TDOTO 4.2 [Part 2]

The next morning, Jae-an instinctively pulled the blanket up as a hand shook his shoulder. But the blanket slid down softly, cold air biting his neck, making him shrink.

Groaning, his brow furrowed, a large hand touched his forehead. The chill woke him once; hearing a low mutter, “Fever’s worse,” chased away the rest of his sleep.

Heavy eyelids lifted, revealing Jae-rim’s faint face. Dizziness blurred his focus.

“We need to get ready to go, but your fever’s high. Can you shop for clothes?”

Jae-an scrambled up, answering,

“Yeah, I can go.”

“You look dizzy. Want help washing?”

“I’ll… wash alone.”

His sharp reply twisted Jae-rim’s lips oddly. Ignoring the sulky look, Jae-an threw off the blanket, lowering his feet to the floor.

The world spun. Stumbling, he sank back onto the bed. Jae-rim steadied his shoulder, but Jae-an reflexively jerked away.

“….”

“….”

The air grew cold. Unable to lift his head, Jae-an rubbed his neck. A short, hollow laugh came from above.

“Sorry, not planning to eat you yet.”

Telling him to wash slowly, Jae-rim ruffled his light hair. Watching his broad strides leave the bedroom, Jae-an sighed silently. His soles tingled from tension.

Holding his throbbing forehead, he shuffled to the bathroom. As Jae-rim said, his fever was high.

Hot water poured over his clammy body. Rubbing a shower puff, he made suds, but scrubbing drained him fast. He paused often, leaning against the wall to rest.

His condition was awful. Already dizzy, the hot water and steam worsened his fever, making him stagger through the shower. Weeks of illness made health feel like a distant memory, its sensation faint.

Fighting dizziness, he took ages to wash. Emerging, he found breakfast ready. Instead of rice, watery porridge sat at his place, but Jae-rim’s cooking couldn’t taste bad.

Colorful minced vegetables in the porridge and warm soup were enough, yet various side dishes crowded the table. Swallowing admiration, Jae-an sat with a stiff face. The Jae-rim who blushed at cooking praise was gone.

He ate quietly. His throat, still swollen, made swallowing hard, but he forced it down. After arguments and punishments, he’d learned to eat without complaint.

After breakfast, Jae-rim grabbed his arm, leading him to the dressing room. Stripping and changing into outing clothes, Jae-rim raised an eyebrow at Jae-an, standing still.

“What’re you doing? Change.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Planning to change if given clothes, Jae-an awkwardly undressed. Standing naked in the chilly dressing room, he waited as Jae-rim muttered, “Something smaller…” while rummaging.

It took so long that the air felt frigid. The clothes Jae-rim picked were too big, sleeves and cuffs rolled up heavily.

Clutching the slipping waistband, Jae-an stepped outside, pausing at the unfamiliar spring air tickling his nose.

The oversized clothes, loose shoes, and walking freely felt alien. His body, adapted to confinement in just days, seemed traitorous.

In the passenger seat, Jae-an couldn’t tear his eyes from the window. His first normal outing since escaping and being caught made every second precious.

Capturing fleeting scenery, he asked,

“Shopping for clothes?”

“Stitches first.”

Nodding, he glanced at his bandaged wrist. The cut he’d made took over two weeks to heal. The recent itching was likely new skin forming.

Parking at a large building, Jae-rim took the elevator to the seventh-floor surgical clinic. Heading straight to the consultation room without checking in, he seemed to know the doctor.

Following a staff member’s polite gesture, Jae-rim moved. Jae-an, trailing dazedly, read the waiting list by the door. His name wasn’t at the top, despite cutting the line.

Lee * Yoon (In Consultation)

“The name…”

Before he could ask, the staff opened the door, ushering him in. Suppressing unease, Jae-an sat.

“It’s healed well,” the doctor said, removing the gauze and stitches. The scar was larger than expected, its color starkly different. Seeing the grim mark, Jae-an’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t realized he’d cut so deeply.

The doctor explained the deep wound would scar and, with weak skin, could get infected if touched.

“Consultation’s done.”

Jae-an nearly thanked him out of habit but stopped. Having caused the wound, thanking for its treatment felt awkward.

Next was the internal medicine clinic, where Jae-rim filled out the intake form. The name Lee Seong-yoon and ID number weren’t his. Called Lee Seong-yoon, Jae-an was diagnosed with laryngitis. The doctor’s note about throat wounds made his face burn. The culprit who’d caused them remained nonchalant.

At the pharmacy, the pharmacist called him Lee Seong-yoon, explaining fever reducers, anti-inflammatories, and painkillers. Jae-an nodded blankly, fixated on the name on the bag.

Back in the car, traffic slowed them. Staring at the pharmacy bag, Jae-an spoke heavily.

“Did I get treated under someone else’s name?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

The car stopped at a light. Jae-rim answered calmly.

“Your death was reported.”

“What…?”

“Lee Jae-an died in that car.”

“What does that mean? Then what am I?”

Smiling uncertainly, Jae-an pressed. Jae-rim shrugged.

“No hospital, bank, or even buying cigarettes at a store.”

Panic crept into Jae-an’s voice.

“I’m not dead. How could you report me dead?”

“Didn’t you leave the aftermath to me?”

He couldn’t reply. Before attempting suicide, he’d worried only Jae-rim would report him missing. Touching his scar, Jae-an chewed his lip.

“Then whose name is this…?”

“The guy who died for you that day.”

“What…?”

“Every time you tried to kill yourself, someone died. And will. So you’ll learn life’s value.”

Hoping he was wrong, Jae-an asked, but Jae-rim always chose the worst truth. His brown eyes, tinged with shock, met Jae-rim’s lips curling oddly.

“No need to care. He was about to die anyway.”

“It’s not about caring.”

“No.”

Mimicking his words, Jae-rim’s calm made Jae-an’s heart race uneasily.

“…Stop it.”

Pale, Jae-an turned to the window. Knowing specifics felt scarier, so he swallowed rising questions. Nausea from his cold and motion sickness grew, but Jae-rim’s sullen voice cut through.

“Am I the bad guy again?”

“….”

“Lee Seong-yoon, even ignoring his drug debts, had enemies everywhere. Loan sharks aren’t merciful, you know? Selling organs alive, still unable to pay, his family was threatened, ruined. Dying high on his favorite drugs is a better end. His family thinks he’s quietly living well somewhere.”

Was he justifying himself?

No matter the reason, Jae-rim killed. He was a murderer, and Jae-an bore a dead man’s name. That didn’t change.

“Oh, and I paid his debts, so don’t worry. Lee Seong-yoon’s clean now.”

His reassuring tone, tinged with pride, was unbearable. Rubbing his face, Jae-an muttered irritably,

“I didn’t ask…”

“Then stop that shitty, judging look.”

His gentle tone carried harsh words, catching Jae-an’s breath. Lowering his hands, he stared at Jae-rim.

“What?”

Fear, confusion, disgust, and terror swirled, shaking his eyes wildly.

“You think I wanted that hassle? Like some mutt causing trouble.”

A low curse followed. As the light changed, the car lurched, swaying Jae-an’s body limply.

Hearing he’d caused someone’s death, injustice burned his eyes. Holding back tears, he turned to the window. Unable to escape the moving car, he stared at passing shadows, sniffling, wiping tears with his hand.

In uneasy silence, the car sped toward a department store. Screeching to a stop at the valet zone, Jae-rim flung open his door before the staff could, striding to the passenger side. Yanking Jae-an’s arm, he nearly dragged him out, gripping his hand tightly as they entered.

The firm hold hurt, sparking discomfort, but Jae-an couldn’t pull away or protest. Jae-rim, already irked from their argument, shouldn’t be provoked further.

Passersby glanced at their joined hands and Jae-an’s flustered face. Ignoring them, Jae-rim entered a menswear store, picking clothes silently, never releasing his hand. The public grip, neither threatening nor violent, was clearly a childish retaliation to embarrass and pressure Jae-an.

The staff, initially awkward, smiled as Jae-rim’s selections piled up, acting as if nothing was amiss.

Jae-an hid his discomfort. Making a fuss could mean leaving empty-handed. He stayed silent, enduring humiliation as the staff loaded clothes and shoes into the trunk.

Their clasped hands, sweaty and warm, remained locked.

Back home, Jae-an stared at the paper bags lined up in the dressing room. Relief at buying clothes mixed with a desire to wear something fitting. Crouching by a bag of loungewear, untying it, Jae-rim approached.

“Leave it. People are coming to organize.”

Jae-an replied softly,

“…Just this one. I want to wear it now.”

No answer came. Looking up, he met Jae-rim’s eyes and realized his mistake.

“I mean… can I wear it?”

“Sure.”

Correcting himself, he got permission. Swallowing dryly, he opened the bag. Jae-rim, still in his coat, said,

“I’m off to work.”

Whether restaurant or other work, Jae-an was curious but didn’t want to know. Clutching the loungewear, he nodded stiffly.

“Warm up the porridge in the fridge for lunch. Take your meds.”

“Okay.”

“Leave any, and I’ll burn all the clothes.”

“Got it.”

After Jae-rim’s chilling warning, he left. Jae-an undressed, frowning belatedly as he pulled on the pants.

No underwear was bought despite all the clothes.

Sighing, he slipped into the pants. The soft fabric against his skin felt good, not strange, after weeks without underwear. He felt conflicted, growing distant from a human life.

With a sullen face, he went to the dining room, eating the porridge and taking his meds for over an hour. Then, he sat blankly on the sofa, watching TV, nothing sinking in. The name “Lee Seong-yoon” haunted him.

He’d tried escaping without knowing he was declared dead. Unable to even open a bank account, escape was futile.

His gaze fell to his stinging wrist. The healed scar itched oddly. Recalling the doctor’s warning, he resisted scratching.

Boredom made the itch loom larger. Standing, Jae-an wandered aimlessly.

Frames and vases were removed, and nothing sharp was left to see.

A mechanical sound signaled the front door. Thinking Jae-rim returned, he turned, but two middle-aged women entered. Recalling Jae-rim’s words about organizers, he realized it was cleaning day.

“…Oh.”

Freezing as if guilty, Jae-an hurried away, opening the nearest door and shutting it without reaching the bedroom.

His heart raced. After last time, even clothed, he fled instinctively.

Rubbing his cheeks, he looked around.

It was a study. A desk and large bookshelf made it look used, but Jae-rim rarely spent time here, a decorative space.

Dark shelves held novels, humanities, history, and English books. Bored, he considered reading. Scanning, his brown eyes stopped at an unfamiliar book.

Math workbooks…

From middle school first semester to high school senior year, lined up in order, were workbooks he’d bought for Jae-rim. Though less crucial for Jae-rim’s culinary major, he’d clung to them until his entrance exam.

Once, keeping them would’ve been cute; now, it felt eerie.

“When someone needed you.”

“You seemed to breathe easier then.”

Jae-rim’s voice echoing, Jae-an grabbed a middle workbook, trance-like. His pale hand touched the worn cover. A door opened behind him.

“Sorry, we’ll clean this room.”

“Oh… okay.”

Startled by the sudden presence, Jae-an faltered. The women began cleaning deftly. One looked familiar, but the woman who’d seen him naked wasn’t there—likely fired, as Jae-rim said.

Ignoring him, they focused on cleaning, probably instructed by Jae-rim to avoid talk.

What did they think of him? Had they seen him on CCTV—beaten, forced to perform, stripped of his name?

With shame and bitterness, Jae-an left the study for the bedroom. The neatly made bed suggested cleaning had been done. Closing the door, he sat on the sofa, clutching a mechanical pencil from the desk.

Placing a cushion on his lap, he opened the workbook.

It was a habit. When his mind tangled, math problems calmed him. Plugging numbers into formulas cooled his boiling brain.

Opening a page, his lips softened. His scribbled explanations sat beside Jae-rim’s wrong answers, with messy traces of reattempts below.

The sudden past softened his stern face. Gripping the pencil, he solved problems—from easy ones Jae-rim got right to ones he never grasped despite explanations.

Solving, he recalled Jae-rim’s attentive profile, the sweet ice cream they shared, and the feel of ruffling Jae-rim’s hair after repeated mistakes.

From middle to high school, Jae-rim’s face grew strikingly handsome, often catching Jae-an’s gaze.

Neat handwriting filled a page of the workbook. Lost in solving, Jae-an didn’t notice time passing. Even as the fever rose, stinging his eyes, he didn’t stop. The quiet soothed him, offering comfort.

He longed to return to those days, joking over workbooks with Jae-rim.

The foolish days of being deceived felt more peaceful than now, uncovering harsh truths.

Why had it come to this? Math answers came easily, but why his life had unraveled remained unsolved.