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«In-ho, are you comfortable? Do you want another blanket?»
Instead of answering, the man simply looked at him, silently. The confused look of someone who recognizes a familiar face but can't put a name to it. Of someone who feels a deep affection in their chest that they can't explain and for which there seems to be no answer as to why?. Why do I feel these sensations if I don't even know who's in front of me?
They almost hadn't noticed when things had started to change. The signs were too sporadic and subtle to immediately raise suspicion.
And then, if they had noticed immediately, what would have changed? Perhaps the medications would have had a greater effect, slowing the progression even further? He wasn't sure. But perhaps they would have given more importance to the small details. Or perhaps they would have lived with the anguish of a countdown that they weren't sure when would expire. With a poison that would infect every moment, robbing them of the serenity they had instead managed to experience a little more.
And Gi-hun was grateful for this; For having been able to enjoy every extra moment without the pressing shadow of that clock.
In-ho, too, had been grateful, after that diagnosis, seven winters since. Grateful for having managed to hide the symptoms for so long, for not depriving Gi-hun of a single moment of serenity for as long as he was able. And Gi-hun had only learned this later.
Things had been irremediably separated in two. A before and an after.
Because after the diagnosis, things had changed drastically. If before, everything behind his smile, inside his eyes, had been clear; afterward, a rust had begun to creep in that was increasingly difficult to hide. Gi-hun, in fact, was incapable of lying, of hiding the truth, of concealing his true state of mind. Sure, he tried — and In-ho, who noticed it every time, was grateful — but without achieving excellent results. However, In-ho pretended not to notice, just as he'd pretended to be fine for months.
In-ho's performance had been beautifully staged. Or at least it had been until he started to pause in mid-sentence, suddenly unsure of what he wanted to say. Until he'd forgotten the stove was on and Gi-hun had turned it off in time, before anything could happen. Until — and that feeling had shaken him to the core, terrified him — he found himself looking Gi-hun straight in the eyes, wondering who the man speaking to him was.
It had been a brief episode, just a few seconds, and his name — Gi-hun, Seong Gi-hun — had been illuminated again by that light, which had gone out just as suddenly; In-ho, however, had been terribly frightened. So much so that he had had to leave, lock himself in their room, and wash his face with ice-cold water in an attempt to calm down.
Unfortunately, however, over time, it had happened again and again and again, more and more frequently until it became the distressing norm. And finally, the times when In-ho looked at Gi-hun in bewilderment had become more frequent than when the opposite happened, when he knew who he was facing.
And yet, despite everything, his feelings hadn't changed. Most of the time, in fact, it was Gi-hun's presence that calmed him, and if that wasn't enough, usually the sound of his voice, or a caress.
Anyway, those feelings that he could no longer reciprocate were still engraved in his heart, guarded like a precious jewel even though he didn't know their origin, even though he could no longer explain them.
In-ho had left to go to Jun-ho's house, who lived nearby. Gi-hun hadn't come, but In-ho was feeling well and, taking advantage of the nice day, wanted to go for a walk.
There’s no need to worry yet. After all, only a little over a year had passed since the diagnosis, and the symptoms hadn't become all that frequent.
«Jun-ho, has In-ho arrived?» He certainly had, but since the confirmation message from him hadn't yet been received, Gi-hun had decided to check.
«Not yet. He texted me twenty minutes ago that he'd be leaving in five.»
Gi-hun's heart began to beat faster and faster in his chest. «I'll try calling him. Give me a minute.»
«Can’t you see his phone's location?»
«Is that possible?»
«Yes. But if you've never set up this option before, it's useless.»
«Explain it to me anyway.»
And indeed, once he knew where to look, he'd found something.
«It’s not working.» Gi-hun was confused. «I can see In-ho's phone, but it says it's at home.»
«Are you sure In-ho didn't connect the phones without telling you?» And that was exactly what had happened. Because he'd already researched what could happen and knew that sooner or later letting Gi-hun know where he was would be crucial to finding him. He'd done it to reassure Gi-hun in case that happened. «If it doesn't work, you won't be able to see this either. Maybe the location hasn't updated. Try making it ring.»
A ringing sound filled the man's ears; and his face paled as he approached its source, actually seeing that it was In-ho's phone.
«He forgot his phone at home,» he commented in a faint voice.
And at that point, Gi-hun felt his heart sink into his stomach, or rather, stop beating entirely. One of his worst nightmares since the diagnosis was coming true. That was his first thought. It was immediately followed by others, concerning In-ho's well-being and where he might be at that moment.
It took only ten minutes on foot to reach Jun-ho's house. Fifteen had passed, seventeen at most, since he had left before the five minutes he had told his brother.
Gi-hun's mind began to wander frantically, easily overcome by panic.
«Gi-hun, listen to me for a moment. Calm down. Anything could’ve happened.»
«Exactly. Jun-ho, you're not helping!»
«No— Gi-hun. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.» A sigh, to buy time, swallow the worry and find the right words. «I meant that we shouldn't jump to conclusions; He might have stopped to talk to someone, or something.»
«In-ho is sick.» As if they could ever forget the news that had so completely shaken the very equilibrium they had spent so long finding. «I know it's still in the early stages, but he forgets things, Jun-ho. That's why he has to write to us when he goes out. We decided this together, don't you remember?»
Jun-ho sighed. While he tried to maintain a semblance of calm with words, inside he was actually seething with agitation. But he couldn't allow himself to give in: at least one of him and Gi-hun had to stay calm.
«I’m already going out to look for him. You'll see, it's nothing.»
«I’m going out too. We'll find him first.»
The youngest of the Hwang brothers wanted to suggest that he at least stay close to home, in case In-ho returned. But instead he decided not to say a word. Gi-hun already felt helpless enough, like all of them, and he didn't want to push things further.
«Okay.»
In fact, In-ho hadn't gone very far from his brother's house, though his pace was quicker than the two men searching for him had imagined.
«In-ho?»
«Hyung?»
The man whirled around, clearly agitated, focusing on the two figures calling out to him. Gi-hun approached first, enveloping him in a hug that revealed all his apprehension. He was sure In-ho could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage.
«Where were you going?» Jun-ho's tone was reassuring, devoid of accusation.
«To your house. But, I think— I got lost. I was walking, but—» He sniffed, holding back the tears that had begun to form from the fright. «I don't know anymore— I couldn't find my way.»
«Don’t worry now.» Gi-hun kissed him on the forehead. «It’s okay, nothing happened.» A lie whose form was obvious to everyone present. Because something had happened. And it certainly wasn't insignificant. But In-ho couldn't feel blamed for an episode that obviously wasn't his fault. He was already in enough fear to also feel responsible for the other two men's state of mind. «Let’s go home now. Nothing happened. Don't worry.»
Hearing those words, In-ho nodded, tears tingling at the edges of his eyes.
He let himself be led home. Full of shame and bitterness over an event he'd had no means to prevent. Evidence of a decline that was advancing inexorably. With no way out.
«Sorry, Gi-hun. Earlier, on the phone, I didn't mean to downplay it. It's just—» They had returned home, and Jun-ho had stayed behind to spend time with his brother, trying to distract him from what had happened only moments before. First, however, he felt he needed to talk to Gi-hun.
«I know. Someone had to keep calm, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten so upset. But all this— I don't know. I was afraid something might happen to him.»
«You don't have to apologize. It's not easy for anyone.»
«I shouldn't have let him go out alone.»
«You couldn't have predicted this.»
«But I could have been more careful. Things have changed. I underestimated the risks.»
«No. You did it for In-ho. To keep him from feeling sick and to allow him to continue to have a little independence, to continue to feel like himself.»
When they approached In-ho again, sitting on the living room sofa, they noticed how mortified he still was over what had happened.
«Why didn't you tell me you'd shared your phone's location on mine?» Gi-hun knelt beside him, while Jun-ho remained standing, watching from the sidelines.
«I don't know. I should have. I knew it would help, but I still hoped it wouldn't be necessary. I just wanted to make things easier for you, since they're already difficult enough because of me. It was pointless, anyway, since I forgot it at home.»
Jun-ho intervened immediately. «Hyung, it's not your fault.»
In-ho looked at him. Then, after a pause for thought, he turned back to Gi-hun.
«I can't go out alone anymore.»
«Don't think about that now. We'll find a way. But now's not the time, just rest.»
«I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you both.» The words took shape in a whisper, while his eyes remained fixed on the ground.
«You don't have to worry. Nothing happened, darling. Hm?» A caress on his arm and a hand on his face, near his ear, with a repetitive motion of the thumb, looking at him with enormous affection. «The important thing is that you're okay.» And he kissed him on the cheek, giving him the most reassuring smile he could muster at that moment.
«I don't want to forget you.» In-ho had told him one night. One of the last times they'd made love before it was too late.
And they'd planned that too: their last time together. It had been a choice dictated by the intention to control what little they could now. To overcome that sense of helplessness that had become pervasive. Because they wanted to know when it would be; they wanted to prepare, they wanted it to be special, they wanted to imprint themselves under each other's skin without being left at the mercy of uncertainty.
It had been beautiful and terrifying to give themselves to each other in that way, with a completeness neither of them believed possible. It had been like a formal goodbye before the disease degenerated, a way to become a part of the other more than they already were.
«I don't want you to forget me.» Gi-hun had told him one morning, while they were having breakfast in the kitchen.
He had stopped, his food in mid-air, and looked at him, allowing himself a true moment of weakness for the first time in front of his husband.
And at that point, the dam had given way under the force of the water, and Gi-hun had begun to cry, seeking shelter in the arms of the man who, despite having no intention of doing so, was losing a battle that was pushing him gradually away, little by little, until he was abandoning him completely, a battle against which no one had adequate weapons to fight or hope.
«It’s not fair.» He had said through tears. «It’s not fair. Not like this.»
«I’m sorry.» And he felt helpless. He — who had had the authority to decide the end of hundreds of people and who now, after finally having escaped, after having rebuilt an unlikely life in his wonder with the most unlikely of people — lived with his mind at the mercy of an inexorable fog.
«Don’t forget me. Please, don't forget me.» Gi-hun continued to sob, knowing the absurdity of his plea. He had promised himself to be strong. Not to give in to despair; at least not in front of In-ho, who was already dealing with his own anguish. Yet, that morning, it had been impossible for him to hold back.
«I know—» He swallowed the lump in his throat along with the tears that continued to flow. «I know we've had more than we deserved. That all this time has been a gift. I know that.»
In-ho responded in the only way he could at that moment. A tremor radiated from his limbs to his voice, overwhelmed by the intensity of his husband's breakdown. And even he, who had tried not to burden Gi-hun with further worries, gave in to tears this time.
«Forgive me, Gi-hun. I didn't mean for it to be this way. Forgive me if you can.»
«It’s not your fault.»
«If only I could—» But there was nothing he could do. No one could. The only thing to do was live, and wait, hoping that the disease would manifest itself as slowly as possible.
It was as if the light went out on his memories, only to come back every now and then. Making him relive distant moments and see long-lost people. But always little by little. One small light at a time. And the more he tried, the less he was able to grasp that extra detail, to see the complete scene.
The moments when the light came back on completely were rare, too rare. And each time he found himself facing an increasingly tired Gi-hun.
«You're wearing yourself out.»
«In-ho?»
«Put me in one of those specialized facilities. I can't see you like this because of me. I'm sick, right? If so, put me somewhere, go to your daughter and visit me from time to time. But don't do it all alone.»
And at that point Gi-hun swore he would never do it. That he wouldn't risk missing out on those increasingly rare moments of lucidity. That he had enough money to do nothing but take care of him. That Jun-ho helped him.
And it was true. Jun-ho helped him, like everyone else. But Jun-ho had a job and couldn't be there as much as Gi-hun had implied on that occasion.
«I have no intention of abandoning you.»
«I treat you badly. I make you unhappy, you're sad because of me.»
«With you, I can only be happy.»
«But I'm leaving. You. Everyone. Everything.»
«It's enough for me when you're here. It's enough for me to know that you're okay even when you don't know who I am.» Or who you are.
«But—»
«I know what you're doing, In-ho. But I don't need protection, not from this, and certainly not from you. I understand that you're scared, I'm scared too. But don't ask me anything like that again. I have no intention of leaving you, ever. For no reason in the world.»
In-ho let out a sigh. He closed his eyes. He shook his head. «Okay. Sorry. You're right. It's just...»
«I know. But asking me now, now that you've become my life, to leave you somewhere and go live my life elsewhere is like asking me to stop loving you. And that's not something I can do. Not after everything we've been through.»
«I lied.» He began one day.
«Lied?»
«Hmm.» He nodded. And then he remained silent, as if he were considering whether to continue.» When you asked me how long I’d been noticing the symptoms, I didn’t tell you the truth.»
Gi-hun looked at him in silence for a moment. «Why?»
«I didn’t want Gi-hun to worry.»
And that answer shattered his heart. Because In-ho had deliberately hidden his health to avoid causing him pain.
«Doctor… I’ve noticed the signs for at least five months, maybe six.» A sigh, and his gaze lowered in a clear expression of shame.
«I know I shouldn’t have hidden it, but Gi-hun hasn’t had an easy life, especially after meeting me. I… I couldn’t do this to him too.»
I couldn’t do this to him too. These words echoed in his mind over and over, preventing him from resentment toward the truth that had emerged so late.
«And what drove you to seek help?» Gi-hun struggled to keep his voice steady and calm as he tried to indulge him. He was now aware that persisting, trying to reason with him, telling him that years had passed — three — that perhaps that conversation had never happened but was resurfacing now only because In-ho had always wanted to confess it, would accomplish nothing but agitate a man already torn between countless fragments of reality.
The truth was that learning this — whether the conversation had actually happened, or whether In-ho was only now projecting what he'd initially been unable to confess — had hit him with devastating force.
«Hiding those moments was becoming more difficult, but that's not the point.»
He would probably continue to pretend, Gi-hun told himself. «A few weeks ago, Gi-hun was talking to me, and for a moment I didn’t recognize him.» He swallowed bitterly. The effort he put into confessing was evident, and Gi-hun knew he should try to distract him with something that would calm him down; but now the desire to know was too strong.
«I was looking into his eyes and suddenly I wondered who that man was. What his name was. It was horrible. I—» He cleared his throat. «It had never happened to me before.»
Gi-hun had to turn to hide and wipe away the tears that had escaped his eyes.
In-ho had lied. For months, he had concealed everything, almost perfectly, after realizing something was wrong. And he hadn’t done it for himself, because he couldn’t accept the inexplicable thing that was happening to him. But for him, Gi-hun. To give him a few more moments of serenity together, without the looming shadow of illness. Without having to live in the when?, without having to fear every little oversight, wondering, could it be the disease?
«In-ho...»
But at that point he was looking at him again with emptiness in his eyes. Unaware again. Lost again.
«I made you your favorite meal.»
«I don’t have time. I have work to do.»
«Sit down, In-ho, and eat something. There’s time, believe me.»
«The VIPs are arriving. I have to go and greet them.»
Gi-hun’s breath caught in his lungs. When In-ho convinced himself he was still the Front Man, it was more difficult; the moments when he was more irritable and decidedly less inclined to compromise. As if his personality had completely changed, hardening again.
And every time Gi-hun felt like he was experiencing defeat when he thought about how long it had taken In-ho to open up, to let go. Especially because he’d never completely succeeded.
«Let the Supervisor handle it.» One of the few options was to give him as much leeway as possible, at least so as not to impede the dialogue and therefore the possibility of making him see reason.
«You’re in no position to tell me what to do. You’re not even wearing your mask; you know the rules. I should shoot you in the head right now.»
He took a moment to breathe; to understand and remember that in that moment the person in front of him was not In-ho, not the one he had gotten to know all those years after the games. Not the man he had become after leaving the mask behind. Not his husband.
In that moment, it was essential for Gi-hun to remember that In-ho wasn't even recognizing him, didn't know who he was.
And yet, despite the increasing frequency of these episodes — although In-ho usually still appeared calm even in moments when his lucidity was lacking — it was exhausting to have to deal with it. Especially because the days weren't always good, it wasn't always possible to calm him down quickly.
Anyway, there was no room for despair. Not now. Later, perhaps. In silence. Next to In-ho's sleeping form. But not now.
«You’re right, Captain. I'll fix that right away. In the meantime, eat something. I'll let you know when they arrive.»
And this time it seemed to work, because In-ho sat down and began to eat. Small bites and with considerable effort, sure. But he did it.
«Who are they?»
«You and me.»
«The two of us?»
«Yes.»
«We’re beautiful.»
«Yes.»
«…And…»
«Yes?»
«And who are you?» He asked, turning to look at him after looking away from the image in front of him.
«I’m Gi-hun.»
Before answering, In-ho looked at him carefully, clearly trying to remember something. As if he were chasing a detail he seemed to be getting closer to but that kept eluding him just as soon as he thought he could grasp it. «I know you, right?»
«Yes, you know me.»
«Gi-hun.» He repeated it as if he wanted to savor it thoroughly on his tongue. As if he were trying to figure out if that name meant something to him, or if it ever had. «It’s a beautiful name.»
He smiled at him. Not like he did when he was lucid, but still in a sincere, innocent way.
«And I am— I am—» He frowned, looking down, trying to remember. Gi-hun gave him time. Usually, when that happened, it took a little patience before he remembered. «In… ho… In-ho…?» He almost seemed to ask, and Gi-hun nodded, giving him a soft, warm smile. A smile that In-ho returned almost immediately, satisfied. «In-ho. I am In-ho.»
Gi-hun felt his heart break. He would never get used to seeing him like this, uncertain, hesitating even over his own name.
The first time it had happened, it had left him shaken for days.
«In-ho is a beautiful name,» Gi-hun told him. And In-ho looked at him, smiling a little wider before returning his attention to the photos. But Gi-hun didn't look away from him even for a second, once again cataloging every tiny detail of the man's face. In these moments, he reminded him of an innocent child trying to understand.
«This is our wedding,» he said, pointing to the photo In-ho was holding.
«Are we married?»
«Yes.»
«You and me? Gi-hun and In-ho? Really?» She looked at him as if a memory had been illuminated. «But I got married to her...» He started to lose himself in hazy memories and his face began to darken. He wasn't sure he remembered the name of this her, but he was certain of the pain he associated with her now creased and desaturated figure.
«We met after that.»
«Ah.» He began to think. «How long have we been married?»
«Sixteen years.»
«That’s a long time.» He commented innocently.
Not even fifty years would be enough. Gi-hun thought to himself as he watched him acquire information that it was impossible to accept he could have forgotten.
«So… you— I— we—»
«Yes, In-ho, I love you. And you loved me too.»
In-ho looked at him doubtfully for a few moments. «It seems sensible. I believe you.» He finally decreed, looking back at the photos. «Oh, look!» He began a few seconds later, brightening and breaking the silence. «“I love you, Gi-hun. In-ho.”» Then another photograph, «“You are In-ho. Gi-hun loves In-ho. In-ho loves Gi-hun.” So it must be true.»
And Gi-hun, who had never stopped looking at him, smiled tenderly, moved.
The handwriting was In-ho's. A little shakier, for sure; incontrovertible proof of the growing difficulty in performing this action. But it was his, unmistakable.
Gi-hun had never noticed that sentence written on the back of the photograph, and he had to force himself not to cry when he noticed the date at the bottom: it was as if he had written it down to remember, to remind Gi-hun that even if he no longer remembered him, he would still love him, in his heart. Even if that drawer would eventually be closed, abandoned in the dark, In-ho wanted to remind him that it would always be full, that drawer. Overflowing.
«If I truly forget everything, I hope you'll be the one I remember the longest. Even when I no longer know who I am.» He had told him one evening, a long time ago.
«I hope so too.» Gi-hun had replied, and hugged him.
The fifth autumn since the diagnosis was now drawing to a close.
After opening his eyes, it took him a moment to realize where he was.
All around him was darkness, and the bed was more comfortable than he remembered. He took another moment to consider whether his decision was truly the right one.
But he had no other choice, right?
Right?
It had to be done before day came, before the lights were turned on.
So, silently and with considerable effort, he got out of bed and, after going to the kitchen, returned to the bedroom.
His hands were shaking and his breathing was ragged. He didn't want to do it, he didn't want to do it but it was necessary, he kept telling himself. To go home. To go back to his family.
The darkness didn't help as he looked at the man's body lying on the mattress, completely helpless, unaware. He was so exhausted after everything they'd been through that he surely wouldn't notice anything, until perhaps it was too late.
If he hadn't, it would all have been for nothing. Every effort, every choice, every danger, everything.
Yet his hand was shaking.
And so was the other one, which he had relied on in the hope that his grip on the hilt would stabilize.
Why does it keep shaking?
Because you're not a murderer. Because you don't really want to do this.
I have to do it.
I have to do it.
There's no more time.
I have to—
«In-ho?»
When he looked up at the man's face below him, he saw the terror in his eyes.
«What are you doing?» He was clearly struggling to maintain his composure, but his voice was anything but steady.
What he heard in reply made him shiver in his immobility, as it suggested that the decision had already been made. «Forgive me.»
«No. Don't do this, In-ho. D—Don’t—» He swallowed, but the salivation had stopped. His mouth was dry. His eyes shone with fear as Gi-hun did not take them off his husband's, knowing that if he dared to look at the blade even for an instant, In-ho would stop waiting.
«Look around, In-ho.»
«How do you know my name?»
«You're not where you think you are.»
«Shut up.» But he lacked conviction.
«Look around. This is your house.»
«No.»
«Look on the bedside table. Please. Look at the photograph.»
And In-ho, though hesitant, though uncertain, did so. He looked at the photo of them together.
He lowered the knife and grabbed the frame with one hand, examining it sternly.
«I don't understand.»
«Can you tell me who the people in the photo are?»
One looked like him, a little more mature than he remembered. How could that be possible?
«You're the man on the right.»
In-ho frowned and narrowed his eyes to focus.
«It's me on the left. Gi-hun.»
Gi-hun.
The bedside lamp was turned on, better revealing the faces of the two figures in the photo. Their eyes. The eyes of the man who was trying to convince him not to kill him.
«Put the knife down, In-ho. There’s no danger. No one wants to hurt you.» He was slowly getting out of bed. «You’re safe. You’re home.»
A step. Then another. And words spoken in a voice barely above a whisper. «Give me the knife, darling.»And he took it from his hand while In-ho let his fingers loosen, until it slipped into Gi-hun’s, who quickly put it back.
He didn’t want to leave even for a moment, but he couldn’t risk the man getting agitated again and having a weapon so close if that happened.
So he put the knife back in the kitchen, in a safe place, and returned to him, who had remained motionless, staring at the same image.
«In-ho?» He approached him, trying not to startle him, taking his hand, first gripped by the plastic handle, now stretched out along his body with the rest of his arm.
«I don’t understand… Who— What—»
«Shh. It’s okay. Nothing happened.» He gently and calmly led him to bed after a light kiss on the cheek. «Try to sleep. Relax.» He sat on the mattress beside him, his back against the headboard and one hand stroking his hair: a simple, repetitive gesture that always had the power to calm him.
«I’m here. You’re safe. No one will hurt you.» The words were calm and reassuring, but deep down, Gi-hun was shaking like a leaf.
Never before had In-ho gone so far. Sure, he had convinced himself several times that he was the Front Man, but not that he was a player again.
He tried to kill me.
His breathing became more ragged, and he covered his mouth in an attempt to block out any sound. But doing so with tears in his eyes made it more difficult.
He wasn’t prepared for this. For a long time, he had convinced himself that he could handle something like this. The truth was, he wasn't at all. And only now—in the sixth winter—did he realize that, perhaps, he never would be.
But he would do it anyway. For In-ho, he would always be there. Because that oath they'd exchanged the day they'd decided to publicly belong to each other was real, solid, and concrete. It was the knowledge that they would never be able to abandon each other, even in the face of the greatest challenge.
That night, Gi-hun couldn't fall asleep again; he continued to watch over the man beside him and, in the silence, made a decision. No one would ever know about this incident. No one, not even Jun-ho. In-ho wouldn't remember it anyway, and Gi-hun wouldn't mention it for the rest of his days.
«How is he today?»
«He’s calm.»
«He seems peaceful.» Said after a moment of observation.
«Coloring helps him.» Even with trembling hands. They watched him from a short distance as he appeared to be concentrating, completely absorbed in that activity. «It’s the book you gave him. He likes it a lot. He’s about to finish it.»
«I’ll get him a new one.»
Jun-ho lived nearby, and was no longer the young man who had devoted all his energy to finding his brother. Now he had a home, a family, a comfortable job—he had definitively left the police force, in which he now had little trust.
Yet, accepting the idea that the brother who had raised him like a father was now living like this was impossible. Not that Gi-hun didn’t give his all to taking care of him; on the contrary. Perhaps he even did too much, now elderly himself, but stubborn in wanting to continue even when faced with In-ho’s increasingly frequent bad days.
Seeing the wrinkled face of a man who now behaved almost like a child, who needed assistance even with the simplest tasks, who no longer remembered he had a brother except for increasingly rare moments of lucidity, was devastating.
Seven winters had already passed since the diagnosis — and fortunately, at least initially, the progression of the disease and its decline had proceeded less rapidly than everyone feared — yet it was still impossible for Jun-ho not to look for his brother in the eyes of that increasingly confused man.
However, unfortunately, in recent years, In-ho's health had deteriorated further. It was almost as if he had become a guest in his own home. He had difficulty orienting himself, his mobility had significantly reduced, he needed assistance with eating, and Gi-hun had to carry him to the bathroom regularly to avoid accidents during the day.
Even Gi-hun's touch sometimes caused him to withdraw, in moments of greater agitation. Those increasingly frequent ones in which he became aggressive and risked hurting not only those around him, but also, and above all, himself.
Gi-hun had then started reading to In-ho when it became too difficult to do so alone. A further gesture of love towards a man who had spent almost his entire existence in the company of a book. He often lost himself now, unable to remember sentences spoken only moments before, but in those moments he seemed to find a peace that was increasingly rare to see him experience.
In-ho was proving particularly difficult that day. He was nervous, and the reasons could be endless. He probably couldn't even understand why. Maybe it was simply the discomfort of a mind slowly collapsing inside a body that was no longer belonging.
«One more bite, just one.» The spoon hovered in midair, waiting for In-ho to open his mouth.
«No.»
«This is the last one.»
«I don't want it.»
And when, later, it was time to help him wash, the situation hadn't improved.
Gi-hun pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom and sat him on the chair he'd placed in the shower, which he'd bought specifically at the first signs of In-ho's physical deterioration, as soon as his mobility began to be compromised.
It weighed on his heart to see him like this, no longer independent. And not because he didn't want to care for him; on the contrary, caring for him helped Gi-hun not feel completely useless, not completely helpless. Knowing he could make In-ho's already complicated life easier was comforting. But seeing him now almost completely dependent on him was distressing. Because Gi-hun couldn't help but think of the energetic, ever-active man In-ho once was. The man he no longer was.
«I can do it alone.»
«Last time you almost fell trying to wash your legs.» It wasn't an accusation, but more of an unpleasant, worrying memory. One of the countless proofs of the man before him's inability to take care of himself.
«I want to be alone.»
«I can't leave you alone in the shower, In-ho. You might hurt yourself.»
«You try washing yourself with a stranger watching you.» It was no longer surprising that he didn't recognize him, especially in these moments of agitation. «Who are you?«
«I’m Gi-hun, darling.»
«Go away, I don't know you.»
«I’m here to help you.» Keeping calm was always difficult. But not because he would have treated him harshly otherwise, but rather because of the discouragement that risked taking root in his chest if not properly controlled.
He could never get angry.
No, that wasn't true. Sometimes anger would surface, at the injustice of the situation, at the harsh ways he felt directed at himself. But this anger was prevented from coming out and, in fact, quickly transformed into guilt, as soon as Gi-hun remembered that In-ho wasn't to blame and that, in fact, living perpetually confused and lost must be quite frustrating in itself.
Gi-hun hated allowing anger to arise. But sometimes, when he was particularly exhausted and his defenses were down, he couldn't help it.
What was impossible, however, was to take it out on In-ho. He could never treat him badly.
«Why?»
«Because you need it, even if you don't want to admit it. And because I love you, In-ho.»
«That’s ridiculous. I don't even know you, you just told me your name.»
«I’ll put on some music, okay?»
And that calmed him down enough for Gi-hun to wash him.
«I love you, Gi-hun.»
The man froze completely. Uncertain. He hadn’t heard those words in so long that he felt as if something had struck him in the chest, and his heart radiated an enormous heat throughout his body.
«I’ve truly fallen in love with you.»
Gi-hun turned slowly, fearing what he would see in the man’s eyes. When he looked at him, searching for answers, he saw that the veil he had become accustomed to, the veil that now almost constantly covered In-ho’s eyes, had lifted incredibly.
«In-ho.» He called out to him, his voice trembling with emotion.
«When did you age this way?» He was almost laughing as he said it, teasing him, trying to lighten the burden they both felt.
«I love you.» Gi-hun answered instead. «I love you.» He repeated, coming closer. Leaning in front of him and taking his face in his hands. It seemed like a dream, yet he wasn't sure he was allowed to go any further.
«You're hesitating. Do you want to kiss me?»
«Can I?»
«You know there's no need to ask.»
Then Gi-hun approached slowly, still a little hesitant, careful, as if the moment might be shattered by its extreme delicacy. That simple kiss on the cheek that initiated contact turned out to be one of the most intimate gestures he'd ever made. A silent act of devotion.
And when their lips finally touched, a shiver ran down Gi-hun's spine and the tears he could no longer control began to flow freely from his eyes, wetting In-ho's face and hands.
«I miss you, In-ho.» He said, holding back sobs once they separated.
«I'm here.»
«I miss you so much.»
«I'm so sorry. Forgive me. I...»
«You're here.»
«I'm here.»
Perhaps they had never hugged each other so tightly. Not even when they said goodbye between the sheets, the last time their bodies became one. On this occasion, in fact, they were reuniting, after a long, long time.
«How are you, Gi-hun? You're tired.»
«Yes.» There was no point in denying it.
«It's my fault.»
«No.» He smiled at him.
In-ho looked at him without saying anything, but it was clear he didn't believe that answer.
«And Jun-ho? How's Jun-ho?»
«He's fine. He always comes to check on you. He helps you a lot. Both of us, actually.»
In-ho nodded.
«Can you call him? I'd like to say hello. Can you have him come here?»
«Sure. Ask him yourself.» And he handed him the phone with the call already placed.
«Gi-hun, are you okay?» Jun-ho answered immediately.
«Jun-ho.»
«Hyung?»
«Hi.» His heart was pounding in his chest.
«Hyung.»
«How are you?»
«Good, better now that I can hear you. How are you feeling?»
«Come home, Jun-ho, please. I’d like to see you.»
When he answered, he was already on the move. «Right away. I’ll be right there, In-ho. I’ll be right there.» He just had to get off work and get to their house as quickly as possible. He could do it, he told himself. He would do it, he kept repeating.
«Want to go out for some fresh air? We’ll wait for him outside.» In-ho asked when the call was cut off.
«That would be wonderful.»
They never stopped touching each other, staying close. Aware that this moment of lucidity wouldn’t last long. Gi-hun helped In-ho out of his wheelchair and onto the outdoor sofa, then sat down next to him and let him lean against him, supporting him, holding him close.
«I love you, Gi-hun. I love you so much.»
«I love you too.» And he leaned in to kiss him once more.
A little over fifteen minutes had passed when Jun-ho got out of the car. He'd never driven that stretch of road so quickly, but he still didn't have time to worry about any repercussions that might arise in the future. Gi-hun and In-ho were still outside waiting for him, and Gi-hun was gently stroking his hair.
«Hyung!»
In-ho continued to look ahead.
«Hyung?» He repeated uncertainly, turning to Gi-hun immediately afterward. Tears were streaming down his face as his hand continued to move reassuringly through In-ho's hair.
«Jun-ho...» He closed his eyes, shaking his head.
Jun-ho returned his gaze to his brother.
«No. No!» He felt tears welling up in his eyes. «Fuck!» He cried.
In-ho jolted against Gi-hun's body with a faint whine, and Gi-hun held him close. «Shh, love, nothing happened.»
«Jun-ho, not here.» His voice was firm despite the silent crying.
His shoulders slumped under the weight of realization. «You're right. Sorry.» He sighed, «Sorry, hyung, I didn't mean to scare you.» Then he sat down in the chair across from them. He ran a hand over his face, desperate, defeated, dejected. «When?»
«Just before you arrived.»
«Fuck.» He repeated, this time in a whisper. And his eyes glinted with disappointment.
They spent a few moments in silence. Too many questions and too few words, too little energy to use them.
«Did he say anything? How did he seem to you?»
«He told me he misses you. That he wanted to see you. That he's sorry. That I've grown old. That he loves you. He couldn't wait for you to arrive.» Each sentence came slowly from Gi-hun's mouth, extremely heavy, extremely bitter on his tongue.
«I got here as fast as I could. I swear.»
«I know.» He looked him in the eyes. «And I’m sure he knows it, too.» In-ho was now looking at Jun-ho absently.
«But it wasn’t enough.»
«You know how it works.»
«It’s not fair.»
«No. It’s not.»
They stayed outside for a few more minutes, until the wind began to pick up.
«I’ll help you carry him inside.»
«Thank you.»
Like his mind, In-ho’s body was now emptying, losing its consistency.
Gi-hun worked hard every day to make sure he ate: he fed him almost regularly, a little at a time, and helped him maintain that minimum of mobility that kept the muscles in his limbs from finally wearing out. But, despite everything, In-ho was starting to weigh as little as air.
«Are you staying for dinner?»
«If that’s okay with you.»
«I’ll cook, so you can spend some time with him. Even if he doesn't remember why— he knows he loves you. I see it in the way he looks at you.» And with a caress on In-ho's face, «I'll be right back, love,» Gi-hun retreated to the kitchen.
He had learned to cook. He had had to. As soon as In-ho received his diagnosis, he had committed to it. It hadn't been easy; cooking had never been his thing. But he had done it willingly, for In-ho, who had taught him with patience and dedication.
«He hadn't spoken in a while. Not as much as today,» Gi-hun commented thoughtfully, as if he hadn't realized he had said those words out loud.
He was watching Jun-ho feed his brother. He had insisted on doing so, so he could rest at least for once.
«I'm glad I was able to hear him on the phone.»
«Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings by saying that.»
«You didn't. In fact, thanks for having him call. It was nice to get a call from him.»
«I’m scared, Jun-ho.»
The man wiped his brother’s mouth with a napkin, waiting for Gi-hun to continue.
«The doctors said— What if this is—»
«Let’s not think about it. He could still—»
«He hasn’t been himself for a long time.»
«If he really starts deteriorating as quickly as they said, you might consider hiring help. I know you don’t want to. But think about it, please.»
«Hm.» He had no intention of doing so. Taking care of In-ho had become his goal. And he couldn’t introduce them to just any stranger. He would surely get nervous.
Although, to be fair, Gi-hun himself was already a stranger most of the time.
He sighed and looked away. He placed his hand on his husband’s. It was still warm, as always; and he relied on that warmth.
When Gi-hun put him to bed that evening, he did it like every other night, tucking him in and kissing him on the forehead. He lay down beside him and waited for him to fall asleep, holding his hand, staying close but not allowing him to feel suffocated when he woke the next morning, abandoning himself to sleep.
He dreamed of the sea. The two of them sitting on the beach, together. Hand in hand. His head resting on In-ho's shoulder, while the waves caressed their feet in a constant rhythm, almost as if wanting to claim them both.
Despite his suspicions, Gi-hun couldn't have known that this would truly be his last moment of lucidity, after nine winters. That in a few months, In-ho would definitively lose the ability to speak, to express himself beyond a few guttural sounds. That the progression of the disease would suddenly accelerate and never slow down. That In-ho would empty himself completely, finally becoming a shell of himself; Barely the memory of the man he had been. That he would never again recognize Gi-hun, nor Jun-ho, nor any of the other members of that unlikely family that had formed after leaving the games behind. He would no longer even be aware of himself: who he was, what his name was. Only gestures that happened before his absent eyes, which he struggled to register.
They would share the same bed until the end. Ignoring what everyone else—experts and non-experts, with too many opinions—had suggested to him. Because if it was true that In-ho no longer remembered anything, it was also true that each time Gi-hun had tried to follow that annoying advice, leaving him in a bed that would not be theirs but his alone, In-ho's sleep had been tormented by shadows that had agitated him to the point of making him wake up terrified in the middle of the night. Unable to call for help, like a baby of just a few months, but not alone, since Gi-hun promptly rushed to care for him, to calm him, to rock him in his arms until he fell asleep again, never leaving again.
And Gi-hun didn't even know that they would have left like this, together, like that night, just a couple of years later. Both exhausted, but still unable to separate, even though In-ho's illness had now taken him completely.
In-ho would pass away in his sleep, still feeling the warmth of the body beside him. And Gi-hun immediately after, as if he had sensed that the moment had come to let go, as if his body — even in sleep — had refused to leave In-ho even for an instant.
Their time would run out, but after the zero of that now excruciating countdown, there would be no resounding explosion; only silence that becomes stillness. The one that doesn't deafen. The one that doesn't consume. The silence that comes from the knowledge of having finally achieved true peace, the all-encompassing one that could only exist in the nonexistent space consumed between them, one in each other's arms.
And so, the fear that had haunted Gi-hun for years — of losing him and being forced to live without him, or of leaving, forcing him into an absence only his heart would notice — would be exhausted in the air that, around them, held the embrace of their last breaths.
But for now, that moment was still far away. And so, as they slept, In-ho held Gi-hun's hand in return, his head resting on his shoulder. Unaware of why he felt so safe, but infinitely grateful to be able to surrender, to be cradled by that love that had never abandoned him.