Chapter Text
“Get in the car, Nakyum. Must we do this every morning?”
The young intern was doing quite the balancing act—he had a huge colorful folder under one arm while he towed his baby blue bike with the other. With the amount of effort it took him to trudge ahead, he might as well be plowing dry earth.
Just minutes ago, Nakyum had been cheerfully pedaling up the bike lane, until a great calamity befell him—the tails of his long knitted cardigan had caught in the cogs, which effectively ate a large chunk of the white garment.
Seungho spotted the inconsolable wretch from a distance. Nakyum silently sobbed behind the foggy crystal of his granny glasses, chin almost touching his chest. His crocheted hat did a poor job at protecting him from the pattering rain.
Young Baek Nakyum was the vision of a newborn kitty abandoned under a bridge. He seemed absolutely defeated as he pushed his baby blue sorry excuse of a bicycle next to the lane. It seemed that at last his perpetually perky mood was fading, trampled under the constant misfortunes he was dished out in life.
This was their ritual. Every morning, after departing from the upper area where he resided, Seungho would pass Nakyum as he was about to enter the freeway. They were sort of symbolic neighbors and their paths would often cross.
And just like every other morning, as he was invited to accept the ride, Nakyum put on a flustered act, “Oh, no, I couldn’t, Mr. Yoon. Please. I wouldn’t wish to impose.”
Tired with the whole pleasantries, Yoon Seungho would hastily park his Jeep Wrangler at the curb, exit the vehicle and fling the bike in the back. Sometimes, the older man didn’t even care to pronounce a quick hello first; he just went through the motions. Then, he would silently gesture for Nakyum to get in the fucking car. From afar, it looked like a gentle kidnapping was taking place.
But, really…
How many times were they going to perform this same song and dance?
On this occasion, however, as Nakyum attempted to climb inside, the ends of his frayed sweater got caught in the door handle, and of course, he tripped. What else was new? His colorful folder and its contents fell into a puddle of murky waters and his glasses skidded over the pavement. Both men watched in a kind of stupid trance as the oncoming traffic reduced the spectacles to glittering dust.
As they traversed the highway, Seungho had to put up with the stifled sniveling; and that was a new detail he found most grating, but endured all the same. Everytime he looked to the side, Nakyum would try to put on a brave smile, which turned into a twitching grimace that he could only sustain for a few seconds, before his entire face melted into a sorrowful expression.
Seungho diverted his gaze toward the rear view mirror, away from those weeping amber orbs. “Why do you wear them in the first place? I know you have perfect eyesight.”
Nakyum sniffled quite noisily, wiping the dribbling snot with his long sleeve. “Muh-my sister said-” He deflated with a shaky sigh that ended in a sharp sob. “My eyes... they get tired when I read t-too much.”
“They get tired because you have to pick up the producers’ slack,” was the immediate response. Seungho kept his eyes trained on the side mirror, trying to merge into the lane that led to their exit. “Fuck this guy!” He slammed the dashboard with his fist, ignoring the way Nakyum jumped in his seat. “Some people… I swear. They should just round them all up and throw them into an exploding volcano. Can’t this guy stay inside his fucking lane?”
“I wouldn't know. I never learned how to drive.” Nakyum mumbled under his breath, too low to be heard by Seungho. He turned slightly, shooting a forlorn look at his broken bike. Without knowing much about the technical details, he knew having it repaired would be costly since that was the way his luck always worked. “Sir, ha-have you been-? I mean…” Nakyum took a deep breath, closing his eyes.
It was quicker for Seungho to let the fidgety intern take his time, so he waited. In the past, tired with the constant hesitation, he would always cut him off, derailing Nakyum’s train of thoughts—a fucking catasptrophe as he was forced to wait for the younger man to recover from the shock of appearing slow.
Being awkward was Nakyum’s biggest fear, and in doing everything to avoid this, he instead managed to overthink his way into a constant state of unease. He was only marginally more comfortable around Seungho, able to voice his opinions a few times, not without losing all color on his otherwise rosy cheeks. After a few shaky exhalations, Nakyum was able to compose his broken voice. “Hu-how have you been sleeping, Mr. Yoon?”
“Not at all.” Seungho always answered right away. He turned on the heat when he noticed how Nakyum’s hands trembled as he fumbled with his hat.
This was cause for alarm. “Oh, oh, but I-I thought with the new- ah-”
“Yes,” Seungho cut him off. Sometimes, he was merciful enough to intervene, catching the intern’s word as it hung from his lips. “You were right. Soundproofing the place was a great idea. Thank you.”
Receiving any form of gratitude from this man was akin to a religious experience, so Nakyum dropped his head while shrugging, like a shy turtle.
As the fine drizzle turned into a full rain, Seungho turned on the wipers, and they fell into a comfortable silence, punctuated by the hollow drumming on the rooftop and the occasional squeaky sounds from the windshield wipers. In a world of their own, they veered into a hushed kind of intimate conversation.
“It’s not about the noise. I just have a lot in my mind right now,” the older man said in undertones.
“I- well, we will be sorry to see you leave, Mr. Yoon. It-it’s a shame you-your f-father is making you leave.” Nakyum picked at his nails, feeling his face burning up with embarrassment. Every time he voiced his thoughts, they sounded unberably stupid to his own ears and he wished to take them back; it didn’t help that Seungho would sometimes take a very long time to answer, his slanted eyes gaining a grave light.
Turning his face for a second, the man grinned at him. Suddenly, he was in a mood to tease the intern. “‘We’? Who else besides you?”
Sometimes Nakyum would become brave when he was rattled. His visage would be similar to that of a pufferfish—bloated cheeks and red puckered lips. With years of practice, Seungho knew how to flare up Nakyum’s temperament; and he did it whenever Nakyum was in a strong enough frame of mind to be toyed with.
That which usually unnerved the younger man was hearing anyone disparaging the great Yoon Seungho, even if the abuse came from the illustrious man himself. Seungho found Nakyum’s loyalty most endearing.
The Portent .
That was what they used to call him once. What a joke of a title.
Once, Seungho ‘The Portent’ Yoon, lived every day to receive praise and welcomed the fame into his bosom with open arms.
He had reached the very top, and like Icarus, his feathers couldn’t carry the weight of his own arrogance and ambition.
And he fell.
Of course, he fell. Because there is always a catch.
Success invariably comes with the expected onslaught of hate, be it from envious rivals or the frustrated kind of individuals that are aware of their inability to graze the pinnacle.
Nevertheless, there is no greater hate than the one that comes from within, even from those that appear impervious and flawless, just like our man right here.
It’s easy to recognize someone who is full of self-hatred. They walk about life with this sour expression on their face and lash out at others to drain out the poison. And sour they shall remain until they are reminded of their own worth by themselves. No other voice will prevail in a head full of bitterness, no matter how sweet or kind...
...or whether they softly whispered inside the privacy of a vehicle moving through curtains of heavy rain. Nakyum tried all the same. He was quick to flatter the renowned chef at every chance he got.
This time, Seungho wouldn’t make it easy for him, though. “Well? I’m still waiting. Name one person besides you who will miss me.”
That furrowed little mouth opened and closed, suffocating for some inspiration. “We-well, there’s… uh- and...”
Seungho lifted his shapely eyebrows, nodding at him. “Yes, go on. You’ve got this. I believe in you.”
As he grasped the older man’s intentions, Nakyum fumed, turning to watch the road. “It's not fair. You know it’s hard to come up with an answer when you’re under pressure.” His stutter was cured by his irritation.
Eyes fixed on the side mirror, Seungho took a smooth left. “You’re always under pressure, Baek Nakyum,” he declared in a content voice, bringing the teasing to an end.
They descended into the parking lot, the interior of the car swallowed by the darkness of the enclosure, the rain fading in the background.
“You cut your hair,” Seungho said softly as he parked, lips barely separating as he spoke. He put on the handbrake, disturbing the echoing silence, and adjusted the rear view mirror until its reflection showed him that flushed face.
Feeling himself observed, Nakyum’s eyelashes—plentiful and heavy—dropped over the inflamed cheekbones. The salt of the tears had clawed red angry lines down the smooth face. The head bowed in a humble gesture. Despite all this, the younger man held a pride about him, like an enraged peacock whose feathers had been plucked out and it thirsted for retribution.
“That side is longer.” Seungho took his fingers to his own forehead. His dress jacket rustled with the movement.
Nakyum’s eyelashes fluttered, awakened by a new source of embarrassment. “Oh, I-I just…”
“Wait. I think I got some scissors somewhere around here…”
All of Nakyum’s oxygen dammed in his throat as Seungho leaned across his lap. Frozen in his seat, the amber eyes opened wide to observe the man in impossibly close proximity. Seungho’s silky hair fell in layers to one side, expelling a mild citric aroma. Befitting his profession as a chef, Seungho’s hands were always impeccably clean, long fingers with buff nails.
“I could have sworn I had a pair around here…” Seungho said, rummaging inside the glove box.
“N-n-n-no…” Nakyum’s tongue got stuck in a revving motion as he struggled to spit out the words.
“No?” Seungho turned slightly, smirking at the younger man.
Nakyum had closed his eyes, however, trying to regain his composure. “No!” he finally blurted out, finding himself out of breath after the ordeal. He kept his eyes closed as he gripped the seat. “No, because we- huh… I had everything sorted out for your departure.” Deep breath; count to three.
Seungho was infamously known for leaving his personal possessions laying all around, just to get angry when he couldn’t find them within seconds. Inside his glove box, he had been hoarding an assortment of completely random objects—socks, protein bars, a comb, a screwdriver, lint balls, and more; whatever the man had inside his pockets, he unloaded there day after day. Nakyum had Seugnho’s entire life organized every other week, putting everything back in its rightful place. And the way Seungho murmured an appreciative “that’s a good boy” would turn Nakyum into a mass of useless and boneless limbs.
After getting out of the car, they argued briefly—Nakyum wanted to take his bike inside so as not to longer be a bother, but Seungho promptly discouraged the intern by lightly pushing him towards the elevator. They reached their floor, the doors opened with a ding like theatre curtains, showing them a scene of absolute chaos.
“Where are my fucking artichokes?”
Enter Min, chef exceptionnel—A man in his early 30’s obsessed with receiving praise and being deemed the best. According to Seungho, he was two things in spades: untalented and envious of other people’s talent; so, he was perpetually a moody bitch.
At Min’s command, interns ran aimlessly around the lobby, searching inside crates of perishables as if their lives depended on it. They desperately looked for chef Min’s precious artichokes. A girl was violently sobbing while she squished a bunch of hearts of palm; defeated in her quest, she screamed she hadn’t been the first in her class for this .
“Different day, same shit,” Seungho commented as he stepped into the mayhem.
Dressed in his pristine chef’s whites, Min pranced closer to his rival, sporting a smug grin. He snapped his fingers to his subordinates, instructing them to keep quiet. “Well, if isn’t the great Yoon Seungho, Monsieur Le Portent. Coming now, with your tail between your legs, ready to beg daddy to let you stay?”
With absolute tranquility, Seungho stuffed his hands inside the pockets of his black trousers, and tilting his head back, he regarded Min down his nose.
This absolute calm only served to infuriate Min. His pinched little face turned beet red. “Too bad you can’t convince the executives you are no longer a burden to this station. You are old news, Portent. Fini.”
Eyes like slits, Seungho observed Min as if he knew something the other ignored. His grin widened as he observed the way the man’s hands trembled in anger. This would be easy. “Did you practice that speech in front of the mirror this morning? Well, you didn't stutter once. Well done, Chef Min. How about a round of applause?” He addressed the terrorized interns who shared stupefied looks, but couldn’t refuse to obey; Seungho was higher on the food chain.
So, they all started to clap like confused and depressed seals.
Approaching the taller man, Min drew his mouth to Seungho’s smirk, and hissed through gritted teeth, “Fuck you, Yoon. I’m going to eat you alive. Just you wait.” His voice resumed its previous booming roar, “AND MY DAMN ARTICHOKES?”
A breathy chuckle passed Seungho’s lips as he observed how it all spiraled out of control once again. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual business before the taping of a show. Min always brought an uneasy atmosphere to the studio; the entire crew walked on eggshells—every minor inconvenience warranted one of Min’s tantrums. With veins that popped on his forehead and bulging eyes, Min threw abuse at everyone present, deeming them inferior and… yes, ‘mediocre.’ That was his word, said with a stiff upper lip.
Not that Seungho never lost his temper. He did, and often. Just that it was a cumulative affair; one or two minor things? No problem. The chef sighed, a little annoyed, and moved on. Are we talking about a series of fuck-ups? Well, ladies and gentlemen. You better brace yourselves for this shitstorm.
While chefs are not generally known as the most patient souls, they should always keep a cool head on their shoulders. We’re talking about dealing with fire, literally. And like the famous saying goes, ‘if you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen.’
That fateful day, Seungho had taken too much heat at once and ended up punching an employee straight on the chin. How quickly things change in one second. Seungho had indulged in his little flick of anger, and it had cost him—the Portent broke the man’s jaw in half, forcing the poor unfortunate soul to eat through a straw from months.
Now, he was doing the honorable thing and taking a leave of absence by the executives’ recommendation. In mundane terms, he was forced to quit before the shitstorm could splatter the rest of them. Maybe Min was right, and this was la fin de Yoon Seungho’s, after all.
Gathering his things from his office would be easy; Nakyum had already neatly put away his most valuable possessions. Everything else was trash.
“What are you doing there so quietly?” Seungho mused with a slight smile as he sorted through his packed knives. “Plotting revenge?”
From the opposite corner of the office, Nakyum quickly defended himself. “Uh- that’s not…”
“What are you hiding inside that box?” Seungho had noticed flashes of a red ribbon.
The young intern turned around. “It-it’s- uh… a surprise,” he drawled out, hiding his blushing cheeks behind the stack of papers he was holding.
“Let’s see what we have here, shall we?” Seungho approached Nakyum’s side, taking the box off the intern’s hands, never breaking eye contact. It was incredible how easily he could make Nakyum shy away; even standing in front of him was enough to make the younger man cower. He took out the bottle hidden under the stationary and discarded the box on the sofa. “A Château Lafite Rothschild,” the chef said in perfect French. “A parting gift for us both, huh? You’re also taking a vacation starting today, right?”
Nakyum nodded with eyes closed, pressing his lips in a tight line. “I-I- we-”
“Again with the ‘we’, Baek Nakyum.” Seungho inspected the bottle closely, marvelling at it. “It must have cost you a fortune.”
“I- well… yes,” he admitted. He tried pushing up his glasses, finding too late he wasn’t even wearing them, only managing to look like an absolute fool. Thankfully, Seungho had his eyes focused on the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.
“Let’s have a toast right now.”
Nakyum bit his bottom lip and hummed, wringing out his own hands. “Buh- uh- I was going to bring it la-later to your place, so you could en-enjoy it better.”
“What better time than the present?” Looking at Nakyum, Seungho’s eyes rounded in a perilous expression of eagerness.
“No!” Nakyum blurted out suddenly, stretching out his hands to stop the man.
Seungho leaned away, surprised by the force behind that command. Before he could comment on it, however, one of Seungho’s assistants entered the office, pushing the crystal door with her hip as she held a tray in her hands. “Coffee, Mr. Yoon? Sparkling water? San Pellegrino?”
“No, Mari.”
The girl’s face fell in absolute disappointment. She had even brought raisin cookies.
Seungho threw the corkscrew inside an emptied drawer. “Don’t know what’s got into you today, but you’ve got a point, Baek Nakyum. This calls for a special ocassion. Shall we?” Holding the bottle with one hand, he extended his free arm, giving the intern right of way.
“N-now? But meh-maybe you’d like to drink it alone?” The boy lowered his eyes: the picture of humbleness. He was good enough to buy Seungho a wine that cost three times his monthly wages, but not enough to partake in the luxury of sharing it with the renowned chef.
“Have I become that sorry of a sap to be drinking by myself?”
As they stepped into the hallway, they were almost throttled by a stream of catering carts that were being pushed inside the soundstage. And like a flamboyant snake, Min appeared in the rearguard, sporting a cocky half-smile. “You might want to stick around for this one, Yoon. Maybe you’ll learn what it means to be a real ‘trail-blazer’. Chop, chop,” he snapped his fingers at his slaves.
The interns started to carefully place the plates of food on a large marble table.
This was Min’s chef-d’oeuvre, his masterpiece.
As he never got the hang of using his inside voice, Min loudly described his pièce de resistance and could be heard from the offices down the hall, “Sicilian artichokes caramelized in Cynar, served over roasted duck fillet, accompanied with a drizzle of blood orange and Blue d’Auvergne vinaigrette.”
Chef Min was to serve his dish to a panel of judges, many of whom were Michelin-acclaimed chefs, for a special episode of his cooking show.
A chorus of humming and soft gasps flew across the studio as the interns were permitted to taste the dish. It was a special date, so everyone could get a little taste of the glory.
Pufferfish Nakyum shot a murderous glance at Min, who was too busy seducing the panel of judges. “Pay him no mind, sir. It’s quality which prevails, not theatrics.”
The door to the soundstage was closed. The taping of the show commenced. After loading almost every box inside the Jeep, Seungho and Nakyum rode the elevator one last time. After this, Seungho would go away into hiding until the dust had settled. Maybe a comeback was in order, but not until a few months had passed.
Standing in the lobby, the man was rudely brought back to reality by Nakyum’s fingers digging into his forearm. “What?” And following the intern’s line of sight, he understood at once.
One of Min’s slaves had dropped his pants and crouched over a potted palm tree, emptying his bowels. The poor man was sweating, almost green in color, but closed his eyes and sighed in sweet relief.
Seungho could only repeat the question, his voice failing him this time. “Wha-?”
One by one, interns poured out of the soundstage, doubled in two, groaning as they cradled their bellies and rears. They rushed into any available bathroom stall, and when those ran out, they resorted to using the sinks.
Soon, the entire studio was filled with the heavy stench of human waste, a chorus of wails filled the halls.
Seungho hadn’t laughed this hard in years.
Rushing out like a wild beast, Min was pointing his trembling finger at Nakyum. “You!” He looked crazed —bulging bloodshot eyes, pallid face and sweat running down his neck. “You are in charge of buying the ingredients. You sabotaged me.”
Unable to even breathe under the weight of the public accusation, Nakyum shook his head helplessly. Min marched toward the paralyzed intern. Seungho blocked Min’s advance with one arm. “It is a chef's duty to personally supervise every single element that goes into preparing his dish,” and leaning over just a bit, he whispered closely into Min’s face, “the way I see it, you’re the only one to blame.”
Min’s anger devolved into a hysterical fit of laughter that joined in the symphony of human wailing and explosive diarrhea that surrounded them. “My career is ruined.”
Seungho scoffed at him, raising an eyebrow. “Relax.”
“Relax?” The chef was close to pulling out his own hair. “I gave Jordi Cruz diarrhea. He’s currently shitting inside an ice bucket.”
Seungho clicked his tongue, patting Min on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. I’m sure you stirred their blood… and their intestines.”
The intern squatting over the pot gave a weak laugh, before grunting in pain. Among the wreckage, Seungho couldn’t help beaming. This is what victory felt like. He dropped a hand on Nakyum’s shoulder, guiding him into the elevator. “After you.”
“Bu-but, sir, my workday isn’t…”
“Unless you want to stay to mop the floors, I suggest that you get an early start on your vacation, Baek Nakyum.” The intern gave a quick glance over his shoulder, horrified by the scene. A man was heard screaming, his howls of pain echoing up the halls, “Why does it burn? ”
That was enough encouragement. Nakyum rushed with short steps inside the elevator, taking his place besides the Portent.
Just as the doors were closing, Seungho had the last word, “See it this way, Min. Your career can’t be over if you never had one to begin with.”
Ding.
“You look surprised, Baek Nakyum.” Seungho discarded the empty shell over the already huge pile at their feet.
It wasn’t that they were eating grilled shellfish—a meal that appeared far too simple for the likes of Yoon Seungho—which surprised Nakyum. It was everything else surrounding the affair.
As Seungho drove them to the docks, they met with a group of rough and vicious fishermen. Walking towards them, hand in his pockets, shiny black shoes stepping on grey concrete, the fishermen regarded Seungho with disgust, retracting their lips and spitting. Just as Nakyum thought they were both getting mugged and stabbed to death, the group of gruff men erupted in boisterous laughter, patting Seungho’s back with no little amount of strength, knocking the air out of his lungs and making him stumble.
With the arrival of the night, the sloping rays of the sunset graced the rusty exterior of the warehouses. Seungho and Nakyum sat on makeshift seats made out of empty plastic boxes and pieces of wooden rafts. The man who was in charge of the grill had a ring of old grime embedded under his nails; to make matters worse, he handled the food with his bare hands, often licking his fingers as he tasted it. The menu consisted of clams, mussels, oysters, and lots and lots of beer.
They settled a little away from the loud and vulgar conversation, by the edge of the docks, where algae crawled up the concrete.
Their meal was served in a plastic bucket, the empty shells to be discarded in another. That was it—no napkins when you could wipe your mouth with the front of your shirt, no fancy utensils when you could suck the meat out of the shells.
An explanation was in order to get Nakyum out of his stupor, so Seungho opened up about his life. He did once and again because Nakyum was a wonderful listener, maybe in part due to his speech impediment; it also helped that the chef never felt judged by the intern, no matter how outrageous he got with his tales.
“I did a season with them about ten years ago. Right after my service and before going away to Le Cordon Bleu.” Seungho took off his black dress jacket, and after undoing the buttons of his right sleeve, he rolled it up, revealing a tattoo of a compass rose on the inside of his forearm; it had been done in a vintage style—thick black lines and bright colors. “They all said it’d help me find my way back home…” he smoothed down the sleeve, covering it again, “...but I’m not sure there’s such a place for me.”
Nakyum had picked up Seungho’s jacket from the floor and pressed it to his chest as if he held something precious. He blushed when he noticed the way Seungho’s eyebrows rose and his mouth hung slightly.
“You are a rare breed,” he said, and this time pufferfish Nakyum made a comeback, but not in anger. “Why don’t you put it on? It’s getting cold, and since your precious cardigan was devoured by your bike.” Before Nakyum could even mouth a negative, Seungho gave him a warning look. “That’s a good boy,” he rewarded the obedience.
The young intern seemed to swim inside the piece of clothing, the dimensions too big for his slight frame. He stammered a thanks, bunching up his fists under his chin for extra warmth. “Cu-can’t… your father guh-give you another chance?”
Done with his meal, Seungho crouched by the waters to rinse his hands. “You have never met him, have you?” Nakyum shook his head very pointedly, the ends of his bangs brushing his eyelashes.
The older man lit up a cigarette, before returning to his seat. “No, of course not,” he said with a hint of melancholia, observing the rocking boats in the distance. “A shrinking violet like you, he would have eaten you alive.”
“Bu-but…”
Seungho blew a column of smoke out the corner of his mouth, avoiding Nakyum. “There you go, trying to defend me again. You saw the guy. They had to wire his jaw shut. Only money can make something like that go away.”
“Blood money.”
The way Nakyum pronounced that phrase—with something akin to filthy excitement—brought a chill to Seungho’s spine. The doe-eyed man had leaned forward and parted his lips, as if waiting for something …
“More beer, Yoon?” One of the fishermen was holding a couple of cans, giving odd glances at the delicate creature that sat opposite of Seungho.
“No,” Seungho said, noticing the way Nakyum wanted to curl into himself at being so openly observed. He flicked the cigarette at his feet, marking the end of this evening. “I’m the designated driver. This little kitty can’t drive.”
And the man hollored after them as they departed, “But how well can he ride?”
Seungho closed the car door, and he had never noticed how quiet it can get inside a vehicle. Not until then. Every little movement produced an audible sound—their bodies settling into the seats, their clothes rustling, their breathing.
Adjusting his volume so as not to startle Nakyum, Seungho murmured. “I was thinking we could open that bottle of red right now, enjoy it together...”
Nakyum was again alarmed by the idea of not waiting for a worthy enough occasion, his doe eyes opening in distress and his lips separating.
“...but you also took my corkscrew.” The older man motioned towards the glove box. “So, I’m going to ask you this just once…”
Nakyum looked down at his own lap as he fiddled with his crocheted hat. His slender neck moved with the repeated gulping; his shoulders heaving with his jerky breaths.
“...would you like to come to my place?”
Nakyum closed his eyes and a thread of a whimper left his mouth, long and continuous. Seungho observed the reflection of the moon on the waters, giving him time; he drummed his fingers on the wheel.
A barely audible “yes” reached the older man’s ears, and in response, his mouth curled in a wicked grin. “You do know how to keep a man in suspense, Baek Nakyum.”
Without knowing anything about its owner, anyone would have guessed Seungho’s apartment was inhabited by a serial killer. This was in part due to the man’s twitchy perfectionist and Nakyum’s devotion to please him.
But none of that mattered, not when Seungho put the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the dark granite of his kitchen island, the red bow catching the dim lights from the ceiling.
This man...
Dressed in his white dress shirt, fabric taut against his broad chest, Seungho was made of elongated and hard lines—a powerhouse in every way. He observed Nakyum take clumsy steps inside. His angular face never moved, so only his eyes drifted as he watched the young intern pass by. He was like a tiger, quietly waiting to pounce on his prey. He took his hands out of his pockets, rolling up his sleeves, revealing once more the compass tattoo that covered part of the map of veins that crawled up his arm.
“Close the door,” he instructed the young intern. “That’s a good boy.” Nakyum walked into the bedroom and bounced slightly as he sat on the bed. He slipped his hands in between his thighs, looking up at Seungho with amber eyes that were impossibly big.
Those hands had touched Nakyum in the past—a few accidental brushes here and there, a soft patting on the head when he did well, their fingers had bumped when they reached for the same object at the same time.
Now, they did it with purpose. Long fingers cupped Nakyum’s chin, coiling around the soft features, calluses grazing the peach-like skin, a thumb that brushed the parted lips.
“How far can you go?” Seungho looked down, his expression darkened by a falling curtain of hair and the soft lighting.
Nakyum’s eyes lowered, staring at Seungho’s belt. Seungho felt the younger man’s breathing halt, his throat tensing. A soft chuckle made Nakyum’s wide eyes move upward again.
“Getting ahead of ourselves now. Let’s enjoy the moment.”
The mattress dipped as Seungho sat next to him, making Nakyum tilt slightly to the side with a quiet yelp. Slowly, he trespassed on the younger man’s space, breaching into that invisible barrier where they stopped being employer and employee, where they breathed into each other and the heat radiating from their bodies met.
The older man studied that rosy face with calm eyes, making frequent stops on the full lips. With one finger, he gently traced the upper bow, feeling its suppleness under the touch. He dared dip the tip inside, getting a hint of the blistering heat. He wished Nakyum would take him in his mouth, even in a timid attempt, struggling to keep breathing.
Taking the smaller hand, Seungho placed it over his own lap. Both of their fingers molded over the hardness there; he scooted closer, placing his own mouth over Nakyum’s.
The younger man remained paralyzed, eyes staring into the distance, so Seungho drew away, exhalling a laugh. “You don’t have much experience kissing, do you?”
“Th-that wu-was muh-my f-f-f-f-f...” And Nakyum just got stuck on that word, blowing air through his clenched teeth as he closed his eyes.
And just as gently, Seungho removed Nakyum’s hand off his lap and gave him the most infuriating look—that one full of pity and concern. “Let’s get you home,” he said, sealing both their fates that night.
The proud and hurt peacock dragged his feet to the living room, following Seungho. The scarlet on his cheeks deepened by the humiliation and his fanning eyelashes remained low, weighed down by some tears.
“We should make a toast all the same,” Seungho said, perhaps because he wanted to alleviate the boy’s torment. Poor Nakyum would probably have flashbacks about this encounter for weeks.
Delicately holding the stem, Seungho tilted the glass of wine. “Magnifique,” he declared, watching closely the crimson tears running down the crystal. He swirled it a bit more, before sniffing it deeply. “One is supposed to let it rest, but what’s the harm? It’s been waiting over two decades to be tasted.” Very much like the young thing standing next to him, Seungho finished that sentence inside his head.
The chef gulped the wine in one go.
Not moving from his position next to the butcher’s block, Nakyum observed him with half-lidded eyes, a glimmer of self-satisfaction.
It has an aftertaste, Seungho had wanted to say, but found his mouth refused to cooperate, feeling dry and droopy.
Nakyum placed his own glass of wine on the granite counter. He inhaled deeply, chest puffing in victory, just to exhale through a sultry smile.
The glass slipped from Seungho’s fingers, smashing against the wooden floor, leaving a burgundy splatter.
Nakyum precipitated forward, just in time to catch Seungho by his neck as the older man’s legs failed him. Seungho dropped to his knees, his upper body swaying like a buoy in a storm; the edges of his vision were taken over by a grey mist. The last thing he remembered seeing were those scarlet lips pronouncing cooing words to him, words that faded into nothingness as Seungho lost all consciousness.