He awakens to the sound of gently-trickling water and the striking of clock hands as an hour passes by. He winces, hearing the sound of his bones cracking a little here and there as he - rather unceremoniously - heaves his body into a sitting position on the floor.

Why am I on the floor? His mind is blank, unwilling to let him recall the events of the night; and then he feels the way his eyes sting a little, and how they threaten to close - he brings his finger up to touch his skin, and realises with a jolt how swollen his eyes are.

It all floods back to him, the night he sat under the moon’s light and cried until he was a wretched mess floundering over his own thoughts coloured the shades of sorrow and regret. He distinctly remembers pressing his hands to his mouth to prevent his cracked little whimpers from escaping into the empty night, remembers the way Heechul’s footsteps echoed around him, the way Heechul reached out and touched him so that he turned towards the moonlight and revealed his paled cheeks streaked with tears all over, the way Heechul took him into a calm, silent embrace, the way he fell asleep to the smell of peaches and flowers and the sound of Heechul’s steady heartbeat.

“Good morning.” Heechul’s words sound quietly, but it rings across the room into his ears all the same. For a moment, he’s uncertain of how to react, before he quickly slips a smile onto his lips and echoes Heechul’s greeting back to him. “Do you want water?”

He’s suddenly aware of the way pain spirals through his throat every time he swallows, like coarse sandpaper scraping roughly down his trachea; he clamps his mouth shut, trying to stop swallowing saliva for a moment, and opts to nod instead of speaking.

Heechul emerges with a glass of water and a red apple quickly enough - Jungsoo takes both with a grateful dip of the head, downing the entire glass of water in a single breath, drinking like he’s been deprived of water for three days; he doesn’t realise how hungry he is, either, until he takes a bite of the apple and it tastes like a fruit that has dropped out of heaven itself.

He eats and drinks ravenously, like an animal kept in captivity and starved for days - halfway through devouring the apple, he looks up to see Heechul watching, amusement glimmering in his eyes. He chokes down the half-chewed apple in his mouth before clearing his throat in partial embarrassment, feeling his cheeks burn. “Uh-” He doesn’t really know what to say to the man; he didn’t even realise that Heechul has been standing here all along.

The corners of Heechul’s lips curl up, just a tiny bit. “It’s fine,” the assassin assures him calmly, “Eat and drink as much as you wish. Don’t mind my presence.” There’s the sound of receding footsteps against the floor as Heechul exits the living room.

He watches the disappearing view of Heechul’s shoulders.

And he isn’t aware of how fast his heart is racing until he finishes the apple and touches his hand to his chest.

It always settles in slowly for him, loss does. The darkness builds in his mind, slowly, bit by bit, until it comes together into a giant, looming mess and by the time he realises its there, it has already begun to take over the corners of his sanity, biting in harder and faster each time, until the pieces of his mind are coloured red with mind-numbing grief.

He knows it, without a doubt, that Youngwoon is gone.

He knows from the way Youngwoon mouthed his last three words, desperation shining in his eyes. He knows that Youngwoon had already given up when Yesung raised his dagger; the man had known that it would be a fight he could not win.

Sorry.

When we were younger, we said we would grow old together, that we’d be together even when we’re retired and have nothing better to do.

I guess I couldn’t grow old with you. I guess I couldn’t keep all of the promises we made. And I guess I couldn’t love you as much as you loved me.

I wish I could look up to the sky and tell you not to worry because I’m okay, but I’m not.

I’m sorry, I truly am, because now you’re gone and I never got the chance to fall in love with you the same way you did with me.

And what I’m sorry for the most is that now, I think there’s the possibility that I’m falling in love with someone who isn’t you.

The lump is back in his throat, and he forces it down, wiping the moisture away from his eyes.

He has never truly fallen in love before, not the romantic kind.

And he wonders if the thing called love that fairytales and romance novels portray as wonderful and beautiful and the best thing on earth is supposed to be this ed up.

He’s fallen in and out of infatuation so many times before; and he knows that there is no one to blame but himself, for being a foolish victim to his own silly romanticisms.

Yet - how could this be a simple infatuation, when there is nothing to be infatuated about? How could this be a silly crush when this man has ruined his life?

How ed up is love, if it’s the type that makes you relent to the one who kills your family in a singl