(The Korean language doesn't actually have a Z sound, so I tend to interpret Korea's verbal tic as being filtered through Japanese.)
Kiku knelt neatly and ate neatly, and the boy sat in a pile of his own gangly legs and ate as clumsily as if he'd never seen chopsticks before. Kiku tutted. "I see it's true you have no parents. See, boy, eat nicely, like this." He demonstrated, picking up small clumps of rice, and the boy nodded and copied. "Good, that's good. Now sit properly... Much better. Again, I'm sorry there isn't more. Eat slowly and appreciate it. I must hunt today. Perhaps I'll be luckier than yesterday. Tell me, do you hunt?"
"Nmf-" Yong-Soo swallowed. "Not very well, Honda-ssi. I fish better, but the rivers are all frozen. But I can repay you in a better way. May I have some sticks of wood and a quiet place to sit?"
"Would you address me as Honda-san, please? That's what we say in this land, Imu-san. And I'd be glad to find some wood, but why?"
Yong-Soo held out a hand, sleeve pulled over it, and Kiku curiously touched the cloth, as the boy seemed to mean he should. He stroked it in fascination; it was the softest, finest, whitest cloth he had ever touched. Was the boy a prince, to wear something so fine? But no, the boy's fingers brushed his hand and the pads were hard as shoe-leather... "Did you make this coat?"
"Spun the thread and wove the cloth myself, Honda-san. A secret method of my own design, da se!"
Kiku smiled at the boy's little verbal tic. "Da ze indeed," he said, his own accent affecting it a little. "This is beautiful. What are you doing wandering homeless with this kind of talent?"
"Looking for a place to sell it, Honda-san. All I need is a spindle and a loom, and solitude."
"Why solitude?"
The boy winked. "I said it was a secret method, Honda-san."
Kiku was perplexed, but curious, and so he found two straight sticks for spindles, and left Yong-Soo sitting crosslegged in the corner with the door unlocked, for what did he have for the boy to steal? In the evening he came home with a kerchief full of wild roots and a scrawny duck, and opened the door to find the boy with a spindle full of thread as white as moonlight, and another as black as shadow, so fine and soft that when he unwound them the thread could barely be seen.
"I haven't enough to weave a cloth, Honda-san, and for that I would need a loom as well," said Yong-Soo. "I'm sorry."
"No matter, boy, this is more than good enough. This is wonderful! Can you make more?"
"Not soon, I fear. The making of the thread is hard and tires me. Give it a week, sir?"
Kiku nodded, mouth dry in wonder. The sale of this thread alone could feed them both for a year. He took the boy's hands in his and said "Imu-san, would you like to go into business with me? If you spin this thread, we can sell it, and we'll both be wealthy men!"
The boy nodded. "A contract, then? I will stay and spin and weave for you, on the condition that you never try to see me work. I cannot let another find out how I do this, or the method will be lost." Their hands clasped, and the deal was made.
The next day they took the thread to market, and a wealthy woman purchased it for a high price to trim her daughter's wedding robes. Kiku had never seen so much money in his life, and the woman said nor had she seen such beautiful thread, and Yong-Soo promised more to come in a week should she or her friends want it. "Your little brother has a gift, Honda-san," she said.
Kiku opened his mouth to say Yong-Soo was not his brother but saw the joyful light in the boy's eyes, and instead said "Indeed, Yonsu-kun is a gift to me."
Days turned into weeks turned into months, and while the craft was slow the product was so perfect it earned plenty. With Yong-Soo's talent and Kiku's wisdom the two made enough money to purchase a little shop in the village at the bottom of the mountain, and for some time all was well. But as the weeks turned into months, Kiku's pride turned into vanity, and his ambition turned to greed.
"Yonsu-kun, can you make three skeins of thread this week?"
"I can try, Kiku-nii!" And he did, though at the end he looked a little pale.
"Yonsu-kun, can you make a skein every day?"
"I don't know, Kiku-nii, but I can try." And he did, though at the end he was certainly pale and a little thinner.
"Yonsu-kun, we must look respectable to do business with lords and ladies. Can you make us each a kimono?"
"Why can I not wear my old clothes, Kiku-nii? They are as fine as any new ones I can make."
"Those?" Kiku looked with disdain at Yong-Soo's white coat and breeches, still as clean as fresh snow. "You cannot wear foreign clothes among high society, boy, you will make us both look like fools."
"Very well then, Kiku-nii."
"And let me cut your hair. You will look so much more respectable."
"Must I?"
"Yes."
"Very well then, Kiku-nii." And Yong-Soo let his brother cut his hair short, and wove them each a kimono of ink-black with snow-white trim. And if he looked far smaller in it, and if he slept all the time he was not working, and if the curl of his shortened hair started to droop, what of that?
"Yonsu-kun, what is this?" Kiku stopped his brother from leaving the breakfast table, at which the boy had eaten too fast and not enough, and held out a skein of white thread as fine as any Yong-Soo had ever spun, but speckled with deep red.
"I have told you, Kiku-nii, the making of the thread is hard," Yong-Soo said, eyes downcast, and held out his cracked fingers.
"If you would show me how to make it too, this wouldn't happen."
"I have told you that as well, Kiku-nii, I am the only one that can!"
"Boy, I'm not a fool. I know there is magic in your method. Why can it not extend to me?"
"Magic doesn't work that way. Only I can work this form, and it has a heavy price, which I cannot keep paying," said Yong-Soo, his voice cold for the first time.
"Surely you can just keep it up a little longer."
"That's what you said last week, and the week before that! We've made more money than we could have dreamed of and you appreciate none of it because you always want more!"
"I'm doing this for you, boy, and you appreciate none of it! You were nothing but a hungry vagabond when I found you, why can't you understand you need security?"
"Security indeed, will you chain me to my loom next? If I was hungry at least I was free!"
"That's enough!" Kiku slammed his teacup down, and it shattered on the table, and a shard flew up and cut his cheek. "Go to your workroom and do your job!"
Yong-Soo fled, and the shuttle's sound started, and Kiku's blood dripped and left thin streaks on his white yukata.
Over weeks the threads Yong-Soo made grew more and more flecked and spotted and patched with red, and Kiku took them to the river and washed and washed in the cold water until his own hands cracked and bled, and not a speck of red came off. No matter. The thread was still as fine and soft and beautiful as ever, and still sold as well, and red came into fashion. And if Yong-Soo never left his workroom any more, what of that?