Preface

This is the story of YS and Ivan—a homosexual couple. Long-term update, collection of short stories. Pure. Tender. Healing. So many words could describe them, yet none seem enough. They’ve walked through joy and hardship together, shared sunlight and shadow, and experienced the world side by side.

They often appear in my artworks. At first, I never planned to write a light novel—I’m not a fan of long texts. Paintings, after all, can capture only a fleeting moment. (I’ve tried four-panel comics too, but they rarely feel worth the effort.) I‘m planning to create scene illustrations for these light novels, but I won't update them that quickly. 

Love knows no nationality, ethnicity, gender or age.

Love is eveything.

The love between YS and Ivan goes far beyond gender or desire. It’s simply... love.

I hope you feel it too.

Chapter One: Our stars first crossed

The classroom was too bright.

That was YS’s first thought on his first day of high school. Morning light poured through the tall windows, golden and indifferent, as if it had no idea how tense everyone felt.

He sat by the window, chin resting in one hand, eyes drifting past the sports field outside. The teacher’s voice rose and fell as names—foreign and forgettable—were called.

Then the door opened.

YS looked up. He couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was the hush that settled over the room, or perhaps—something quieter, instinctive.

A boy stepped in.

Silver hair, precisely cut. Eyes like a storm far off on the horizon—gray, unreadable. Taller than most, with a straight-backed posture that was neither arrogant nor shy, only… restrained. He walked softly, like someone used to not being noticed, and yet, drew the room’s attention without trying.

The teacher gave a brief nod. “This is our new transfer student. Please introduce yourself.”

The boy bowed with practiced ease. Then he raised his head, and his voice followed—low, unsure at the edges.

“My name is Ivan. I transferred from… another county. I like…”

His gaze moved across the room, skimming over desks, faces—until it landed on the window.

Or perhaps, not the window.

Ivan paused. His eyes stilled.

Then, with a quick breath, he looked away. “I like basketball. Please take care of me.”

That was all. Courteous. Unremarkable.

And yet.

YS’s fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. A warmth, subtle and sudden, unfurled in his chest. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t dramatic. It simply was—like a chord struck softly, deep inside a quiet room.

Ivan moved to the back, searching for a seat. For the briefest second, his gaze flicked again toward YS—and this time, they met.

Something passed between them. A moment too short to name, too long to ignore.

And then it was over. Ivan looked away.

YS turned back to his desk, blinking as if from a dream. His heart beat too loudly for such a small thing. He didn’t understand why.

He’d seen many people. Beautiful ones. Gentle ones. Boys. Girls. Strong. Slim. This shouldn’t have been different.

And yet, he found himself glancing at the back of Ivan’s head. Again.

As if he were trying to remember something he never knew he'd forgotten.

His friend nudged him and said, “Hey, you were staring at the new guy. What’s up?”—

YS felt heat rise unexpectedly to his ears.

“No,” he said—too fast. Too defensive.

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

He didn’t know what it was.

Only that it stayed with him. Quiet and persistent.

Like a page that had just begun to turn—

and a story he wasn’t ready to read.

Curiosity, he constently told himself. Nothing more.

Chapter Two: Between the Rim and the Silence

Ivan was well-liked.

It didn’t take long. By the second week of the semester, most people knew his name—even if they pretended not to. Something about him was effortlessly magnetic. He wasn’t loud or flashy, not the type to crack jokes across the room or chase attention. He was just… present. Steady.

He smiled easily, greeted people by name, always returned a pen if he borrowed one. His voice was soft, clear, and warm in a way that made people lean in to listen. Girls, especially, took to him—slipping him folded notes, asking if he needed help finding the art room, saving him a seat even when he didn’t ask.

But there was something peculiar about the attention he received.

It never quite stuck.

They admired him the way you admire sunlight through a window—bright, untouchable, passing through the room without ever really belonging to it. No one flirted too boldly. No one asked for his number. No one dared.

And so, even in the middle of a crowded hallway, Ivan was often alone. 

He walked to class alone. Ate lunch alone. Practiced on the court alone. But he himself doesn't seem to feel lonely, he is immersed in his own world, which is good.

YS noticed.

He noticed more than he wanted to.

Since that first moment—since that first eye contact—he’d tried to avoid Ivan. Deliberately. He took different hallways when possible, changed his lunch schedule, kept his head down in gym class. He told himself it was just awkwardness. That he’d imagined the feeling, the sudden warmth in his chest. That it wasn’t anything real.

But he couldn’t stop watching.

His eyes would find Ivan almost on their own, as if drawn by some quiet gravitational pull. He watched how Ivan walked, how he laughed, how his eyes lit up when someone mentioned basketball.

YS hated that he watched so closely.

And he hated the thoughts that followed.

Am I gay?
Is something wrong with me?

These questions started small, like the first few drops of rain. But they grew louder in the quiet moments—in the locker room, in bed before sleep, in every reflection of Ivan’s silhouette in a classroom window.

He told himself it was just envy. Ivan could still play. YS couldn’t. That was all.

Two years ago, YS had been taken off a court on a stretcher—ankle fractured, the bone sharp and ugly under the skin. After that, basketball had become a ghost. One he never dared look at directly.

And yet, that weekend, as he passed by the school court near dinner time, he saw Ivan there.

Alone.

The court was washed in soft amber light. The sun was low, leaking through the chain-link fence and hitting the ground in stripes. Ivan wore a white T-shirt, already damp at the collar, and loose shorts. The orange of the basketball caught the light every time he spun it, leapt, landed.

It was like watching someone in a world without sound.

Every movement was clean. Balanced. Breathtakingly precise.

YS stood at the fence and didn’t move.

He didn’t know how long he watched. It might have been minutes. Might have been longer. Time, suddenly, had nothing to do with clocks.

Eventually, Ivan noticed. He caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, wiped his forehead, and jogged over.

He was smiling. Always smiling. Not the kind that made your stomach twist—but the kind that softened the edges of things.

“You wanna join?” he asked, brushing hair back from his temple. His voice was casual, but hopeful.

YS blinked. Reality returned in pieces.

“I… can’t. I used to play,” he said, glancing down. “I had a bad injury. Fractured my ankle. It never really healed right.”

Ivan’s smile faltered for a heartbeat—but not out of pity. Just genuine disappointment, like a kid told his favorite arcade was closed.

“Oh,” he said softly. “That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

They stood there for a moment. The light faded a little more. The court looked suddenly lonelier.

“I was just about to go eat,” Ivan said, half-turning. “You?”

YS hesitated. He opened his mouth to say no. But something stopped him. Maybe the glow still lingering on Ivan’s skin. Maybe the quietness in his own chest.

“Want to come with me?” he heard himself ask. “There’s a place near the back gate. Kinda hidden. It’s better than the cafeteria.”

Ivan turned to him again. There was a pause. Just a small one. Then he smiled again—this time with something gentler underneath.

“Sure.”

—

The shop was small, tucked between a stationery store and a laundromat. They sat at a two-person table with a wobbly leg and listened to a dusty old TV in the corner play a rerun of a long-forgotten high school championship.

Ivan ordered fried rice. YS got claypot noodles. The soup steamed between them. The lights overhead flickered once, then held.

They didn’t talk much. But it wasn’t awkward.

It felt… still. In a good way.

Afterward, as they walked back toward the dorms, Ivan looked at him sideways and said, “Thanks for that.”

YS just nodded. He wasn’t ready to say what he was feeling—because he didn’t understand it himself.

All he knew was: the food had tasted better than usual. The air had felt easier to breathe. And he had stopped asking himself, just for that one evening, whether something was wrong with him.

From then on, they started eating together. Not always. But enough.

Sometimes YS waited near the cafeteria doors. Sometimes Ivan appeared beside him before he even looked up.

They never made a plan. Never needed to.

Some things, once begun, simply continue.

Chapter Three: The First Fracture

The first year passed like a season that never quite changed.

Their routine stayed quiet, almost too quiet. Lunches together. Nods in the hallway. Brief smiles that didn’t touch the eyes.

YS had once imagined that closeness would feel like warmth. But in truth, it felt like balance—fragile and tense, as if the slightest step too far would send everything toppling.

So he didn’t step. Neither of them did.

Ivan remained steady—popular in a way that never felt performative. People gravitated toward him. Girls especially. But none stayed close. Not really. His silver hair and sun-dusted skin turned heads, but his attention was never anyone’s to claim. He gave everyone a little kindness, and nothing more.

That used to comfort YS. Until it didn’t.

Because the lunches they shared never changed. Ivan didn’t talk more. Didn’t sit closer. Didn’t treat him any differently than he treated the girl from physics class who always shared her snacks.

YS began to wonder if he’d imagined the spark.

He’s just kind. That’s all. I was the one who made it something else.

And that thought twisted into something heavier than shame—regret.

He should not indulge in fantasy, study is his first priority at present, he should be responsible for his own future. He stopped calling Ivan for dinner. Stopped waiting at the gates.

He thought maybe Ivan would say something.

But he didn’t.

Not until YS’s birthday.

—

It was a Friday. Cold and gray, the kind of day that made the school building feel like a weight. Exam results came out that morning, and YS had done badly.

Worse than badly. His math paper looked like it had bled.

And the worst part? Ivan had done well. As always. Calm, focused, and untouched by whatever chaos YS was drowning in.

YS shoved the paper into his bag and left without a word.

He ignored the birthday messages. Declined his friends’ plans for cake and hotpot. Wandered alone along the edge of the old science building, a notebook clutched to his chest like a lifeline, his heart bitter and burning.

This is what I get, he thought. Amorous and sensitive.

He hated himself for being so stupid. So soft. So easily swayed by a look, a smile, a stupid memory of standing beside someone in the sun.

So when he heard footsteps pounding behind him, he didn’t look. Not until a familiar voice—breathless—called out:

“YS! Wait!”

He turned.

Ivan stood there, panting hard, silver hair damp with sweat or mist—it was hard to tell. His cheeks were flushed from running, eyes wide with something between worry and hope.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said. “I… I wanted to say happy birthday.”

And somehow, that was the final straw.

YS felt something snap inside him.

“Don’t.”

Ivan blinked. “What?”

“Don’t pretend to care,” YS said. His voice was shaking now. “You’re nice to everyone. You smile at everyone. Me eating with you doesn’t mean anything. You don’t even notice when I’m gone.”

Ivan took a step forward, confused. “That’s not—”

But YS cut him off. His fists were clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. “You’re doing great. You always do great. But, but—”

He choked up and even a single word can not come out of his mouth.

There was a long silence. The air felt thick with things they couldn’t say.

Ivan’s eyes dropped. Something unreadable passed through them—something sad and strangely quiet.

“…I just wanted to see you today,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

And then he turned.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet, and final.

YS didn’t follow. He couldn’t.

And Ivan didn’t look back.

They didn’t speak for two weeks. Not even in passing.

Until the rain came.

It was a Tuesday, just past lunch. YS had developed a fever sometime the night before—sore throat, headache, his whole body dragging as if underwater. He hadn’t told anyone. He didn’t want anyone to know.

So he bundled himself into a hoodie and walked alone to the clinic, hood up against the drizzle, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

And then—

Footsteps.

Not light ones. Running.

“YS!”

He turned, stunned.

Ivan was sprinting toward him from the front gates, completely soaked—hair flattened against his forehead, school uniform clinging to his skin, making the sharp angles of his shoulders and chest startlingly clear beneath. His silver hair looked darker now, streaked with rain, but even in the gray afternoon, his eyes were impossibly clear.

He stopped a foot away, panting hard, rain dripping from his jaw.

“I went to the city hospital,” he said, holding up a paper bag in both arms like it was sacred. “They said the school clinic didn’t have enough. You’ve had a fever since yesterday, right? You were coughing in class. And you skipped lunch again—”

His voice broke off.

YS stared at him, soaked and out of breath and shaking—not from cold, but something else. Something that made YS’s own throat tighten.

“…Why would you care?” YS said. It came out hoarse, almost a whisper.

Ivan swallowed. “Because I do.”

—

They walked back in silence. Ivan’s shoes squelched with every step. The rain had softened, but it still slicked the stone path. YS was dizzy, but the warmth of the bag of medicine against his chest grounded him.

Their dorms were across from each other. Ivan peeled off his drenched clothes, showered quickly, wrapped himself in a towel that clung damply to his waist.

YS took the medicine. Lay down.

He should have fallen asleep instantly. But he didn’t. Not until—

Knock knock.

The door creaked open.

“I just wanted to check,” Ivan said softly. His hair was still wet. He stood barefoot in the doorway, towel low on his hips, chest bare, skin flushed from the heat of the water.

YS stared. His fever made the room swim. Ivan was there—but also not real. Too kind. Too close.

He blinked slowly, and a word slipped out of his mouth before he noticed it:

“…Can I kiss you?”

The words came from somewhere distant. A place even he hadn’t meant to reach.

Ivan didn't say yes or no. Didn't smile as usually. Didn't frown. He just stepped a little closer,  closed enough for YS to feel his breathe.

YS thought he saw something in Ivan's eyes—something gentle, shiny and confirmly.

But by then, he felt the world tilted, and everything comes into darkness.

He tried hard to open eyes or listen carefully, or catch the feeling coming from his own lips. But he can't.

That night, he slept deeper than he had in months.

And when he woke, he found Ivan was still there—sitting beside. He couldn’t remember whether they had kissed.

Only that for the first time in a long, long while—

he hadn’t felt alone.

Chapter Four: Take a step forward or back

The kiss—if it could be called that—was never mentioned again.

Not the next morning. Not that week. Not once in words.

But something changed after that night. Something subtle, like the quiet shift of season in early spring.

They started showing up together again—at breakfast, outside classrooms, in the hallways. They stopped keeping distance from each other.

If anything, they had more conversations, from dinner to dream, from history to preference. They were closer and closer.

They ate every meal together. Walked to class side by side. On weekends, they wandered the town’s narrow alleys, splitting rice crackers and milk tea, shoulders brushing in silence.

They never talked about what they were. Never named it. But everyone else had their own opinions.

“You two are totally dating,” a classmate teased one afternoon.

Ivan didn’t react.

YS laughed too loudly and said, “Don’t be stupid.”

But the teasing didn’t stop.

At first, YS tried to argue. Said Ivan was just his closest friend. That they studied together because it worked. That boys could be close without it meaning anything.

But Ivan’s silence—calm, quiet, noncommittal—made YS pause.

Eventually, the whispers died down.

And YS stopped caring. He stopped trying to prove anything to anyone—except maybe to himself. We’re not dating, he told himself. We’re just working hard together. We’re helping each other become better. That’s it. That's a friend's duty and that's what happened between them.

But from that on, if he ever felt his hand brushing Ivan’s by accident, he pulled it away before it lingered. If his eyes rested too long on Ivan’s neck, his shoulders, the curve of his collarbone under a white T-shirt—he looked away at once when he realised.

They had already crossed one line. He couldn’t afford to break the rest.

The dorms were a chaos of teenage boys, cluttered shoes, instant noodles, and shampoo bottles labeled with permanent marker. In a school where the hot water was timed and the nights were cold, sharing was survival. It was common to borrow towels, body wash, extra flip-flops. If your bathroom was occupied, you knocked on someone else’s.

Ivan had showered with most of YS’s roommates at least once. But never with YS.

Not once.

In fact, whenever Ivan came over and saw YS getting ready to shower—he left. Fast. Sometimes with a half-mumbled excuse. Sometimes without one. It took YS a while to notice. But once he did, he couldn’t stop noticing. He was confused. Then mildly amused. Then quietly, increasingly bothered.

So one morning after gym class—sweaty, tired, both boys toweling off at the edge of the court—YS casually asked:

“Hey. Why do you never shower with me?”

Ivan froze.

It was subtle—a slight stiffening in his shoulders, the towel pausing on his neck.

“W-what?”

“You always shower with the others. But not me.”

Ivan turned away too quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… it’s not like that. I just—uh—timing, I guess. We’re always off.”

YS narrowed his eyes. “You mean like the last five times?”

Ivan mumbled something that didn’t make sense and jogged ahead.

Later that day, at lunch, YS brought it up again. Ivan choked on his rice and deflected with a completely different excuse—one that directly contradicted the first—He suddenly didn't want to take a shower and planned to wash clothes instead.

By evening, YS had enough.

—

After night self-study, most students drifted back to the dorms in sleepy clusters.

But Ivan, as usual, stopped by the old teaching building to use the cleaner toilets—ones that weren’t crammed with toothpaste spit and noisy upperclassmen. And of course, no one hurry him up to finish using bathroom.

YS followed him. Quietly, like a ninja.

And when Ivan came out of the stall, still buttoning his pants, he found himself backed against the tiled wall.

YS stood in front of him, eyes narrowed, arms braced on either side.

“…What are you doing?” Ivan asked, voice higher than usual.

“Answer me,” YS said. He wasn’t smiling. “Why won’t you shower with me? Stop making lame excuses.”

Ivan blinked. His cheeks flushed immediately.

“I—because—” he stammered, glancing sideways. “Because I keep thinking about… about that night.”

YS’s eyes widened.

That night? that kiss?

So it really happened.

He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified.

Ivan kept talking, stumbling through his words.

“Every time I’m near you now, especially when we’re both—like—in that context, I… I don’t know how to handle it. I get nervous, and my mind goes back to—”

YS leaned a little closer. “Back to what?”

Ivan looked like he wanted to disappear.

“…To your mouth,” he said finally, barely audible. “And sometimes other things. I’m sorry. I’m not like this usually. I swear. It’s just—you.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, red-faced, Ivan pushed past YS and fled down the hallway.

The days that followed were strange. Ivan became scarce again—ducking into classrooms early, avoiding eye contact, conveniently “busy” at meal times. He didn’t ignore YS completely, but the way he kept his distance was unmistakable.

YS didn’t press. Not right away. Because he knew now.

Ivan wasn’t avoiding him out of indifference. He was afraid—of himself. 

Of his body.

Of how thinking about YS made him feel.

That knowledge sat in YS’s chest like a tiny flame. Small, but alive. Something had cracked open between them. And whether it was good or dangerous or both, neither of them could pretend it hadn’t. They both knew they were on the verge of crossing a line, again.

Disclaimer

No reproduction, adaptation, or commercial use is allowed without permission.