PABO Ch 26

“Ghk….”

The moment a leaking gasp escaped him, Yirim Beom slid his tongue between Haryeon Sol’s lips. Soft flesh pressed in, and when he felt his tongue sweep against tightly clenched front teeth, Haryeon Sol shuddered violently. Overcome with the urge to cry out, he flailed his hand. His palm, thrown out reflexively, struck Yirim Beom’s shoulder.

Caught off guard by the unexpected reaction, Yirim Beom flinched and pulled his head back. Haryeon Sol’s face, so close before him, was flushed a vivid red. A faint light glimmered in his eyes—whether his sight had improved or whether they were wet with tears was unclear. Breathing heavily, Haryeon Sol forcefully brushed away even the hands that had been cupping his face.

It was all because he couldn’t see properly. Unable to read Yirim Beom’s startled expression, unable to perceive his awkward retreat, Haryeon Sol panicked. He didn’t fully understand what situation he was in, yet the unfamiliar sensation still lingered on his lips. As he tried to shove the other away and scramble backward, kicking his legs in confusion, Haryeon Sol tripped over himself and fell. His upper body hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Ugh….”

Yirim Beom reached out immediately toward the crumpled figure. But the sudden touch only startled Haryeon Sol further. When his shoulder was grabbed, he flinched hard, shrinking back and panting raggedly.

“St–stop, stop….”

As Yirim Beom tightened his grip to help him sit up, Haryeon Sol finally snapped.

“I said stop it!”

With all his strength, he swung his arm. The hand, meant more to shove than to strike, hit Yirim Beom’s jaw.

“Hk….”

Yet the one truly hurt was not Yirim Beom. Feeling the sharp sting shoot up his fist, Haryeon Sol sucked in a sharp breath. He immediately drew both hands to his chest in a defensive posture. His eyes, lost in confusion, darted restlessly from side to side.

“Why… why are you doing this?” Haryeon Sol asked.

“What?”

Yirim Beom shot back at once. At that, Haryeon Sol’s brows knit tightly.

“I mean… you, just now—you to me… why…”

No matter how many deep breaths he took, his ragged breathing refused to calm. Instead, it only grew more frantic. The shock made his body ache again. His neck stiffened like stone, his heart raced as if it would burst, and cold sweat streamed down his back. He wasn’t cold anymore—if anything, he was burning hot. The confusion from the unexpected contact, the distress at having his body handled without warning, and the guilt of having struck someone all twisted together, leaving him ashamed and overwhelmed.

By contrast, Yirim Beom was calm. Rubbing the side of his jaw that had been hit, he lowered his gaze in silence. Half-kneeling on the floor, he simply looked down at the Muhwa he had knocked over. Then he voiced the first answer that came to mind.

“I guess I wanted to.”

“What?”

“I think… I did it because I like you.”

“What…?”

Only belatedly did the thought strike him that he shouldn’t have given such a presumptive answer. Even so, it was the truth. Yirim Beom didn’t fully understand his own actions. The kiss he’d pressed on him had been impulsive, unplanned. Perhaps, on a birthday where nothing and no one around him could become a gift, he’d wanted to create at least one pleasant moment for himself.

Even so, it had never occurred to him that Haryeon Sol might reject him. He’d assumed, without question, that he would accept him. That was why this sudden coldness felt unreal.

“…”

Haryeon Sol said nothing more. His thick hair was completely disheveled, creases forming on what had once been a smooth forehead as he pressed his lips tightly together. The man who had been so unflappable as to seem shameless turned tearful after just a single kiss.

An unfamiliar, heavy silence settled over the dark room. For Yirim Beom, it was a kind of silence he had never experienced before. His shoulders grew heavy, his chest tightening as if bound by a cord. He had never once waited so desperately for another person to speak. Whenever he became entangled with someone, the waiting had always belonged entirely to the other party.

Even without the title of Emperor’s son, he had always been welcomed wherever he went. Without exaggeration, the world loved Yirim Beom. People were desperate to give him something—anything—and would cling to even the smallest scrap of attention he offered. So naturally, Haryeon Sol, too, should like him. Even meeting him without knowing he was the Emperor, he should have liked him, fallen for him. A kiss should not have made him stiffen and push him away. He should not have worn such a wounded expression, deliberating over how best to refuse him.

Haryeon Sol of all people—the Haryeon Sol who, from their very first meeting, had never once spoken harshly even to an uninvited guest who barged into his life without warning….

With his kind disposition and gentle voice, he had to muster his courage to say, “Please… go back.”

He should never have been made to deliver such a painful dismissal.

Only then did Yirim Beom feel as though he had been doused in cold water. It was after his heart had been cut that he realized he had shattered the mirror he cherished most. Haryeon Sol was a blind mirror; before it, anyone appeared dull and indistinct. Yirim Beom liked the vague, blurred version of himself reflected there. In front of Haryeon Sol, he could relax—careless and unguarded.

In the roleplay staged against the backdrop of Munjeong Palace, where he played the Emperor, Haryeon Sol had been his private dressing room, his refuge. He had never imagined that this gentle sanctuary might one day reject him.

Coldness spoken by someone kind, fragile, and good was more powerful than anything else. If a foul-tempered person spat venom, or a blunt one turned their back, it would not have been surprising. No matter how much such people might rage, they would never be able to overcome Haryeon Sol’s impassive expression.

With the slightest reaction, Haryeon Sol already tore apart Yirim Beom’s mental world.

“Hyung.”

The moment he called him that, Yirim Beom startled at the echo of his own voice. It had slipped out with the desperate tone of a beggar. His cheek burned from his first rejection in life.

“Hyung… are you mad?”

Yirim Beom asked softly, lowering his tail, stretching out the end of his words as if acting foolishly, almost coquettishly. Still, Haryeon Sol was firm. He shook his head in silence and grabbed hold of the blanket that had fallen to the floor.

“I’m sorry, but… I want to rest alone. Please go.”

All that remained for Yirim Beom was humiliation. His neck flushed bright red as he stood up. Even then, he couldn’t quite let go. He forced his voice out, calling “Hyung” once more. Haryeon Sol’s lips twitched as if his resolve wavered.

Then the older man spoke gently, “Good night.”

It was a warm, mature voice. That gentle manner made Yirim Beom feel like an immature, brash youth. The thought that lingering any longer would only make him a stubborn brat finally pushed him to move. Overcome by the mild but immovable atmosphere rather than force or threat, he walked toward the door. After a brief pause, he pushed down the handle.

The damp, cool air of a summer night and the sound of pouring rain rushed into the room. Even so, Haryeon Sol said nothing. With his head bowed, his expression hidden, the crown of his head made it clear he had no intention of stopping the one who was leaving.

Unable to disturb his night any further, Yirim Beom withdrew without resistance. Standing hunched over on the narrow porch, he closed the door carefully so no wind would seep in, then listened for a few seconds. But no sound came from the darkened quarters.

Unsure whether he felt self-reproach or disappointment, he slipped back into the shoes he had taken off. Just then, the wooden door of the small storage shed creaked open, and a servant peeked out. She must have sensed the departing guest.

The servant hurried over, holding the long umbrella neatly folded. Yirim Beom accepted it with indifference. Then, like someone who didn’t know how to open an umbrella, he walked on gripping the tightly bound thing like a club. He didn’t care if the servant stared at him as if he’d gone mad. It was time to return to where he belonged.

Unlike when he’d arrived, his steps back toward the Emperor’s seat were unbearably heavy. Drizzling rain soaked into his shoulders. It was the first regret he’d known since becoming the master of Munjeong Palace.

---

Before he knew it, Haryeon Sol had grown accustomed to mornings woken by sunlight. He thought of it as “expensive waking.” All his life, he’d learned that nothing was as costly as sunlight entering one’s room. Back when he lived in a goshiwon^[1], rent varied depending on whether there was a window, and when he hid away in half-basement studio apartments, no light reached the room unless it was noon. To live with a sense of dawn and dusk required extra money. Lacking such means, “Han Sol” had lived in rooms worse than a prison.

But Munjeong Palace, where he now stood as Haryeon Sol, was different. It was hard to believe it existed within the same Seoul; it felt like another world entirely. Early mornings brought sunlight that warmed his skin and woke him gently; hazy evenings were suffused with a tender atmosphere. At dawn, the wind that roamed through the trees and along the walls mimicked the sound of a reed organ, and whenever he woke to it, the fine hairs on his skin would bristle. If the window was left open, the scent of grass drifted in; if it was closed, the mellow smell of aged wood rising from the hanok itself would tickle his nose.

So if one were to put a price on waking here, it would be exorbitant. From morning until late at night, Haryeon Sol treasured everything he was given and felt grateful for it. Other Muhwa might have laughed at him for being pathetically frugal, but he was serious. Since coming to Munjeong Palace, he had never woken to a bad morning.

And today, that record of happiness broke.

“Hoo….”

Lying on the bed, he woke in a gloomy mood. Having slept fitfully, it seemed that the distress of the previous night had carried over into the day.