Kei’s gallery was quiet when Sung arrived. The assistant at the gallery front desk had greeted him with recognition.

“Kei-ssi hasn’t left all day,” she said. “Actually, I don’t think he went home last night either. The master is deep in his work.”

Sung’s gut tightened. Something did not feel right. He walked toward the studio at the back of the gallery briskly.

The studio was dim, the only light coming from the muted glow of the kiln and a single flickering lamp by the workbench. Inside, the air was heavy with clay and cooling kiln heat. A single lamp cast dim light over scattered tools and unfinished pottery. Half a sandwich sat forgotten on a plate.

“Hyung?” Sung called out, stepping in. “Kei-hyung?”

No answer.

He found him on the old studio couch, curled into himself under a thin throw. The table nearby was scattered with unfinished ceramic work, sketchbooks, pencils. cheeks were flushed with fever, skin pale beneath. A sheen of sweat clung to his forehead. He shivered slightly when Sung touched him.

“Sung...?”

“God, Hyung, you’re burning up,” Sung said, already on the phone with his private physician. “I’m getting you home.”

Kei’s eyelids fluttered; he murmured something inaudible from his hoarse throat.

Sung then got his driver to come to the gallery's entrance. Gently, Sung covered Kei with the throw and scooped him into his arms. He was surprisingly light, his body limp with exhaustion.

Kei murmured protest as he was carried, but Sung held him closer. The chestnut cake was forgotten on the table.

“You’re so stubborn,” Sung said softly as they exited the studio. “But from now on, I’m not letting you do this alone.”