Masquerade | Johnyong

★ Chapter Sixty-six

Masquerade 66

The night is heavy. The weight of it settles deep in the bones, in the spaces between breath and silence, where words go unspoken but still scream to be heard.

Johnny sets his gun on top of the dresser, the metallic clink barely cutting through the stillness. Shrugging off his jacket, he moves on with his days as if they haven't just been unraveled in blood and grief. As if nothing has happened.

Across the room, Taeyong sits on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table, watching. His gaze lingers, unreadable, following Johnny as he changes into more comfortable clothes.

But once Johnny turns to him, their eyes meet, and something shifts. Taeyong sits motionless, the kind of stillness that isn't calm but restrained.

"Haechan will never forgive you." He utters.

Johnny closes his eyes. He already knows— but hearing it aloud makes it real in a way he isn't ready for. He steps forward, hesitant. Taeyong looks exhausted.

He wants to reach out for him, pull him in, to feel something other than this gnawing pit in his chest. "Tae—"

"I can't do this right now."

Taeyong pushes himself up, rubbing a hand over his face. He pushes past Johnny, heading towards the door. "I need to check on Haechan." And just like that, he's gone.

Johnny stands there, hand half stretched out, grasping at nothing.

🕊️

The room is bathed in the warm glow of the late evening, the fresh paint lingering in the air. Sicheng's private estate is untouched by the weight of death that lingers in the air of Seo's Residence. Outside is shrouded in gore, but inside, it's just them— their laugh, their voices, the gentle rhythm of two people existing effortlessly in each other's space.

Sicheng looks up from the large canvas, watching as Doyoung drags his brush across the surface, slow and deliberate. He's engrossed, brows furrowed in thoughts as he mixes colors. The moment stretches between them, easy and natural.

"You don't stop improving, do you?" Sicheng softly chuckles.

Doyoung smiles as he dips his brush into the paint once again.

"I hope we can finish this quickly before anyone notices me and you are missing at the same time." Sicheng mutters, resuming his movements on the canvas.

"No one will. They're all too distracted. Johnny should be making funeral preparations." Doyoung says after a beat, his voice is light but there's a knowing weight beneath it.

"Either that or dealing with the fallout." Sicheng mutters, Doyoung sparing a quick glance.

Doyoung dips his brush into a deep blue and adds soft strokes. It's a gift for his mom, but the process itself feels more like an intimate dance between them. A push and pull, a quiet conversation spoken through color and movement.

Time passes by and Sicheng grows a little restless. He takes his brush and dips it in crimson. He slides closer, their arms brushing, and with a mischievous glint in his eyes, presses the tip of the brush against Doyoung's cheek, leaving a bold streak of red.

Doyoung stills, then turns his head slightly, lips quirked up. "Really?"

Sicheng shrugs, feigning innocence. "You looked too serious."

Before he can register it, Doyoung curls his fingers around his wrist, steady yet playful as he drags a smear of blue across Sicheng's jaw. The touch lingers longer than necessary, deliberate in the way it trails down to his throat before pulling away.