A cellphone’s ringtone sliced monotonously through the darkness. Yoonjae lay face down on the bed, unmoving. A hand came to rest on his bare back, its fingers grazing his shoulder blades—a silent request for him to get up and answer the phone. He didn't stir.
The ringing persisted, a stubborn, electronic pulse. Realizing the caller wasn’t about to give up, the man beside him, roused from a light sleep, finally groaned on Yoonjae’s behalf and pushed himself up.
Yoonjae was awake. He felt the man’s gaze linger on him for a moment before he spoke, his voice muffled by the bedding.
“Leave it. It’ll stop eventually.”
“This is the second time it’s rung.”
The third, to be precise.
The ringtone cut out, but the silence was brief. A few minutes later, it started again. The list of people who called Yoonjae was short: the man currently lying beside him, the stepmother who wired him a meager living allowance once a month, a high school acquaintance, and a handful of others.
This call was likely from the high school classmate. He had a habit of calling late at night. He was like Yoonjae—attracted to men, and sought his release with them.
Yoonjae buried his head under the pillow, burrowing deeper into the mattress as if he could hide from the intrusion.
The man, now sitting up, leaned down to kiss Yoonjae’s bare back before swinging his legs out of bed. He had refused the sprawling residence his record label offered, opting for this hotel instead.
Whenever he came to Korea, for a few weeks or just a few days, he stayed here. He always requested the same room, just below the executive lounge.
Yoonjae’s phone was on the table in the suite’s meeting room, not the bedroom. The insistent ringing led the man out of the bedroom, and he returned a moment later with the device in hand.
Shifting the pillow, Yoonjae turned over onto his back, disheveled. The clock on the wall read 2:00 AM. The man sat against the headboard, the phone resting in his palm. He looked completely awake.
Yoonjae watched in silence as the man, without asking permission, began casually scrolling through his phone.
“…Kang Seungho Minjun? Who’s that?”
The man glanced at Yoonjae as he scanned the missed calls. His sharp gaze held not curiosity, but suspicion. From his cocoon of sheets, Yoonjae looked up at him.
“One-thirty, one-forty-eight, two… he’s called three times.”
His memory was accurate.
“Kang Seungho Minjun. Sounds like a man’s name. Who is he?”
“A friend from high school.”
Although Yoonjae was a year younger, Minjun had insisted he not be treated like a senior or an older brother. Yoonjae had no desire to call him either of those things. Minjun didn’t feel like a senior, and calling him ‘brother’ would have been absurd. In truth, Yoonjae didn't even consider him a friend. He was just someone he’d known back in high school.
Unwilling to elaborate, Yoonjae just repeated, “A high school friend,” and turned his body away. He was wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. Yoonjae’s eyes drifted down the man’s body.
“Are you close? Calling three times at this hour. Isn’t that rude in Korea?”
It was rude in America, too. The man had grown up in the U.S., but he asked the question as if courtesy were an exclusively Korean concept, wanting Yoonjae to confirm some universal rule of politeness.
“I told you to leave it.”
“Is he a stalker? We could report this.”
The man was now rummaging through the entire call history, not just tonight’s. The number of people who contacted Yoonjae was limited.
His stepmother, Minjun, and a senior named Kang Seungho. Whenever the man was in Korea, a few new names might appear on the list, but it mostly stayed the same.
Few people reached out to Yoonjae, and he reached out to even fewer. He mostly used his phone for ordering delivery. His busy father rarely got in touch, while his stepmother, in a transparent attempt to exert influence, called frequently. Like Minjun, she had a habit of rambling on about things Yoonjae had no interest in hearing.
Yoonjae answered maybe one in ten of Minjun’s calls. He answered his stepmother’s immediately, lest she cut off his allowance.
The man’s expression grew serious as he scanned the call log. Then the phone rang again. He held the screen up for Yoonjae to see. It was Minjun.
“A persistent friend. Aren’t you going to get that?”
He offered the phone, clearly intending for Yoonjae to answer so he could listen in.
Yoonjae had no intention of picking up. He scowled, annoyed. A playful look crossed the man’s face. Taking the phone back, he answered it himself. It was obvious this had been his plan all along. Yoonjae didn’t try to stop him.
“Hello. This is Park Yoonjae’s phone. Yes, that’s right. Do you have any idea what time it is? Forgive me for asking, but what is your relationship to Mr. Park Yoonjae?”
The man deliberately lowered his voice, aiming for intimidation. Judging by his relaxed expression, it was working as intended.
Minjun was the type to shrink in on himself and stammer out apologies when confronted. Yoonjae listened with disinterest to the pointless exchange.
“I see. He’s right here. Would you like me to pass the phone to him?”
Having quickly discerned that Minjun possessed none of the charm that might interest Yoonjae, the man’s tone turned magnanimous. He held the phone out.
Yoonjae had no interest in people like that. The man’s quick assessment wasn’t a sign of any particular insight; anyone could size up Minjun after exchanging a few words.
He lacked charisma, his tone was flimsy, and his choice of words was artless and crude. In a world that prized confidence, people like him often came across as petty.
His guard now down, the man pressed the phone to Yoonjae’s ear with a show of concern. Reluctantly, Yoonjae spoke.
—Yoonjae? Who was that?
—Are you with someone? Just the two of you?
Yoonjae closed his eyes, the phone still pressed to his ear. The man, who had been sitting up, lay back down, turning to face him. He began stroking Yoonjae’s side, his touch and warmth drawing closer.
The air in the royal suite was dry, and Yoonjae’s skin felt tight. The man’s bare skin pressed against his. A trail of heat followed his lips as they brushed against Yoonjae’s shoulder, his neck, his nape. Yoonjae remained still. The man’s hair swept across his skin. He was with a man he knew. It was late. The scene was a familiar one.
—Today, I finally spoke to him. To that person.
Lately, every one of Minjun’s calls was about ‘that person.’ The man he had a crush on. Yoonjae didn’t want to know. He didn’t care who Minjun liked, why he liked him, how they met, or what they talked about. He had no interest in hearing the details.
Yoonjae wasn’t the type to care about other people’s lives, especially those of someone who wasn't even a friend. But Minjun’s constant updates meant that, inevitably, Yoonjae had learned all about the object of his infatuation.
He was a prosecutor, tall, good-looking, and so on and so on.
“Do you know Jeong Hayoon? She came to the recital. She was with President Song Donghyun of Daehan Group. Do you know him? He’s a good acquaintance of my father’s. So, I hesitated, but I finally went and started a conversation. His voice was really nice, too. I saw him up close. His eyelashes are so long. You’d know if you saw him. He’s just so handsome. It’s hard to describe, but… anyway, he’s just so handsome.”
Yoonjae found it almost amusing that Minjun, who had majored in sculpture, could sound so pathetically self-deprecating when describing his own appearance as unremarkable compared to this prosecutor’s.
The man’s lips traveled from Yoonjae’s shoulder, down his arm, and to his chest. He nudged Yoonjae onto his side and licked at his nipple, tasting it with the tip of his tongue. Yoonjae draped an arm over his eyes.
He barely responded to Minjun, whose effusive praise for the man continued unabated.
Yoonjae had never seen him. To hear Minjun tell it, the man was an Hwarang.
The descriptions of his height, his broad shoulders, his gym-honed body, his delicate eyelashes, his well-shaped nose, and lips so attractive one would want to listen even if he were cursing at them—it all sounded so fantastical it sometimes made Yoonjae want to laugh.
His nipples hardened under the attention. The man bit down gently. Yoonjae closed his eyes and, on a whim, tried to picture Minjun’s perfect man.
“Nothing… nothing at all,” the man at his chest murmured with a soft chuckle. His lips moved from Yoonjae’s chest to his stomach, then drifted over his hip bone. Finally, Yoonjae lowered his arm and grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair, a silent command to stop.
“But I think he has a girlfriend,” Minjun lamented. “He didn’t bring her to Hayoon’s recital, but he turned someone down when they offered to introduce him to a woman. He must be seeing someone. Or maybe he’s just not interested in dating. Being a prosecutor is a busy job.”
“Just let it go. It’s pointless.”
He didn’t want to listen to this whining.
Yoonjae was always blunt with Minjun. But Minjun, oblivious to his annoyance, seemed to trust him more for it, believing Yoonjae was the only one who gave him frank advice. Yoonjae often bitterly regretted the moment of carelessness in high school that had led to this. He had inadvertently become the closest friend to Minjun who shared his sexual orientation.
It had been ten years. Unlike Minjun, Yoonjae did not consider him his closest friend. And Minjun, it seemed, was just as relentless in his pursuit of this new man.
They had met by chance at a public event. Minjun had cautiously approached the man he’d fallen for at first sight, and within a month, he had managed to exchange names and even shake his hand, regardless of whether the prosecutor remembered him or not. Minjun considered this progress.
Friends of the opposite sex should never give dating advice. Friends of the same sex, advising on a gay crush, was even worse.
The man above his groin pulled down his underwear. Holding the phone, Yoonjae looked down at him. Their eyes met, the man’s gaze burning with desire.
“Yoonjae, are you listening? What do you think?”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“I’d give up. There’s no point in liking a straight guy. You’ll only get hurt.”
He meant it. This time, his advice was sincere, but it was just as certain to be ignored. A trait common to the hopelessly infatuated.
The man took Yoonjae’s penis lightly into his mouth. Yoonjae tilted his head back, sinking into the bed as the man began to move between his legs. He covered his mouth with his hand, muffling the sounds so Minjun wouldn’t hear.
Minjun was still gushing. Yoonjae doubted anyone was worth such praise. Minjun’s perfect man was undoubtedly a playboy who used his better-than-average looks and respectable job to cycle through women, never lasting more than a month with any of them. Expecting loyalty from the handsome was the height of foolishness.
Yoonjae’s breathing grew ragged.
“You woke me up. Let’s talk later… call me later.”
“Oh, really? Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you! I’ll call you later. Make sure you answer, okay?”
“Got it. I’m hanging up now.”
Yoonjae ended the call without waiting for a reply. He tossed the phone carelessly onto the floor beside the bed and tightened his grip on the man’s hair.
The man’s mouth pulled insistently at his tender skin. As his hand closed around Yoonjae’s throat, a climax rushed toward him. Yoonjae thrust his hips. He had already come twice with the man tonight, and though he felt empty, his lower body was alight with a familiar heat.
He ejaculated into the man’s mouth, his body trembling. The man pulled away, spitting neatly into a tissue he’d plucked from the nightstand.
His lips were curved into a smile. Yoonjae glared at him through watery eyes.
The man moved up his body, parting Yoonjae’s legs and settling between them. His fully erect member prodded at Yoonjae’s entrance. Yoonjae wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders. He buried his face in the man’s neck and shuddered as he was pushed open, filled.
The well-sprung bed began to creak.
“Let go of my hand. I have to start recording tomorrow.”
“The fee is too low, so I’m not doing it. Some people get a hefty advance and even housing.”
“You have to establish your own value.”
Wearing his sunglasses like a mask, hiding his expression, the man smiled at Yoonjae’s indifferent words. He smiled at him often. It meant he liked him.
The hotel restaurant was quiet for a Friday morning. They were the only ones having a full brunch; other patrons nursed cups of coffee or tea, their quiet conversations a soft counterpoint to the background music.
Yoonjae and the man sat at a table bathed in the morning sunlight streaming through the hotel’s front windows. Everyone else avoided the spot because of the glare, leaving them in their own bubble of light.
The man had a daily quota for sun exposure. Even with the sunglasses, he still had an hour to go.
Yoonjae squinted against the direct light and sipped his coffee. He sunbathed with the man whenever he could. If he didn't get enough sun in the summer, he was prone to colds all winter. Suddenly, he wanted to go to Bangkok.
“Did you know your eyelashes are this transparent brown?”
The man reached out, his thumb stroking Yoonjae’s cheek before brushing against his eyelashes. Minjun had gone on about the prosecutor’s eyelashes last night. Yoonjae had never seen the man, but from Minjun's descriptions, he was the most perfect man in the world. Yoonjae doubted such a person existed. A crush was a powerful filter.
His hand lingered for a moment before falling away. He was conscious of the surrounding eyes. He pushed the sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“So, you’re really not going to do it?”
“What are you offering me?”
“Anything you ask for.”
“That’s too much for someone who wants so little.”
Yoonjae wanted nothing. He had been like that since childhood. He didn’t want anything, nor did he want to become anything. His father, finding his listlessness pathetic, had insisted that if Yoonjae had no interest in studying, he should at least master one skill. He had hoped Yoonjae had inherited his biological mother’s artistic talent, and so had him try everything from piano and painting to horseback riding and violin.
The violin was the one that stuck. As a boy, he won competitions without really understanding why. He played his way into a music-focused middle school, then high school, and finally, a top university.
During his time at the music academy, he obtained a coveted Stradivarius, nearly three hundred years old, made of European spruce, with graceful curves and a deep, delicate tone.
He graduated from college in six years with the best instrument in hand and joined the most prestigious orchestra in Asia, run by the Daehan Foundation. He lasted only a few months.
If the orchestra had been like school, something with a finish line, Yoonjae might have stuck it out. But it wasn’t a place one graduates from. Yoonjae left the symphony and told his father he was going freelance.