Yang’s Master Chapter 7.2 - Pacifist

Yang Euijoo spat out curses as if sobbing, and above his head, Cheon Yeomyung let out a faint laugh. Then, a voice he hadn’t heard in a while spoke.

“If you hadn’t said anything, this wouldn’t have happened. If you’d just pretended to be refined and said you didn’t like getting wet, I wouldn’t have a reason to torment you, would I?”

Blaming Yang Euijoo’s impulsive confession, Cheon Yeomyung tightened his grip. It’s going to give out soon. You’ll stop breathing soon. Yang Euijoo’s breathing soon became irregular. It was clear hyperventilation. Cheon Yeomyung felt it distinctly from behind but didn’t hesitate.

Yang Euijoo wheezed, unable to control his erratic breathing, and flinched. The untamed leather gripping his hands creaked as it tightened. Just before Yang Euijoo’s eyes rolled back, Cheon Yeomyung grabbed him, forcibly covering his nose and mouth. Yang Euijoo thrashed, making choking sounds. After holding his breath for a while, Cheon Yeomyung briefly let go and slipped his tongue between the limp, parted lips.

It had been a while since they kissed. The inside of the unresisting, swaying mouth was hot and slick, like inserting into a loosened body after repeated penetration. Cheon Yeomyung’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He pressed down the trembling, pained body, sucking the breath from deep in his throat as if devouring it.

As soon as Yang Euijoo gasped for air, Cheon Yeomyung covered his mouth again. Gradually, Yang Euijoo’s breathing became faint but stable. Cheon Yeomyung looked at the heaving shoulder blades and relaxed his grip.

Drenched in cold sweat, Yang Euijoo looked at the man gripping him. The feeling of near-death was no exaggeration. Having tasted hell for a fleeting moment, Yang Euijoo struggled to focus his vision, but through tears, he couldn’t make out Cheon Yeomyung’s expression.

“Wha…”

Before he could say anything, Cheon Yeomyung kissed him again. His breathing had already stabilized. This kiss was longer. As Yang Euijoo’s mind wavered under the man’s gentle demeanor, Cheon Yeomyung grabbed the wet shirt and tore it off forcibly. Then he carelessly snuffed out the cigarette in his hand.

“Aagh!”

Yang Euijoo screamed at the sudden pain. The noise echoed in the basement, and Cheon Yeomyung’s eyes glinted.

“Beg me.”

Forcing Yang Euijoo to his knees and pressing down from behind, Cheon Yeomyung whispered. Yang Euijoo braced himself on the floor, but the moment the burn touched it, he twisted his back and screamed. His voice had long been hoarse, and he couldn’t even recall how he used to sound.

“Beg me to get you out of here.”

A suffocating sound echoed. The basement amplified voices. Screams were swallowed by the walls, only to be regurgitated hours later. The chaotic reverberations sounded like a ghost’s wail. Yang Euijoo believed in superstitions. Like a sailor, he feared vengeful spirits.

“Ah, it hurts! It hurts!”

Unable to brace his palms or clench his fists, Yang Euijoo thrashed, twisting his arms. Cheon Yeomyung pressed down the resisting body and tore his clothes. The finely woven fabric could be ripped easily with skill. If language and clothing that covered the genitals distinguished humans from beasts, Cheon Yeomyung intended to strip Yang Euijoo of both.

“Beg me to spare you.”

Spitting into his palm, Cheon Yeomyung smeared the saliva onto his gloved fingers and forcibly spread Yang Euijoo’s bare buttocks. As the tight entrance was forced open, he shoved his fingers inside without hesitation. At foreign docks, peddlers sold amusing, cheap trinkets. Cheon Yeomyung had bought a few out of boredom. They would all be gifts for Yang Euijoo.

“Don’t, you bastard!”

Yang Euijoo’s knees scraped the floor as he thrashed. Cheon Yeomyung, uncaring if Yang Euijoo’s face scraped the ground, pressed harder, digging into the tight inner walls and shoving in a crude rubber sex toy.

Sex toys had been popular in America for years. Most were electric, but the one Cheon Yeomyung bought from a peddler was just a bumpy, grotesque thing with jagged protrusions. The violent act drew a trickle of blood from the dry inner walls. Seeing the wet, slippery blood on his glove, unlike saliva, Cheon Yeomyung didn’t stop. He pushed the rubber toy, shaped like walnuts strung together, fully inside before pulling his hand away.

Yang Euijoo was a tearful mess. His nails, brittle from malnutrition, dug into the floor as if to embed themselves, but the concrete won. Cheon Yeomyung glanced away from Yang Euijoo’s bleeding fingertips. The lone burn scar on his inner thigh looked lonely, so Cheon Yeomyung pressed the burning cigarette beside it without hesitation.

Yang Euijoo’s face slammed into the floor. Cheon Yeomyung caught the collapsing body, discarded the crumpled cigarette butt, and adjusted his posture. The wet leather carelessly struck his buttocks.

“Aagh…!”

The object pressing against the torn inner walls, combined with the force of the blow, made his stomach churn.

“So satisfying? If I’d known you’d enjoy it, I would’ve bought more.”

Despite Yang Euijoo’s pain, Cheon Yeomyung brazenly spoke. He roughly spread the entrance again, pushing his fingers inside where the hard protrusions were lodged. The crudely made toy’s rough surface was palpable even through gloves. It would hurt inside. But Cheon Yeomyung didn’t remove it, pressing the protrusions deeper with his fingertips.

Yang Euijoo, forgetting the pain in his palms and thighs, gasped as the fingers forced their way into the torn area. Cheon Yeomyung stirred the tight space once, then straightened.

As lovers, Cheon Yeomyung had no interest in anyone but Yang Euijoo. For a man in his prime, with a face and body to boast about, abstaining from others was something only an impotent man would do. With Yang Euijoo face-down, Cheon Yeomyung pressed his lower body against his thighs.

“Nn…!”

Drenched in sweat and pain, Yang Euijoo shuddered at the repulsive sensation of Cheon Yeomyung’s penis against his thigh. A sailor’s coarse, vile curses poured out.

Like a broken cuckoo clock, Yang Euijoo spewed every curse he knew, resisting fiercely. He hadn’t reacted this strongly even when used as a human ashtray. He only acts alive during sex. Cheon Yeomyung watched Yang Euijoo’s flailing with curiosity, striking the heated buttocks again.

“Agh!”

Yang Euijoo screamed again. Cheon Yeomyung, seeing him quiet after a hit, rubbed the swollen entrance with his thumb. The entrance, having swallowed the toy, daintily closed, leaving only the handle string dangling. It looked lewd and cheap.

“Tighten your thighs.”

Cheon Yeomyung commanded, eyeing the trembling legs.

“Fuck, you bastard, don’t…!”

Crawling on his knees, Yang Euijoo cursed. Fortunately, Cheon Yeomyung understood this curse and replied easily.

“Close your legs before I shove it in there too.”

His calm voice was chillingly serious. Yang Euijoo, already stuffed with the rubber toy, thought his insides would tear if Cheon Yeomyung’s penis was added. No exaggeration—his body could barely handle one, let alone two.

“Or should I? You take fingers well now. One dick isn’t enough anymore? Bored and digging yourself back there? Your fingers aren’t enough, are they?”

You should know how filthy this place is. Cheon Yeomyung mocked, rubbing the wet area. Yang Euijoo’s body collapsed under the pain, his elbows giving out.

“It hurts…!”

“This isn’t a situation where I care about your pain.”

Cheon Yeomyung grabbed the limp body, forcing his thighs together. He preferred direct sex but didn’t want to ruin an unused body with greed. His erect penis pressed against the dry thighs, moving slowly. The hot, hard sensation rubbing back and forth made Yang Euijoo gag.

It wasn’t less repulsive than penetration, but thighs were new. It vividly showed how aroused the man behind him was. The hot precum lubricated the motion.

“Fuck.”

Cheon Yeomyung cursed lowly, his voice thick with arousal. His slick glans poked Yang Euijoo’s limp penis. The sensation of a muscular arm between his legs, rubbing his groin, made Yang Euijoo twist, but it only tightened the grip on the penis. Cheon Yeomyung, satisfied, complained that Yang Euijoo should tighten his thighs more.

“Should I feed you pork fat? You’re too thin.”

Left in a place where wasting away was inevitable, the man feigned concern. His movements didn’t stop. It was beastly. Yang Euijoo shook his head, pleading to stop, but his voice barely came out.

The hot, pulsing penis heated his thighs. The burn on his inner thigh stung, but Yang Euijoo, pinned down, had to surrender his body. A match sparked, igniting a small scarlet flame.

“Hoo.”

Rubbing his penis against Yang Euijoo’s thighs, the man lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His rough movements vented pent-up desire. Half-pulling out, the soft thighs gripped his glans; thrusting in, the shaft scraped Yang Euijoo’s penis, evoking a predatory pleasure.

“Ah, ah!”

Yang Euijoo’s knees and palms scraped the floor as Cheon Yeomyung’s rough thrusts elicited short screams. His hoarse cries were dry, like bark torn from an old tree.

“It hurts, fuck, it hurts!”

The body pressing his back was heavy and hot. The friction of the penis against his thighs burned. Yang Euijoo hated the touch of the clothes. He washed and wore someone else’s clothes to survive, while Cheon Yeomyung, fully dressed, stripped and toyed with him.

“I’ll stop when I come. First time having sex?”

Cheon Yeomyung mumbled, cigarette in mouth, pressing Yang Euijoo’s head down and thrusting roughly. His lower body jolted, the rubber toy rolling deeper inside. Yang Euijoo coughed, spitting saliva-laced coughs, terrified the toy was reaching his guts.

“Take it out, take it out! Agh!”

Cheon Yeomyung’s golden eyes glanced at the blood-dried entrance, still primly holding the toy. He whipped Yang Euijoo’s buttocks like a lash.

“Hn…!”

Yang Euijoo trembled, his body stiffening as the toy pressed his insides, evoking a strange sensation.

“You know you’re a rag, so why the fuss?”

Brushing ash onto Yang Euijoo’s smooth back, Cheon Yeomyung pressed the writhing thighs down with both hands. The cigarette sparked. Yang Euijoo cried and moaned under the hot, stinging, painful sensation. It hurts, stop. Hearing his pained pleas, Cheon Yeomyung enjoyed the penis’ stimulation, exhaling deeply.

Hot semen splattered onto Yang Euijoo’s thighs, dripping onto his waist. Cheon Yeomyung spat out the cigarette, not checking where it fell, and lifted the exhausted Yang Euijoo.

He slipped his tongue between the limp lips. It had been a while since they kissed. The unresisting, swaying mouth was hot and slick, like inserting into a body after multiple ejaculations. Cheon Yeomyung’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Reaching around, he stirred his fingers inside Yang Euijoo’s body, pressing the trembling, pained body and sucking the breath from his throat.

Yang Euijoo laughed unwittingly as the man’s lips pressed and parted from his wet ones. It was a sigh-like laugh. At the sound pressing down on his wet face, Cheon Yeomyung glanced at him. Though unclean, the gaunt face retained the intensity from their first meeting through a crude window. The strange house’s owner, standing against the darkness, lingered in Cheon Yeomyung’s mind despite his indulgence in debauchery.

Even when Cheon Yeomyung, filled with rage, admitted missing Quan’s last seed at a bullet-scarred port, Yang Euijoo’s face came to mind.

“Why are you laughing?”

The wet leather glove caressed Yang Euijoo’s cheek, asking. The slightly husky voice wasn’t much different from usual. Yang Euijoo parted his tattered lips. They stung, and he was angry.

“…I was wondering if what I did to you was really that wrong.”

Both knew it was absurd to weigh the gravity of betrayal. Yet Yang Euijoo asked, and Cheon Yeomyung played the earnest conversationalist for a moment.

“Yeah, no big deal.”

Cheon Yeomyung nodded, looking at Yang Euijoo shielding his eyes from the light. Betrayal was as common as dockside vermin. Living in a hotbed of crime, whether stabbed elegantly or clubbed crudely, betrayal was his companion. Even Cheon Yeomyung had betrayed his father, so he had no right to condemn another’s betrayal so harshly.

“But Quan is an exception.”

Cheon Yeomyung twisted his lips, unable to forget the lightning-like incompetence of letting Mei escape. His anger was cold.

“I should’ve torn her apart in front of that old rat while she was pregnant.”

The man’s face showed no regret as he spoke cruelly. Yang Euijoo asked quietly.

“What did Mei do wrong?”

“Protecting a woman pregnant with another’s child over someone who sucked your dick? Quite the gentleman.”

Cheon Yeomyung’s mood soured viciously at Quan’s mention. Yang Euijoo endured the violent tirade silently. Retorting would earn a slap or sleepless nights counting numbers to track time. He hated that. The endless, stupid numbers always left him lonely in the basement.

“…Still.”

His voice was frail.

“That’s not right, is it…?”

The end was always feeble. Yang Euijoo blinked his stinging eyes. Cheon Yeomyung, confirming his ashen eyes could still focus, replied.

“She’s pitiful too.”

“…”

“If I’d known her casually, I might’ve sympathized. But you said it’s Quan’s child.”

“Why do you hate Quan so much? Because he’s a murderer and torturer?”

Golden eyes looked at Yang Euijoo. He flinched at the cold chill. A snake, roused from hibernation, flicked its red tongue. He was enraged. But Cheon Yeomyung didn’t erupt. Slowly, deliberately, he contained his anger. The snake lowered its head, hiding its tongue. Yang Euijoo realized belatedly he’d nearly died. His fingertips were cold.

If Cheon Yeomyung hadn’t controlled his rage, Yang Euijoo would’ve died that moment. He felt complex emotions, knowing his life hung by Cheon Yeomyung’s mercy.

“I hope one day I feel like telling you, teacher.”

Cheon Yeomyung didn’t curse or growl. He replied in a calm, ordinary voice.

“Ask me when I’m high. I’ll answer anything then.”

He even revealed his vulnerable moments. Was that mercy too? Yang Euijoo recalled a day when Cheon Yeomyung returned drugged and drunk. The man rolled on the bed like a child with Yang Euijoo all afternoon, teaching him self-defense and shooting. Yang Euijoo had forgotten all the shooting techniques Linlin taught him.

“See you next time.”

Cheon Yeomyung wiped his gloves with a handkerchief and stood. Yang Euijoo reached out. The jacket’s hem brushed his cracked nails. It stung.

“No, don’t.”

Yang Euijoo stammered unwittingly. It was foolish.

“What are you doing?”

Cheon Yeomyung looked coldly at Yang Euijoo’s flailing hand. In the dim light, reading expressions was hard. His faltering breath was still unstable. With a thin, seizure-like breath, Yang Euijoo gripped the hand, his face showing he didn’t know what he was doing.

Irritated, Cheon Yeomyung lit a cigarette, leaving Yang Euijoo. Two matches broke in his agitated hands. Cheon Yeomyung, unable to curb his temper, snapped, making Yang Euijoo flinch. At the weak reaction, Cheon Yeomyung wanted to rip Yang Euijoo’s mouth open and force him to swallow the broken matches.

He’d do it to others without hesitation, but Yang Euijoo couldn’t die. Wanting to kill him so badly yet unable to—Cheon Yeomyung chewed his lips, finally lighting the match. His red lips sucked the cigarette urgently. The basement air grew heavy with smoke.

Sitting on a chair, Cheon Yeomyung watched Yang Euijoo’s ghostly pale face blink. The once-charming face was weary. Weaker than expected. Cheon Yeomyung, wondering how far Yang Euijoo’s mind had crumbled, lowered his gaze. Curiosity rising, he removed the cigarette.

“…Changed my mind.”

The black glove pressed Yang Euijoo’s pale cheek, pondering elegantly. Water dripped from Yang Euijoo’s wet hair, pooling on the floor. It wasn’t ash. Cheon Yeomyung smiled, meeting Yang Euijoo’s eyes. He didn’t like drugs, knowing their destructive power. But how to use that self-destruction was up to the seller, wasn’t it? Cheon Yeomyung reached into his jacket.

He imported captivating substances from Mexico, Taiwan, and the UK, often intercepting goods meant for mainland China. After the long war, the mainland was sensitive about illegal drugs from the UK. In chaotic Hong Kong, boxes of Mexican “tobacco leaves” were common, even used as bribes for officials.

Westerners preferred Mexican goods, but Hong Kongers favored Indian flower fruits. Cheon Yeomyung selected high-quality items, refining sticky white sap into beautiful glass bottles. Unlike his father, who sold goods wholesale or lent money, Cheon Yeomyung showcased custom pipes and lamps to businessmen. In dynastic China, tycoons had artisans craft them, but now, he sold high-end goods without months of waiting. Limited editions were popular.

Silver trays, bowls, tweezers, and scissors were bundled as needed. Cheon Yeomyung made a fortune. Damaged goods were sold cheaply as scraps. Addicts borrowed from him to buy drugs, then were sold off when they couldn’t repay. They’d work from dawn to dusk for pipe scraps.

Selling and exploiting trash in a garbage heap, Cheon Yeomyung felt no remorse for his crimes, like forcing addictive smoke on his lover.

Whether Yang Euijoo became a wreck from opium was none of Cheon Yeomyung’s concern. Seeing Yang Euijoo recoil, he checked his portable opium pipe. Some liquid remained from a recent test. Yang Euijoo stared blankly at it.

The small, moisture-laden pipe, with its bitter smell, was exquisitely crafted. Its mouthpiece and chamber were platinum, adorned with sapphires—a top-tier item Cheon Yeomyung didn’t sell. The blue-glowing glass lamp and refined pills for smoking, or the tiny cage ornament, were his ostentatious treasures, showcasing his wealth, power, and beauty in using them.

The man, a walking luxury, struck a match and lit the platinum mouthpiece, blowing oxygen to kindle the flame. An unpleasant aftertaste lingered, and a stupefying scent filled the basement.

“Think of it like a cigarette.”

Yang Euijoo sharpened his voice at Cheon Yeomyung’s words.

“Are you insane?”

Despite dealing with such trash, Yang Euijoo was sensitive about drugs.

Cheon Yeomyung raised an eyebrow, puzzled.

“Never tried it? Even better.”

The smell was inescapable in Yirang’s dim streets, morning or night. Foul, sticky, and blood-tainting, Yang Euijoo instinctively recoiled. But the basement was too small, trapped in Cheon Yeomyung’s grasp.

“I don’t have that hobby.”

“I’m not offering to suit your refined tastes.”

Golden eyes coldly scanned Yang Euijoo’s cowering form. His bloodied, bruised fingertips curled. Yang Euijoo, guarding his legs, glared back. Cheon Yeomyung looked clueless about the issue.

“You still don’t get it, but fine, I’ll indulge you.”

Blowing gray smoke into the air, Cheon Yeomyung spoke. His face and voice matched the ivory, platinum, and sapphire pipe in his hand. It was a fitting remark for someone who amassed wealth through loan sharking and drug dealing.

“Try it. If you do, shall we have a meal together tomorrow?”

“Hmph.”

Yang Euijoo scoffed. He felt as miserable as if he had been plunged into icy river water. It was a wretchedness he hadn’t even felt when a child not yet five tossed him a coin as charity. It was a simmering, churning displeasure, like the sound of boiling pig slop.

“Don’t like it? Should I stay here with you all night then?”

Cheon Yeomyung spoke as if it were a grand favor. Wrinkles creased the leather glove on his hand. The man elegantly extended his fingers, offering a few options. It was cheap mercy in exchange for touching drugs.

“How about clothes? I can give you a coat if you want. Should I be gentler next time we have sex? You seem to enjoy the pain, so I don’t see the need to pretend otherwise, but since my lover is a person of pretense and lies, accommodating such hypocrisy might be my duty.”

Speaking freely, Cheon Yeomyung curled his fingers. He theatrically put the pipe to his mouth and inhaled the smoke. The unpleasant taste and texture invaded his mouth. He couldn’t understand why people begged for such self-destructive things, but Cheon Yeomyung didn’t care. If this trashy substance’s addiction could bring Yang Euijoo to his knees, Cheon Yeomyung would gladly accept it and order the body dumped at the docks without hesitation.

“Choose. What do you want?”

Yang Euijoo was speechless, unable to respond. Cheon Yeomyung grabbed his arm and pulled without waiting for an answer. His body moved with a creaking sound.

Amusingly, Cheon Yeomyung carried no trace of the basement’s moldy dampness. A faint breeze and the scent of cologne wafted from him. He embraced Yang Euijoo from behind, holding the opium pipe to his lips with a servant-like attentiveness. Cheon Yeomyung’s clothes were also ruined by the water dripping from Yang Euijoo.

“Suck. Inhale, like smoking a cigarette.”

His lips whispered sweetly close to Yang Euijoo’s ear. The man spread Yang Euijoo’s thighs, groping them. The hot palm was felt through the thin fabric. Cheon Yeomyung’s fingers traced the burn scars he had made. Yang Euijoo flinched, shrinking his shoulders. The fresh burn was pressed, urging him to smoke. Yang Euijoo turned his head from the acrid smell, but he was still in Cheon Yeomyung’s embrace.

Endurance accompanied by pain didn’t last long. Yang Euijoo decided to accept the breaking of his life’s taboos under coercion. If Cheon Yeomyung was set on it, he wouldn’t back down. Even if Yang Euijoo resisted, he’d end up pinned to the floor, forced to take the man’s penis or tortured in the bathtub, swallowing water until he was exhausted and made to take the pipe.

Yang Euijoo clumsily put the pipe’s end to his mouth. Cheon Yeomyung, seeing his unsteady lips and trembling cheeks, curled the corners of his eyes.

“You’ve never smoked, have you?”

As if I would. Before Yang Euijoo could retort sarcastically, Cheon Yeomyung flicked the short pipe with his fingertip. It was too beautiful a pipe for such cheap drugs. It was said to be a worldly luxury, and it looked the part. Cheon Yeomyung lightly held the ivory pipe, properly placing the mouthpiece at Yang Euijoo’s lips.

“You need to suck harder. Breathe deeper.”

The smoke rising from the pipe was enough, but the man wanted Yang Euijoo to inhale directly. Yang Euijoo exhaled heavily, tensing his stomach. His body ached, but it was inevitable. Was this fate? Recalling old memories of scoffing at sailors’ fatalism, Yang Euijoo deeply inhaled the pipe as Cheon Yeomyung instructed. The small amount of substance inside burned, emitting a thick smell.

It was definitely different from tobacco. The smoke was heavy, damp, and sticky, like burning wet grass. A jolting sensation that erased his thoughts surged down his throat.

“Ugh…!”

Yang Euijoo hurriedly pulled his lips from the pipe, coughing. His head spun, and a bitter taste made his mouth water. Grimacing, he struggled lightly. His toes caught on the checkered shirt Cheon Yeomyung had torn. Yang Euijoo fumbled for it and buried his face in it. Nausea rose.

Opening his mouth wide, he retched into the fabric, but nothing came up. It felt like a hallucination. From just one hit? Yang Euijoo mumbled incoherently, clutching the shirt. Sharp streaks marked his forcibly flushed face.

“Sit properly.”

Cheon Yeomyung pulled Yang Euijoo up to sit. His body convulsed as if seizing. Cheon Yeomyung watched the delirious Yang Euijoo, then put the pipe to his own mouth, inhaling the remaining smoke. His eyes gleamed dangerously as he sucked deeply, hollowing his cheeks.

The man’s face was sinister. Yang Euijoo looked at him with tear-filled eyes. His red lips parted, revealing the smoke inside. The gray smoke looked like the color wrung from Yang Euijoo’s eyes.

“Ugh, mm…!”

His pinned body twitched. The unpleasant sensation churned his insides. Clutching his stomach, Yang Euijoo thrashed like a fish on land, forcibly swallowing what Cheon Yeomyung passed to him. There was no way to smoke like this. His mouth filled with a foul, bitter taste. Yang Euijoo pushed away the tongue frantically probing his mouth, struggling to breathe.

“Haa, ah, ah…”

A dull headache felt like someone was pressing his head. His fingers, wrapped in torn fabric, gripped tightly. A secretive voice whispered nearby.

“Now, breathe deeply. You can do it, right?”

The heated pipe mouthpiece touched his lips again. Yang Euijoo extended his tongue, licking the bitter mouthpiece. Strangely, it tasted sweet, like the sticky white sap from a scratched fruit.

“Good, you’re doing well.”

A slick tongue licked his earlobe. He didn’t shudder. His body felt heavy yet light, and lights sparkled brightly before his eyes. A sweet voice spoke. The sound of waves, white foam crashing on the deck, the endless horizon of a calm sea… Yang Euijoo slowly relaxed his fingers. He didn’t realize who was holding him. He just sucked the pipe as told.

As Cheon Yeomyung said, long breaths were needed. Sucking the pipe deeply, it buzzed at the mouthpiece. Cheon Yeomyung laughed briefly.

His warming body swayed, and he dropped the heavy pipe from his lips. Cheon Yeomyung deftly caught it, set it aside, and grabbed Yang Euijoo’s face. His ashen eyes wandered aimlessly.

“Look straight.”

At Cheon Yeomyung’s words, Yang Euijoo, fumbling in a corner as if seeing something, trembled with a groan. More sensitive to drugs than others, he was intoxicated from just a bit of leaf, unable to focus.

“Euijoo-ya.”

A feigned affectionate voice called his name. Yang Euijoo twitched his fingers, moving toward the sound’s source. His crawling body was pulled back by someone in glossy leather gloves. In a daze, Yang Euijoo frowned and reached out.

“Haha.”

Cheon Yeomyung laughed aloud. The weakened body, seemingly numb to pain, struggled to push away the person pressing uncomfortably. Cheon Yeomyung stared expressionlessly at the body occasionally bumping his boots. The only sound in the basement was Yang Euijoo’s ragged breathing, scraping against the hard floor.

“It’s… stifling…”

Though no one controlled his breathing, Yang Euijoo whimpered, looking at Cheon Yeomyung. Cheon Yeomyung smiled faintly. When had he last heard Yang Euijoo speak like this? Maybe the second time. His voice when talking about oranges while fetching him from Quan was similar.

A childish tone. Seeing Yang Euijoo, who had to grow up fast from birth, Cheon Yeomyung moved his foot. Yang Euijoo looked at Cheon Yeomyung, who pushed his chin out, with a drowsy expression. His pupils narrowed, and a drop of blood fell from his nose.

He couldn’t handle the intense stimulation. Cheon Yeomyung silently wiped the trickling blood as if wringing it. Even like this, Yang Euijoo was still beautiful. It was absurd.

“Top-quality stuff, like it?”

Cheon Yeomyung asked. Yang Euijoo didn’t even register who was asking. Unlike Cheon Yeomyung, immune to most substances, Yang Euijoo mumbled incoherently, collapsing limply. He pressed his cheek to Cheon Yeomyung’s cold boot tip, unaware of what he was doing.

“I feel sick, thirsty…”

His throat seemed parched. His body temperature dropping, Yang Euijoo curled up. Cheon Yeomyung took off his jacket and leaned down. As the soft jacket touched his bony shoulders, Yang Euijoo scratched his arm with his nails, unable to bear the sensation.

I should manage this one carefully. Cheon Yeomyung pulled the struggling Yang Euijoo into his arms. Yang Euijoo squirmed, seeking warmth, and leaned fully into Cheon Yeomyung. Cheon Yeomyung wrapped the jacket around his back. Surprisingly, Yang Euijoo smelled faintly of soap. Even with cheap soap, he washed well. Born in poverty, he used what he had frugally, like the checkered shirt he painstakingly washed of red grease…

“Not in your right mind, so you’re docile.”

Yang Euijoo wouldn’t stab Cheon Yeomyung even with knives in both hands now. That pleased him. So, sitting in the middle of the basement, Cheon Yeomyung patted Yang Euijoo soothingly and glanced at the ceiling. Yang Euijoo whimpered again. Cheon Yeomyung gladly listened, sucking in the remnants like pipe dregs. His body relaxed.

“Water, some water…”

Yang Euijoo mumbled. The only water source in the basement was the bathroom faucet. Cheon Yeomyung hesitated. He didn’t want to show Yang Euijoo’s dazed state to his subordinates. Yang Euijoo was still his lover, and such a vulgar display should be for business purposes. After pondering, he opened his lips. Yang Euijoo, intoxicated and irrational, wouldn’t judge his actions properly.

Slowly, soft, warm lips pressed against his. Yang Euijoo, panting for water, shuddered as hot breath entered his mouth. The soft, hot, sweet movement swept through his mouth, bitter from the refined liquid. Feeling his lower body unpleasantly aroused, Yang Euijoo shifted his hips.

“Mm, ngh…”

The kiss was slick and long. Each rub of the tongue brought a strange sensation. Where am I? Yang Euijoo narrowed his eyes, looking at Cheon Yeomyung’s face. It was a face hard to tire of.

The man, passing deep breaths into his mouth, was sensual and sacred. His white shirt and tie were impeccably neat. Kissing a man felt unreal. Yang Euijoo climbed Cheon Yeomyung’s body like scaling a cliff. Cheon Yeomyung chuckled, pulling him closer. Yang Euijoo, mussing Cheon Yeomyung’s hair, rose and slid back down.

Cheon Yeomyung’s thighs were firm. The pressed body was solid and warm, banishing the cold. Yang Euijoo slipped his fingers into the cool black hair, disheveling the neatly styled locks like his own. It was impudent, but Cheon Yeomyung didn’t scold him. Out of his mind, words would be useless.

It was a bit amusing. Cheon Yeomyung laughed at their pretense of normalcy.

“Why are you laughing?”

Yang Euijoo asked, barely coherent. Feeling good, he kept laughing. Forgetting his pleas for water, he let giggles slip through his lips, caught in mild pleasure and the brain-piercing sensation. His easy laughter confirmed his delirium. Cheon Yeomyung shook his head.

“How’s the basement?”

Yang Euijoo stopped laughing at the question. The dark basement filled his broken vision. Cement walls and floor, not wallpaper. Hard, chilly concrete. Waking up with bruises. Yang Euijoo looked at Cheon Yeomyung. The man poked his cheek, waiting for an answer. Yang Euijoo thought.

A dream or hallucination?

Like dreams of Mei and Li Su…

“Cold.”

Yang Euijoo answered the unkind man. Cheon Yeomyung raised an eyebrow, nodding as if to say, “Is that so?” and asked again.

“And?”

Dreams contrasted with reality, plunging Yang Euijoo into pain. Like someone pushing his shoulder, his body fell back under inescapable gravity.

“Too lonely.”

Yang Euijoo whimpered.

“Why? You’ve always lived alone.”

At the harsh question, Yang Euijoo shook his head, looking wronged.

“I’ve never been alone. I…”

His gaunt hand couldn’t wipe his tears properly. It was crude nostalgia. An orphan who lost his mother wasn’t pushed off the ship’s railing for failing to earn his keep because he was free labor.

Dried rice balls from an apron. Hands soothing his back through fevered nights. An old man teaching folk remedies for stomachaches. They were sailors, exploited on the ship, but kind to a motherless child. They were Yang Euijoo’s fathers and mothers, saying he was born at sea.

“I don’t want to be alone…”

Tears fell as Yang Euijoo confessed. Then Cheon Yeomyung realized. This was the difference between them.

Born amidst blessings, he didn’t like people. As Rose Rock pointed out, it was his nature. He’d never know loneliness, but Yang Euijoo’s scene, curled up on the basement floor confessing loneliness, would linger.

“I see.”

That’s why you’re weak.

He was an obvious human. Yang Euijoo was the epitome of the underclass craving light. Loneliness wasn’t overcome by others’ presence, and Yang Euijoo, even in a lavish room, would seek freedom as a sailor by nature. Cheon Yeomyung pulled Yang Euijoo close and kissed him.

He thought Yang Euijoo would regret confessing his weakness forever. After regretting meeting and betraying Cheon Yeomyung, this would be his third regret. Their basement encounters would likely stretch long. How much chill and loneliness would pile up until Yang Euijoo fully submitted at Cheon Yeomyung’s feet? Cheon Yeomyung gazed at Yang Euijoo, putting the pipe to his mouth. The voluntary inhalation swelled his head. Drugs were always the worst.

🐑

Opening his eyes, Yang Euijoo felt intense nausea and a headache.

“Ugh…!”

He bolted up, rushing to the bathroom. Fortunately, some unknown strength surged when vomiting, sparing him indignity.

Clutching the toilet, he violently emptied his stomach, then turned on the faucet to drink, soothing his throat. Cold water rushed down. He felt alive again. Yang Euijoo rubbed his wet nose. His fingertips smeared with red blood. Nosebleed. Blood dripped into the water, spreading pink. He washed it away.

His head throbbed as he groaned. His throat felt choked, his head dizzy. He barely turned off the faucet, crawled out on all fours, and collapsed. Thankfully, the light was on, but recalling the moments before sleep brought nausea like a blow to the head.

Cold clung to his wet body, but he couldn’t care. Yang Euijoo curled up, running his hands through his long hair. The wet, tangled strands broke like a dusty broom.

“Fuck…”

A mistake. No, not a mistake—coerced. If he’d resisted, Cheon Yeomyung would’ve torn his throat to make him inhale. Yang Euijoo’s sin was babbling from a few puffs of bad drugs. He tore at his disheveled hair, spitting curses. It was humiliating. To say those things, old stories, in Cheon Yeomyung’s arms of all people.

Fuck. Yang Euijoo cursed vilely, collapsing his aching body. The cold basement floor was a relief, easing the nausea. He viscerally felt why Cheon Yeomyung, drunk and drugged, couldn’t rise until late afternoon. He didn’t want to empathize, but his limbs were heavy, his stomach churning.

In Yirang, people sold their bodies, eyes, and teeth for drugs like ants. Yang Euijoo never understood them, but now he could truly despise them.

Yet he despised himself most. In shame akin to rage, he curled up, burying his face in his palms. In that bastard’s arms.

“Fuck, calling that human… that’s human?”

Muttering endlessly, the self-loathing didn’t fade. He wanted to bite his tongue and end it. His shoulders hunched. Yang Euijoo pressed his forehead to the hard floor, breathing heavily, as if bowing.

Cheon Yeomyung wasn’t human. Yet Yang Euijoo clung to him, craving warmth as if he were. Could he console himself that he was out of his mind?

His ashen eyes trembled downward. He couldn’t lift his head. Cheon Yeomyung stayed by his side all night. Even delirious, he remembered everything— what he babbled, what he wanted, how he clung to the man.

Recalling it all, Yang Euijoo bolted up, seeking the toilet. His empty stomach produced nothing but loud retching. He wanted to smash his head and die. His fingers trembled on the tiles.

But the night was undeniably sweet. One was delirious, the other drugged, but they talked trivialities. Yang Euijoo spoke of childhood; Cheon Yeomyung listened. Sometimes he asked questions, and Yang Euijoo gave unrelated answers. Still, Cheon Yeomyung didn’t get angry. It was certainly a conversation.

“Fucking bastard…”

Yang Euijoo mumbled curses, covering his face. He was ignorant but not stupid. Cheon Yeomyung wouldn’t come to the basement anymore. Knowing Yang Euijoo withered in loneliness, he’d watch arrogantly from above, enjoying it. Cheon Yeomyung never mishandled weaknesses.

“Talking about me?”

Without that thunderous voice, Yang Euijoo would’ve believed it. But at the impossible sound in the basement, his chilled face snapped up. Cheon Yeomyung held something, gesturing with his chin.

“Unless you eat in the bathroom, come out.”

That was all Cheon Yeomyung said. What? Yang Euijoo tensed. If he were Cheon Yeomyung, he’d isolate Yang Euijoo without light, water, or warmth, letting him suffer under wave-lit dreams. Hadn’t Cheon Yeomyung already done so masterfully?

Suppressing a splitting headache, Yang Euijoo staggered out. Meeting Cheon Yeomyung’s eyes, he saw neither a smile nor anger. He didn’t know how to read that face. Yang Euijoo averted his gaze from the uninviting golden eyes.

“Eat.”

Cheon Yeomyung commanded, placing something on the floor. Would a refined man come to the basement just to bring food? Hiding his nausea, Yang Euijoo looked at the tray. Congee. A dish he often ate since arriving in Yirang from the ship, made with fish bone broth, mashed eggs, and mushrooms. He’d never eaten it with Cheon Yeomyung, so it must’ve been slyly researched.

Should I be grateful it’s not greasy? Yang Euijoo stared at the bowl, then at Cheon Yeomyung, who sat on a creaky chair, expression questioning what he was doing.

“You said to eat?”

At Cheon Yeomyung’s urging, Yang Euijoo slowly reached for the spoon. A light wooden spoon. He ate the congee bit by bit. His stomach rebelled, but the congee was bearable. The soft mashed egg slid down his throat. Cheon Yeomyung watched him eat, crouched on the floor.

The meal didn’t take long. Finishing the small bowl and a cup of water, Yang Euijoo set the spoon down. To avoid trouble, he overate slightly, leaving nothing. He fought nausea once but held it in.

All that remained was anticipating what nonsense Cheon Yeomyung would use to torment him. Yang Euijoo looked at him. Why watch someone eat? Cheon Yeomyung never looked away.

“How is it?”

Cheon Yeomyung asked. Yang Euijoo, curled up and half-naked, glared at the perfectly dressed man.

“What?”

“How’s it feel with me here?”

“What…”

A gloved hand, gleaming ominously, patted his muscular thigh, like a moment of contemplation before a chess move.

“I felt something watching you yesterday.”

His rough lips parted. Seeing Yang Euijoo’s dazed face, Cheon Yeomyung raised the corner of his mouth. He’d stayed in the basement until Yang Euijoo fell asleep, then handled piled-up work upstairs without sleep before returning. His senses were long gone, his head throbbing, but Yang Euijoo’s foolish face lifted his mood. Cheon Yeomyung loosened his tight tie and unbuttoned his shirt.