MVV | YG [✔]

08. Yeonjun

Humans were like the moon in that they had to go through phases of nothingness and emptiness before they could feel whole again.

It was a process that was misunderstood by most, something that prioritized the hurt over the heal.

Witnessing my baby bird's suffering—watching him wrestle with a void that left him barren and confused was like watching myself bleed out.

It was excruciating...

...never ending.

His wound leaked for hours, seeping a sense of security and a wave of emotional turbulence that left him grappling for pieces of reassurance.

I gave him every single one I had.

I filled Beomgyu's wounds with my blood and bandaged his scars with what was left of mine.

It didn't feel like enough...

... and I wondered if anything ever felt like enough when you loved someone as insanely and infinitely as I loved him.

"Daddy bird?"

I spun. Coffee sloshed over the rim of my mug, dribbling down my knuckles. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

Beomgyu grinned at me and then yawned into his palm as he made his way into the kitchen. A blanket was draped over his shoulders, and he tugged it tighter around his upper body before lifting himself onto a stool. "Do you know the best part about your bed?"

"What's that?"

"It's mine too."

Fuck yes, it was.

I smiled and placed my mug in front of him. Dropping a kiss to the tip of his nose, I tapped the ceramic edge of it. "Everything in this house is yours now, sweetheart. Forever."

He caught my hand, tugging it into his chest. "Including you?"

"Always me."

He made an adorable noise before bringing my hand to his lips. One by one he sucked each of my fingers into his mouth, ridding them of coffee stains and making my cock swell.

"Coffee tastes better off your skin, Daddy bird."

"Tempt me, baby, and I'll start bathing in it."

He laughed.

The sound nearly brought me to my knees.

My baby bird was born in a cage, and the most important thing I'd ever done was bust that lock and set him free.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

Pale fingers wrapped around the sides of the mug I'd given him, and he stared up at me with thin eyes. "Are you going to ask me that every morning, counselor?"

"That's more probable than not," I said, resting my elbows against the counter's edge. I didn't bother getting another cup of coffee. My boy preferred to share. "It might be the psychologist in me, or maybe it's just because I'm psychotically in love with you."

"Psychotically? Daddy, I think you need to make an appointment with yourself."

"I'm past curing, sweetheart. Now, tell me, how are you doing?"

"I'm okay." Lifting a shoulder in a shrug, he set the mug on the counter and used two fingers to push it toward me. "It's been two days."

"Just because it's over doesn't mean it left nothing behind."

"Poison," he whispered. "That's what it felt like. A slow death, and the only thing that made it marginally better was you. You're like an anecdote for darkness."