“What have you done?”

I gulped, my words dying on the tip of my tongue. But this was not my fault.

“If… if you had just, just been born as someone else’s son, I wouldn’t have to go through this hell.”

But I am your son.

“Please, Ryeowook. Don’t bring us more grief.”

But I just wanted to stop all of your sorrows.

“Just leave. Please.”

But I never meant for this to happen.

Please, I beg of you, believe me.

Ryeowook opened his eyes to a monochromatic world.

He winced as he tried to sit up, the aches that pricked at his body preventing him from successfully doing so. He heard several toe-curling cracks and eventually gave up sitting straight. He ignored the loud pounding that had invaded his head discreetly, sighing as he shifted to glance at a clock. It was 7 in the morning, which explained the surprisingly soft rays of light that peered through autumn orange curtains. For once, Ryeowook didn’t feel peeved about having sunlight shone on his face. For once, in approximately five years, sunlight didn’t feel cold at all. He looked around the room, suddenly unearthing the reason to his aches. He’d been sleeping on the marble floor, next to a huge grand bed and a yellow cabinet. On one of the four pastel blue walls, a framed painting of a daisy was hung daintily in the middle, the letters ‘L.S’ scribbled carelessly at the bottom. He yawned, finally finding the ounce of strength to sit up and lean against the bed.

He jumped a little when the sylvan door swung open, revealing Cho Kyuhyun with a baking spatula in hand and a vade mecum in the other. “Do you know how to bake?”

Ryeowook blinked. Kyuhyun clicked his tongue, waving the spatula as he continued, “I know how to bake but obviously my baking skills have selfishly decided to sleep today and I can’t ing – I apologise – do this – I apologise again – that’s already one heck of a mess at the moment. And you look like you can bake.”

Ryeowook let out a small laugh and hesitantly stood up. He took the spatula and the notebook from Kyuhyun’s hands. “I do. So lead the way.”

Kyuhyun sighed and he hurried down a long, spiral flight of stairs, his tortilla brown apron flowing behind him, somewhat like a cape. A really short cape. Ryeowook followed suit, awed by the colossal interior situated outside the room he was in earlier on. If he had compared his own house to this, he’d say it was probably twenty times smaller.

The kitchen was…well, a mess, you could say. Not like, a horrible mess, but a pretty decent, cringe-deserving mess. Ryeowook began by stacking the metal bowls atop of each other, mumbling about their uselessness for such a small dish, as well as dumping the other inutile tools Kyuhyun had sprawled over the kitchen table previously into the sink. He glanced at the notebook, squinted, and tossed it back to Kyuhyun, who caught it with butterfingers.

Ryeowook rolled up his sleeves and took a metal bowl full of thick, white cream. As he stirred the contents, he turned to Kyuhyun and gave him a questioning look. “So? Aren’t you going to tell me why I’m here?”

Kyuhyun leaned against a table smacked in the middle of the kitchen with his arms crossed. “You fainted.”

Ryeowook raised his eyebrow, and Kyuhyun continued after clearing his throat. “Most likely from the wounds yesterday. I bandaged them too.”

Kyuhyun poured water into a mug and handed it to Ryeowook. “And here, just in case you faint again and you accuse me of slaving you to baking before recovering.”

He nodded in approval, set aside the metal bowl