, lifted the bandage once more, just to be sure. His hands shook, but he kept them steady enough.

He didn't have any experience with this, but he followed the man's instructions carefully.

Minutes blurred into hours. Evening came and stretched on.

Est kept the lights dim and checked on William once again, in between not eating and pacing, trying not to think too much.

When morning came, and the rising sun creeped in through the windows, William finally stirred. But he didn't move much.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, sweat slicking his skin, and he mumbled things Est couldn't quite catch.

When Est leaned in to check his forehead, William's hand shot up instinctively, and grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.

Est froze.

William's eyes fluttered open, unfocused, distant but sharp enough to make him shiver.

Est swallowed and whispered, his voice a nervous tremor. "It's just me..."

William's grip loosened almost immediately, and his hand dropped to his side.

But the message was already clear. Even half-conscious, William was still dangerous.

The days that followed bled into each other.

William slept most of the time, his body healing slowly.

Est followed the doctor's instructions to the tee.

He changed the bandages. He wiped away the sweat on William's brow. He made sure the wound stayed clean.

When William was hungry, Est made him some porridge.

His hands shook when he handed him the bowl, breath held. William took it from him, not meeting his gaze, muttering a low "Thank you".

Those were the only words he offered each time Est did him a service.

His gratitude.

But when he said it, his voice held nothing.

Est didn't know how to feel about it.

The days passed in a blur.

Sometimes, when the house felt too quiet— the only noise being that of the man upstairs, Est found his mind drifting to the same intrusive thought— William asleep, his lashes brushing against his cheeks, the cruel edges of him gone for a brief, fragile moment.

He looked angelic that way.

Something dangerous and beautiful.

Est hated himself for thinking that.

He brushed it off every time, tried to bury it under his tasks, on the steady rhythm of eating and sleeping and breathing.

By the third day, just as he bent over to check his wound again, a knock sounded on the door.

It was sharp. Unexpected. Made Est flinch, his hand hovering just above William's skin.

The knock came again. Softer this time. Resigned.

He straightened slowly, eyes flicking to the man on the bed.

William was still asleep, his breaths soft but deep.

Est's turned, pulled the door open and quietly left the room. He moved down the stairs, his steps cautious, careful.

When he opened the door, the last person he expected to see stood there. But somehow, it was the same person he expected the most.

"Tui..." Est greeted, his voice breathless.

Tui looked... different.

His hair was slightly mussed, his glasses glinted from the sun, but his dark eyes was empty, unreadable, searching Est's face like he was trying to read him. He wore his signature flannel shirt, his hand shoved into his pocket, but his usual calm relaxed demeanor was gone.

In its place, was a man who looked desperately resigned.

"Hey..." Tui said softly, but there was no warmth in it.

Est's throat tightened. He didn't know what to say.

Tui watched him for a few long seconds, his gaze piercing.

Silence hung, tense and eternal.

Then finally, Tui broke the quiet. "You went off the grid... again. I got worried." He said, voice low, but the words wavered.

Something broke in Est.

He blinked, trying to swallow the lump forming in his throat, but it didn't move.

"Can I... come in?" Tui asked, form rigid, as though bracing himself for the rejection.

Est hesitated for a second.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder, as though William might suddenly appear behind him like a ghost.

William was upstairs. Sleeping. He was hurt. But asleep.

He told himself it was safe enough.

"Yeah..." He finally said, still breathless, stepping aside. "Yeah, yeah, of course."

When Tui stepped inside, the warmth of his body carried a familiar scent— something soft, something clean.

The kind of scent that belonged far away from whereever Est was.

The living room still bore faint traces of the last few nights. A blanket thrown over the couch to cover the taint and the faint scent of disinfectant still lingered.

Est prayed Tui wouldn't notice too much.

Tui turned to him then, hands in pocket, eyes soft and a little broken.

It made Est's heart ache.

"You haven't been around much." It wasn't a question. His soft tone twisted something painful in Est's chest.

Something full of guilt.

Est forced out a shaky breath. "I— I had to go out of town for work." He lied, the words nervous, stumbling out a little too fast.

Tui's eyes looked despondent. "Work...?" He repeated.

Est didn't answer.

Tui stared at him for a long moment, gaze forlorn, not accusing. Just... knowing. Like he could see right through the holes in Est's words.

Est's chest tightened painfully.

Tui exhaled slowly. "Est... if you don't want this— if you don't want me— you can just say it."

Est swallowed.

"I— l've fallen for you... that's why i'm still here." Tui confessed. "But— I won't force myself into your life if you don't want me here."

Est's breath caught, heart pounding frantically.

He opened his mouth at first, then closed it, the words failing him. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.

He liked Tui. He really liked him.

He wanted to be with him.

So badly, it almost bled out of him. He liked Tui's way— quiet, but real, a constant, steady warmth.

But—

Things had changed.

Drastically.

He knew the kind of world William had dragged him into. He knew of the danger, the blood. The things that couldn't be explained with soft words like Tui's world.

If he told Tui the truth, he'd drag him into it too.

And Tui didn't deserve that.

He deserved his quiet, steady and still breathing life.

He breathed shakily, already decided. "Tui, I—"

He didn't finish.

A faint sound cut through the house. A slight stumble, a loud thud.

Both of them snapped their heads toward the stairs.

William was at the top.

He was stood there, clad in nothing but the clean white bandages wrapped around his chest, and a grey sweatpants— Est's. The fabric hung low on his hips in a way that was distracting but suggestive to the naked eye. His hair was messy from sleep, and one hand gripped the railing tightly— not because it anchored him from his pain, but something else... something Est couldn't explain.

Tui's eyes widened slightly, with confusion at first, but then his gaze darkened, a sudden understanding in their depths.

William took an extra step down, as if too look closer, his expression blank, eyes unreadable, but fixed on the man standing behind Est.

Est breaths stopped.

A cold silence grew.

It was so thick Est could hear the soft tick of the clock in the corner and the unsteady rhythm of his heart slamming against his ribs.

He panicked.

Turning to Tui, he took a shaky breath, and thought up a lie, stumbling over his words. "Tui— this— uhm— this is..."

"William." Tui said flatly.

It wasn't an answer to Est, wasn't directed at him.

It was an acknowledgment. To the man on the stair.

Not the respectful kind.

Est froze.

William's eyes narrowed. His voice came out rough but firm. "Tui."

Tui's jaw tightened.

A small. mocking smile spread across William's lips. "Long time no see." He tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with faint traces of dark humor.

"Should've stayed that way..." Tui replied, his voice lower, darker. His gaze flicked back to Est, sharp and questioning, then back to William again.

William scoffed, but his smile widened anyways, slow and deliberate.

Even in his weaked state, he still looked like danger, like it was stitched into his bones.

Est stared at them both, heart thundering, confusion etched on his face. "How do you—" He whispered, the words catching. "How do you know each other?"

Tui's eyes flickered— just for a moment— with something Est had never seen in him before.

Fear.

William's smirk only deepened further.

Tui grabbed Est hand, then took half a step back, pulling him to the door.

Est followed, but not before he gave William a terrified look.

The world was tilting.

And the weight of history pressed against the room like a looming storm, inevitable and deadly.

The past

Hong.

The house had always been quiet.

In the kind of way that felt... wrong.

It wasn't the gentle quiet that settled over normal homes at night. It was the kind that clung to the walls like decay, heavy and suffocating.

The kind of quiet that made Hong hold his breath in his sleep and flinch at the sound of his own footsteps.

He hated this house.

Hated the way the air inside it always smelled faintly of spilled beer and stale urine. Hated the walls that seemed to remember everything— every scream, every murmured, chant-like prayer, every cry that went unanswered.

He hated his childhood too.

The walls had seen him kneel until his knees bled, heard the soft, choked way he tried to whisper amen when his lips trembled too much to speak properly.

He'd hated every second of it— the way his life was shaped by someone else's idea of salvation.

His father was sprawled on the couch, lifeless looking as he always was. An open bottle lay by his side, dripping cheap beer onto the rug.

The television flickered in front of him, its volume turned low.

Hong stepped over an ashtray on the floor.

He didn't spare a glance at his father.

He didn't have to.

He already knew the sight by heart— the vomit stained shirt, the red-rimmed eyes, the sour stench of sweat and alcohol.

His father had stopped being a real father years ago.

What was left was this— a drunken, useless, hollow shell of a man.

His mother was in the her room, whispering Hail Marys under her breath like curses.

He could picture her kneeling on the old wooden floor, her hair covered, her knuckles pale from clutching the rosary too hard.

The door was open just enough for him to see her shadow on the floor, formidable, terrifying.

He crossed the space swiftly.

"Hongshi?" She cut him mid-step, calling out softly. However there was no softness in her tone. "Come here."

He didn't want to.

He never wanted to.

But he moved anyway.

That's how it always went— obedience, drilled into him like nails.

He stepped into the room.

The air smelled damp clothes and sometimes unsettling. Something Hong never got used to.

She looked up at him. "Take off your shirt." Her voice held nothing.

Hong did as he was told, tugging it off. It dropped to the floor silently.

She gestured to the floor beside her. "Kneel." She said.

He didnt hesitate. His knees hit the wood immediately, the sting immediate, familiar.

She pushed a worn leather strap into his hands— the same one she always made him use.

She called it penance. She called it cleansing.

She called it love.

"Pray..." She coaxed, but Hong heard the order beneath, edged with steel.

He mumbled the words, mouth dry, mechanical.

"I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed..."

She whispered along with him at first, soft and remorseful. Then her eyes closed, and her voice rose, and the words weren't prayers anymore.

"You will not be weak. You will not bring shame. You will be good..." She hissed between each psalm, her eyes burning with hate for the unclean. "God sees everything! God knows everything! And you must repent! Or burn!"

He hated her voice. God he hated it so much. He hated the way it dragged along his skin like broken glass. "Now!" She demanded.

He whipped himself, each lash landing across his shoulders, his back, the sound sharp, the pain accepted, like a blessing.

"Again!"

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

Each strike wasn't light. It was heavy.

It had to be.

Or he'd just make her angry.

She didn't look at him. Didn't veer away from the statue hung on the wall.

She never did.

"You need to suffer to be saved." She said softly, almost lovingly. "That's how you keep the devil out..."

The words burned itself into him, like they always did. He'd been hearing them since he was old enough to walk.

He didn't believe in them.

Not really.

But he said the prayers anyway, whispered amens, inflicted divine penance even when he didn't want to.

Why?

Because it was easier than fighting... Her.

Fighting her only made things worse.

When she finally let him go, he returned to his room, keyed the door locked and laid back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

The bedding brushed against the thin wounds on his back, leaving heat in its wake.

He didn't mind though.

It was the least painful aspect of his life.

The house creaked softly, the way it always did at night, like it was living thing, cying for an escape from this hell.

Just like him.

His body felt heavy.

The kind of heaviness that didn't just sit in the bones but in your heart.

His mind spun endlessly.

He thought of escape the way some kids thought of fairy tales.

A bus ride out of town.

Joining the army.

A knight in shining armor... who would come rescue him.

He chuckled at the thought.

They're were all dreams— beautiful dreams... but they were never real. Just hopeless delusions.

He drew invisible lines on the ceiling, like he'd done a million times before. The board was the only thing in the house that didn't speak, didn't pray, didn't reek of beer.

It was silent.

And he liked that.

He couldn't wait to go to school tomorrow.

There he could pretend— even if it was just for a few short hours— that the world outside wasn't as cruel as the one inside.

~~~

Morning came like it always did in that house— without warmth. Light slipped through the blinds, but the house never fully came awake. There was no murmured greetings, no homely scent of eggs frying or coffee brewing.

Nothing.

Just must and dust and quiet.

Hong got dressed quickly.

He didn't like looking in the mirror before school. The mirror never lied to him.

It showed him the thin red lines streaking his shoulders and back, the weary curves of his face, the hollow of his eyes.

It showed him things that only made him more miserable.

He buttoned his uniform shirt carefully, each movement practiced and quiet, making sure his collar hid everything.

Then he slipped out of his room— careful not to make a loud noise, before leaving the house.

The bus ride was a blur of faces and noise he closed his ears to.

People laughed and pushed and lived like everything was easy, like they had no worries in the world.

He envied them.

In that quiet, secret way that never made it to his face.

When he stepped onto the school grounds, the air was the same, but distinct from his life at home. It was freer. The noise here was sharp but alive, not suffocating.

Students gathered in small clusters. Some hugged. Some fought. Some kissed behind the carefully trimmed bushes— sloppy and without care, as though the world was theirs.

Hong never quite felt like he belonged here. Or anywhere...

But there was one thing here— one person— who made everything less unbearable.

His girlfriend.

Becky.

She was standing under a tree by the field, sunlight filtering through the branches above her.

She waved when she saw him, her black hair falling down her shoulders in soft waves. Her uniform looked like everyone else's, but she wore it like it was made for her. Her smile hit him with warmth, the same one that always lightened his world.

"Hey..." She said, the word soft but bright. Her hands found his, almost automatically. It always startled him, how she always reached for him, like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he wasn't a castaway from it.

He smiled— small, but real. "Hey."

Her fingers squeezed his, and she tilted her head, her eyes searching his face. Her smile dropped slightly.

Even when he thought he hid it well, she always noticed.

"What's wrong?" She asked quietly.

"Nothing..." He said too fast.

She frowned. "Hong?"

"Really..." He smiled, softer this time, trying to hid the lie behind it. "I'm fine."

But she wasn't convinced.

She never was.

Her thumb brushed the back of his hand, slow and careful, like she was trying to rub some warmth back into him. "You always say that..."

Before he could answer, another voice cut through the air.

"Becks?! We're gonna be late."

It was Freen.

She walked toward them, long hair swinging behind her, skirt a little shorter than it should be.

Her eyes flicked momentarily to Hong, distasteful, like he was something unpleasant stuck to her shoes.

She didn't say hi.

She never did.

Instead, she hooked her arm through Becky's and gently tugged her towards her.

Becky gave Hong a small, apologetic smile over her shoulder. "I'll see you later..." She said, and let herself be pulled away.

Freen's her eyes caught his for a split second— sharp and sour, then she turned.

He didn't know why she hated him so much, and honestly, he didn't care enough to find out.

Freen was a wall he'd learned not to push against.

The rest of the day flew by in a blur of half-listened lectures and scribbled notes.

His mind drifted back to the prayer room, to the whip, to the way the house still groaned when he left, like it was begging him not to come back.

By the time the final bell rang, all he wanted was the quiet that came with being with Becky.

They met at the bleachers, like they always did.

The sun was dipping low, painting the field with orange hues. The air smelled of grass and sweat and something warm, something alive.

Becky was sitting on the highest step, ankles crossed, waiting for him. When he sat down beside her, she leaned into him without hesitation.

"You look tired..." She started, voice soft.

"I'm fine..." He lied... again.

She looked at him, like she didn't believe him. But she didn't argue this time.

Instead, she climbed onto his lap, knees bent on either side of him, her hair falling like a cloak around their faces. Hong pressed back with her movements, adjusting their weight.

She tucked her ears behind her ears and kissed him.

It was soft at first, a gentle brush of lips against lips, like time itself had slowed. Hong lips parted, drawing her in, taking her soft warmth, the grounding comfort of her lips on his.

It was sweet, familiar, made his heart flutter too hard.

But then the kiss grew hotter, deeper.

The kind that made the world narrow down to skin and breath and heartbeat.

He tasted her lip gloss, something like strawberry candy. His hands rested on her waist, and hers tangled in his hair.

When she started to grind gently against him, he tensed, pulling back with a small, shaky breath. "Becks—" He whispered. "Wait."

She stilled immediately, eyes fluttering open, burning against his.

She understood immediately.

"Right..." She said softly, almost with a smile. "I know..."

His faith.

The chain that bound him.

He tried to explain it to her in bits and pieces— the commandments, the chastity he couldn't break.

Not until he was married.

He left out the horrors though— the penance, the pain.

She didn't understand at first. Still didn't.

But she respected it.

Him.

She always did.

And she never made him feel small or ridiculous for it. Never demanded more than he gave.

She slid off his lap and sat beside him again, resting her head against his shoulder. "We'll wait..." She said quietly.

Something in his chest eased. "Thank you."

She smiled, lighting up her already beautiful face in the fading light. "I love you, Hong."

The words still startled him every time. Still stole his breath away. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve them.

But he whispered them back, each word true. "I love you, Becks."

They sat there as the last of the sunlight faded.

The chatter of a few loitering students and the evening breeze droned about.

Homg closed his ears, only listening to the warm breathing of Becky next to him, and this way— for a moment... he forgot everything else.

"So..." She said, pulling him back to her, a small smile in her voice. "What do you want to do after graduation?"

He turned to look at her. "I-i don't know, Becks." He sounded unsure. Then steadier. "Maybe... get married?"

Her head snapped up. "What?"

He flushed, looking away. "I mean... to you— of course. That's if you want."

She laughed then, low and breathless. Then her eyes softened. "Hong... that's—" She broke off, hiding her own flush. "That's perfect."

She leaned against him again, wrapping her arm around his.

He could feel her heart beating through her sleeve.

It matched his, fast and alive.

The world outside was ugly.

His house was hell.

But here, sitting on the bleachers, with Becky in his arms, it felt like a promise.

~~~

Hong walked toward the faintly crowded road leading to the apartment, filled with that same persistent dread that came with eventually returning to the darkness he called home.

The street lights flickered, and every step felt heavier, like he was dragging his shadow behind him.

When he got to the apartment gate, someone was already stepping out, so he just slipped in through the door without needing a key.

At the apartment door, he stood before it, taking a deep breath to clear his insides.

Then he knocked.

The door opened and the face that greeted him was weary and surprised. "Hong? How'd you get in?" The voice held surprise that was neither pleasant, not angry.

It was just asking.

Hong pushed past him and slipped into the apartment.

It was small, cramped with books and furniture, but it was warm. The air was clean, free of the stench of alcohol and disdain.

He kicked his shoes off and slumped on the bed in the corner, exhaling with the drop.

The eyes from across the room remained on him, heavy and assessing. "Are you okay?" Tui asked, his voice worried.

Hong took a deep breath. "Yeah, just wanted to come see you."

Tui bent over, picking Hong's shoes up from where he'd displaced them and carefully placed them by the door. "Are you hungry? I have some takeout."

"No..." Hong answered, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Okay." Tui said, before climbing back into bed with him.

Hong didn't hesitate. He lifted his head and rested them on Tui's lap. Tui's fingers automatically slipped into his hair, brushing through it gently.

Hong breathed in relief, taking in the steady warmth.

Other than Becky, Tui was the only other person, who made his world a little brighter.

He was 17 like Hong, a quiet guy with an imagination as vivid as daylight.

He was funny, easy to talk to, and he listened— really listened— especially when the only voice Hong wanted to hear was his own.

Hong looked up at him then.

His hair was colored brown, his nose straight and smooth, and his small, weary eyes were hidden behind his glasses.

Those were the same eyes Hong knew carried dark past, carried a world of pain.

Tui's story was much like his in a way... maybe even worse.

His father had a suffered a psychotic breakdown, brutally murdering his mother and brother in a murder-suicide.

Tui was the only survivor.

He'd been living on his own since then, after running away from the abusive foster home he'd been placed in.

Now he just worked and studied.

They met in a bookstore during one of Hong's many hyperfixation phases, when he'd suddenly gotten interested in romance novels.

And since then, they'd been tight-knit.

Tui was the only one who knew of his home life, tried to shelter him from it.

Hong never told him about the whippings, never confided what his mother made him do.

He knew if he did, Tui would never let him go back. And Hong didn't want to be another burden in his already difficult life.

"Hey..." Tui's raspy voice called, pulling him back from his thoughts. He never stopped his stroking. "Are you okay?"

Hong blinked, and looked at him. He snuggled deeper in Tui's thighs, breathing slowly, letting the world blur at the edges. "Read for me..." He mumbled.

Tui chuckled. "You're such a baby."

"Please." His voice wavered.

Tui paused briefly, catching the tone. Then he resumed. "Okay..." He whispered. His hand moved slowly, rhythm steady, like someone smoothing out the creases in a wrinkled shirt. "Which one?"

"Any one." Hong breathed.

"Okay then... Close your eyes."

And Hong did.

And the world fell away under Tui's gentle voice.

Outside, it still hurt.

But here— under Tui's steady hand, under the lilting words— he could pretend none of it existed.

Just for a little while.

~~~

The Present.

Est.

The air outside Est's house was hot and heavy.

It hung still, wrapped tight in the kind of silence that carried weight— the kind that came after something cracked open and hadn't yet settled.

Tui pulled him away from the door, shoulders squared, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched. Est followed, his hands still trembling from the earlier revelation inside.

He hadn't even had time to catch his breath.

Not really.

Not since William had showed up in his life and flipped his entire world upside down.

Tui turned abruptly. "Est..." He said, voice low. It wasn't cold— it was worried.

Which somehow mad things even more terrifying.

Est swallowed nervously. "Tui—"

"What is he doing here?"

The question wasn't sharp. But it landed like a blade pressed against neck.

Est opened his mouth, but no words came out. They tangled somewhere in his chest, stuck between fear and panic.

He didn't even know what answer would make sense.

He felt trapped.

Like even if he said the truth, it would still seem like a lie.

"Est... tell me the truth." Tui pressed, stepping closer. His eyes searched Est's face, fierce but soft. "I saw the way you froze when you saw him. So, just tell me... how do you know him?" He squeezed his fingers gently.

Est's heart pounded. Sweat pricked his neck. His throat burned with words he couldn't say. The air seemed tight, pressing in so hard it was suffocating. "I can't..." He whispered.

Tui's expression flickered.

Not with anger, but something... sharper.

Fear.

The kind of fear that came from knowing something was wrong.

"Est... Is he threatening you?"

Est's breath caught, his eyes darted away, burning with tears. He couldn't answer.

But he didn't need to.

His silence was already all the answer Tui needed.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, frustration creasing his features. "Shit..." Tui muttered. "Okay. Okay."

He took a step closer, sliding a hand to Est's shoulder.

The touch wasn't gentle. It was grounding.

Like he was trying to keep him from drifting into the fear that was already eating him alive.

"Listen to me..." He said. "Whatever this is... whatever he's doing to you... you're not alone. You don't have to deal with him by yourself."

Est's breath hitched.

His chest felt too tight.

He wanted to say something— to tell Tui to stay out of it, to keep him safe, to warn him William was dangerous.

But his voice betrayed him.

Nothing came out.

Tui's strong hand squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry... I'll handle it."

Est's head snapped up. "Tui, no—"

But Tui was already stepping back, his jaw set like steel. His eyes blazed with a fire Est had never seen before.

It was fierce, reckless.

Unshakable.

"I'll take care of it..." Tui said again, lower this time, like a promise. "You don't have to explain anything to me... not right now. But I'm not gonna let him hurt you."

He turned, still moving, like someone who had already made up his mind.

Est's breath trembled out of him.

He wanted to stop him— to grab his hand, to beg him not to get involved— but his body stayed rooted in place, frozen.

He watched helplessly as Tui walked away, until he was out of sight.

Est stood there for a long time, heart thudding in his chest, wrapped in the kind of silence that wasn't quiet at all.

It was noise.

A piercing, aching noise.

William was inside, formidable and dangerous.

Tui was out there, walking toward something he probably couldn't phantom.

And Est...?

Est was trapped somewhere in between.

__________________________________

Author's Note

INCOMING RANT‼️‼️

Hi my dears...

I'm so sorry for the late update. I know I dipped on Saturday... but writing takes a lot out of me, and somehow, this story takes even more. I keep overthinking certain aspects of it, probably because, though I can never live up to the series that inspired this book, I still want to do it justice.

So please bear with me♥️

That asides, what do you think about the little reveal? Was it gag-worthy? I hope so, because if not, I absolutely failed my subconscious. It felt gag-worthy when I thunk it up at 3 am, sitting on my toilet lid, drafting ideas😭 Maybe I flatter myself too much, idk... Uhmm yeah. One thing I do know is that I love me a good love triangle. And so far, TuiEst is winning😭 William, stand up!!!

Shsfsdsfjgfd, let's see how that goes.

Anyways, what do you think about Hong's abusive past?

Flagellation was something I first read about so many years ago, in Sidney Sheldon's Sands of Time. I was like 10 when I read it, and I never saw the practice mentioned anywhere else, ever again.

I've been fascinated with it for so long— and I wanted Hong's story to feel a bit... different. So I decided to weave the religious extremist aspects and the concept of penance into the BDSM themes of this story. I think it'll be interesting to see how Hong moves from his abuse to actually welcoming pain as a sexual practice... and I wonder how William will fit into all of this 😇🤭

I hope you liked this one. See you next week ♥️