It was that smile.

  Bright enough to seem capable of dispelling the gloom that had long settled over him.

  Vance remembered the boy smiling just like that years ago on the training ground when he had successfully tamed Zephyr.

  What Young Master Heaton didn't know was that Elian was smiling with a touch of nervousness.

  Elian's palms were slightly sweaty. He knew the young master hated overly enthusiastic approaches and might throw him out at any second.

  But Elian still wanted to tease him a little.

  At the very least, making him angry was better than watching him lie half-dead in bed every day.

  "Go away."

  The paper ball was tossed back. On it was the young master's elegant, neat handwriting.

  Getting a response made Elian grin even wider.

  From then on, Elian would throw paper balls or paper planes at the window every day, inscribed with harmless jokes that "plagued" the young master with their persistence.

  Although the young master was loath to admit it, he did find himself, at a certain time each day, faintly anticipating the day's message.

  Finally, once, before Elian could throw more "new trash" at the window, the young master leaned out first, supporting his weight.

  He pointed at Elian with a cold face, then pointed up, mouthing the words: "Come up."

  Five minutes later, quick footsteps approached, and the hospital room door was pushed open.

  "So, why are you here? Are you following me?" the young master asked, his tone laced with a subtle arrogance.

  "No, no!"

  Afraid of being mistaken for a creepy stalker, Elian waved his hands. "It's because my mom said she wasn't feeling well recently and came to the hospital for a check-up. I didn't expect to run into you here."

  He didn't show excessive concern for the useless legs, and he absolutely didn't mention how worried he had been after Vance's fall.

  "Hmph."

  The young master seemed to accept the explanation but still said, "Stop throwing notes at my window. This place is about to be flooded with your junk."

  Seeing the other visibly deflate, the young master paused.

  "In the future, if you have something to say, you can just come up and say it."

  "I'll take that as your permission for me to drop by anytime, then." Elian narrowed his eyes, his liveliness returning.

  Soon, the caregivers noticed with surprise that the young master's appetite had improved, he had started cooperating with treatment, and even his responses had softened.

  They attributed it all to the flaxen-haired boy. He was always noisily present by the bedside, either leaning against the bed rail showing Vance funny videos or telling wildly imaginative stories to make him laugh.

  Sometimes, the boy would also sit obediently on a small stool, sketching.

  However, his drawings were evaluated by Vance as "neat as printer output, paintings lacking soul."

  Though the young master wore an expression of disdain on the surface, whenever Elian drew, he would always watch him intently.

  Once, after Elian finished a sketch, the young master even asked haughtily, "How much?"

  His tone was eerily similar to propositioning a streetwalker.

  "Huh?" Elian was stunned.

  "I said, for your sketch." Vance repeated, his fingers tapping impatiently on his leg. "Name your price."

  "...You want to buy my drawing?"

  "How much?" Vance's tone grew more impatient, his fingers curling slightly. "Don't make me ask a third time."

  It was a sketch of a magnificent horse. Elian guessed why he liked it.

  It was something he had absentmindedly drawn, even vaguely worried the other might be angry seeing it. He never expected Vance would actually like it.

  After all, it was a horse that had brought this proud young master to his current, nearly crippled state.

  "You can have it." Elian said frankly.

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  Although Vance accepted the drawing, he didn't seem particularly attached to it, letting it stay among the clutter on the table.

  Aside from that little episode, which briefly made Elian think the young master was finally opening up to him, most of the time the young master still acted as if he couldn't be bothered with the noisy boy.

  But then, one day, that boy disappeared without a word.

  The first week passed. Vance showed no abnormality, as if relieved to have less noise around.

  The second week passed. The young master began to brood like storm clouds gathering.

  The third week passed—the nurses caring for him started breaking out in cold sweat. Because the young master had become resistant to everything again, including meals and rehabilitation, his temper always unpredictable. Many visitors came to see Vance. He would always act politely during visiting hours, but anyone could see a massive low-pressure system was forming over his head.

  "My God, I wish that boy Elian would come back. At least when he was here, Vance seemed more alive. Like this, work is depressingly tense every day."

  He overheard a nurse complaining in the distance.

  Once, a nurse tentatively asked him, "Did something happen between you? We haven't seen that boy much lately."

  "I don't know. Maybe he's dead." Vance said with a cold face. "Don't mention him again."

  Clearly, the response shut the nurse's gossiping mouth.

  At night, bone-deep pain surged. Vance didn't want to press the bell for more painkillers.

  He frowned, hating his broken body, wanting to smash the piles of business letters and medicine bottles on the table to the floor.

  Then, he saw that drawing with its smudged charcoal lines, incongruously tucked among the pristine letters.

  He carefully pulled out the drawing, his fingers tracing the horse in the image.

  It was "Uranus."

  Drawn vividly and realistically. Though a black and white sketch, he recognized it immediately.

  Until now, he hadn't dared to watch any videos or look at photos of himself riding, nor had he dared to see what "Uranus" once looked like.

  But with this sketch, that heart-rending force seemed to lessen, leaving behind a gentler sense of longing. It allowed him to hide in an unseen corner, quietly gazing at his former companion until his vision blurred with gathering moisture.

  It had been over six months since his surgery. Back then, he was like a living corpse, needing to ring for help even to use the bathroom. He refused to keep the catheter, not only because the foreign sensation was extremely uncomfortable, but also because it felt humiliating.

  Around the fifth month, encouraged by Elian, he finally agreed to start rehabilitation and stood up for the first time, even if only for four seconds.

  During walking rehabilitation, Vance felt he had never walked a more difficult path. Each step felt like his leg was being corroded by strong acid.

  Despite his usual resilience, an unsettling anxiety rose in him. He was afraid he would never finish that short walk.

  Just as he was about to lose balance and fall ignominiously, a pair of hands caught him firmly.

  "Got you."

  He looked up into a pair of dark, determined eyes. The person wore a playful smile at the corner of his lips but held his arm tightly.

  In that moment, Vance felt an unprecedented sense of safety.

  He instinctively recoiled from the idea of relying on someone. After all, "safety" was a term far too unfamiliar to him.

  But before he could fully digest this strange emotion, that person disappeared.

  This irritating, troubling feeling clung to him. Vance attributed it to Elian's annoyingly strong presence.

  He must have been so irritating that even after being gone for so long, that agitated feeling remained, even growing stronger.

  Too long without seeing him, combined with his constant dwelling on it, eventually led Vance to dream of Elian.

  At first, he didn't know it was a dream.

  The hospital room door was pushed open, and the person he had been thinking about day and night burst in.

  "Hi, Vance!" he said with a smile. "Did you miss me?"

  The boy's flaxen hair was mussed and sticking up, his still-youthful features holding a touch of playful immaturity. His eyes were bright as the morning sun, enough to ignite the entire night.

  "What nonsense are you spouting?" Vance pretended to be impatient. "Where have you been all these weeks?"

  Vaguely, Elian said something, then leaned close to the bed.

  It wasn't until Elian leaned over him as if to kiss him that he suddenly realized—

  This must be a dream.

  "What are you doing?" Vance demanded.

  "Kissing you."

  The figure in the dream didn't pull away. Instead, he gave an innocent yet teasing look.

  The young master couldn't believe he was having such a dream, feeling only immense awkwardness.

  "Get lost." he said, an unnatural flush rising on his face.

  Dreams are strange things. The dream-"Elian" seemed to realize the dreamer was aware this was a dream.

  "Do you really want me to go?"

  Vance somehow understood the subtext of that sentence: "I can disappear from your dream, just say the word."

  In reality, he didn't want that.

  He just wanted to tell him to get lost to the doorway—but not too far away.

  This dream better not end. That way, in the next part, Elian could come close again, and he could scold him on the surface while secretly anticipating them getting closer.

  The Elian in the dream seemed to see right through his thoughts, smiling slyly and ambiguously.

  "No."

  As if afraid he might really leave the dream, Vance instinctively gripped his wrist tightly.

  His heart trembled, screaming a welcome for the other to invade his dream, all while pretending not to care.

  His soul felt torn in two. Under the assault of these two conflicting emotions, he was being driven mad.

  At first, it was just a kiss.

  In the dead of night, the only sound in the ward was the wet, rhythmic exchange of their tongues. Vance closed his eyes, his eyelashes trembling slightly as he surrendered to the intoxicating sensation of sinking.

  Then, the covers were pulled back.

  A hand was searching, wandering back and forth as it migrated toward the space between his legs.

  He snapped his eyes open.

  "Don't touch me there."

  If this continued, the dream would become too excessive, too absurd.

  He struggled to crook his legs, attempting to shield the part of him that was already standing at full attention.

  "Oh, really?" The other boy wore a look of feigned innocence.

  Dammit. That tone was pure mockery.

  "But it doesn't look like it feels the same way." Elian said.

  As the hand brushed against the bulge through the hospital gown, Vance's member swelled even further, bordering on a dull ache.

  Despite the Young Master's cold expression, the visible pulsing and twitching betrayed his intense state of arousal.

  Elian's slender fingers traced light circles around the tip through the fabric; soon, a damp patch began to spread, soaking through the cloth.

  "Let go." Vance said, his voice carrying the weight of a command.

  Elian ignored him. Instead, he slid his hand beneath the loose hospital gown and easily wrapped his fingers around the engorged heat.

  Vance let out a low, ragged gasp, shifting restlessly.

  He hadn't touched himself since the surgery. He had been holding it in for so long that the slightest contact felt overwhelmingly sensitive.

  He had once feared that the trauma of his shattered pelvis might have cost him his sexual function. For months, he hadn't felt a spark of desire, living like a saint as even his morning wood vanished.

  Only now was he certain that everything still worked perfectly.