BW C121

Chapter 121

Taemuk glanced back at Hoeun with open suspicion. His eyes clearly said: You? You won’t be able to do it. Hoeun swallowed hard and darted his gaze about.

“I think… something sharp might be necessary…”

“There’s no such thing here. Just do it.”

“W-with my hands?”

Hoeun felt his fragile resolve crumble again at the thought of digging his fingers into that wound. A shiver ran down his spine, his whole body trembling. Taemuk scowled.

“Just call Byeonguk.”

“No! I—I’ll do it. I’m your guide, so I must. I have to do it.”

He spoke with firm conviction. An utterly unnecessary sense of duty.

Yet Taemuk did not stop him. Hoeun was offering to do it; there was no need to refuse. And perhaps the wound would heal faster if Hoeun’s hand touched it.

Taemuk silently turned his back again. Hoeun pressed close behind him.

“T-then I’ll begin. If it hurts, tell me…”

Taemuk snorted. And if I tell you, what then? Will you stop? It was a sentence that would never be heard on the battlefield—absurd, naïve, and faintly amusing.

“……”

Hoeun swallowed again, lowered his shaking hand toward the wound, paused once more to swallow, then squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Holding it, he pushed his fingers into the wound.

“Ugh…”

Hoeun’s face crumpled. Inside Taemuk’s flesh it was hot, slick, viscous—yet unnervingly firm. His fingers could not move freely, nor pry apart easily. Hoeun’s expression contorted in agony, though the wound belonged to Taemuk.

Then—

“Push deeper.”

Taemuk gave a command as though it were nothing.

“Uuh…”

Hoeun whimpered and shoved his fingers deeper. Whatever he hit, fresh blood gushed in waves. The sensation of warm fluid rushing past his fingers made him gag.

I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s impossible.

As he began to pull his hand away—

His fingertips brushed something hard and round. Completely different from flesh.

The bullet.

Hoeun’s pupils contracted. Without thinking, he pushed his fingers deeper and tried to catch it, lips trembling tight.

It was not easy. Each time he touched the bullet, it slipped and rolled, sinking deeper into the wound. Crimson gushed anew, spreading across Taemuk’s broad back like a cloak of red silk.

“……”

Sweat beaded at Hoeun’s temples. Should he give up? If he did, the wound wouldn’t heal. Taemuk would continue to hurt. That could not happen.

Since the wound was already laid open, the goal must be achieved.

Hoeun clenched his teeth, forced his hand deeper, and finally pinched the bullet between his fingertips.

His wrist throbbed, hand trembling, muscles cramped—but with painstaking care, he drew it out.

At last, the bullet emerged.

Flattened, distorted, drenched in blood, yet gleaming.

“Haa…”

Hoeun exhaled shakily in relief.

“Ha…”

Taemuk, too, let out a languid sigh. With the lodged bullet gone, it felt like a rotten tooth ripped free—an immense release. The wound immediately began knitting together from the inside, Hoeun’s touch already working its strange healing.

Taemuk rolled his shoulder, a faint smile tugging his lips. In the past, wounds and their healing had been only grotesque and bothersome. But ever since meeting Hoeun, the process felt almost… anticipatory. He almost desired injury, just to feel his healing.

He savored the sensation, then pushed off the floor to turn toward Hoeun.

“See? It wasn’t so bad—…you.”

But he did not finish.

“Huuhh…”

Hoeun stood there clutching the bullet, lips quivering tight—crying, tears soaking his little face. Judging from how wet he was, he must have been crying the entire time his hand was inside the wound.

“……”

Taemuk simply stared. No words. No blinking. Just watching.

In those pitch-black eyes settled Hoeun’s flushed lids, lashes clinging with tears, cheeks pale then flushed again, lips pink and trembling as though bleeding.

After a long, relentless examination, Taemuk murmured softly:

“…You finally cry.”

“Hh-huh—hic—w-what d-did you—hic—say?”

Hoeun stammered between sobs, shoulders shaking.

“Nothing.”

Taemuk denied softly. Then—ever so quick—a laugh.

“…Huh?”

Hoeun blinked. Why laugh? How could he laugh? He’d been shot—his back pierced—a wound still bleeding. Had he gone mad from pain?

Tears kept spilling. Drops clung to his jaw until they fell—plip, plip. Taemuk caught one in his palm before it fell. Even his tears were warm and soft. So very Hoeun.

Taemuk watched him longer, then noticed Hoeun’s blood-drenched hand, the twisted bullet resting in his palm.

He stood abruptly and guided Hoeun to the washbasin.

“Wash your hands.”

“Y-yes…”

Hoeun washed, but still cried. The sight of blood washing down the drain made his heart clench. His tears mixed with the swirling red. Taemuk exhaled through his nose. Crying suited him—but like this, it was troublesome.

“Wash your face too.”

Hoeun nodded and splashed water. Twice, three times—and then burst into sobs all over again.

Finally Taemuk could not bear it. He grabbed Hoeun’s face and scrubbed it like one would a small child. Too roughly—Hoeun’s cheeks reddened, marked with Taemuk’s fingers. Taemuk paused.

How was a man’s skin this soft? As though one could peel it with a lick and swallow it whole.

He released a breath and wiped more gently.

Yet Hoeun kept crying, watching Taemuk toss the bullet away, watching him wipe blood from his back.

Hoeun looked at his own hands—still remembering the warmth, the softness, the muscle, the blood.

“Ah…”

The memory made his stomach turn. Dizziness surged; his body chilled, vision dimmed. His lashes fluttered as his knees buckled.

Just before he collapsed, Taemuk caught him by the waist.

“You—”

“I—I’m fine…”

Hoeun insisted, barely conscious. Taemuk seated him on the bed and handed him water. Hoeun’s hand shook too much to hold the cup, so Taemuk lifted it to his lips.

Hoeun swallowed weakly, tears still glistening. Taemuk frowned.

“……”

He liked Hoeun’s tears—usually. But watching him sob himself half-dead was… irritating. Suddenly, the frailty felt offensive.

“Why are you so weak?”

Even as he scolded, he tilted the cup gently to match Hoeun’s swallow.

“I’m sorry…”

Hoeun apologized sincerely, voice damp with sorrow. It was too pitiful—too mournful—and Taemuk fell silent. Only annoyance lingered, though he couldn’t explain why.