Bab 89: chapter 86
Probably went to change into his royal lounging attire, Beom-ki mused sarcastically, stabbing a slice of orange. Sure enough, minutes later, Yaroslav reappeared, now dressed in what could only be described as "rich-person casual." His heavy coat was replaced by a loose sweater, and he carried a small bowl of snacks in one hand. Without a word, he crossed the room and deliberately sat down beside Beom-ki on the couch.
Beom-ki froze mid-bite, slowly turning his head to glare at the man now invading his personal space. The hall was filled with couches—massive, plush ones that could easily fit two or three people each. And yet, Yaroslav had chosen the one spot that guaranteed proximity.
"So all these many couches," Beom-ki said dryly, gesturing vaguely around the room, "and you didn't find a single one to sit on?"
Yaroslav smirked faintly, popping a piece of what looked like dried fruit into his mouth. "Couch is couch," he said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.
Beom-ki squinted at him, his irritation momentarily giving way to curiosity. Yaroslav's eyes were red—noticeably so. His usually sharp gaze was softer, almost tired, and there was a faint puffiness around the edges. Beom-ki frowned slightly, leaning back against the couch as he stared at the TV.
Was he crying? Beom-ki thought, his fork hovering over his plate. He wasn't sure why the idea unsettled him. Yaroslav didn't seem like the type to cry, at least not in front of anyone. But those eyes told a different story. What could possibly make him cry? Did someone die? Did something happen while he was out?
Beom-ki tried to push the thought aside, focusing instead on the TV, but his curiosity gnawed at him. He sneaked another glance at Yaroslav, who was chewing his snacks with a blank expression, his gaze distant. Does he even know how obvious he looks? Beom-ki thought. Whatever it is, it must be serious.
He felt a strange, uncomfortable tug in his chest—a mix of curiosity, sympathy, and irritation that he couldn't quite name. Beom-ki shook his head, spearing another piece of fruit. Not my problem, he told himself firmly, but the thought lingered anyway.
Yaroslav leaned back on the couch, his gaze still distant, but his voice broke the silence. "I got a violin for you," he said, his tone steady but carrying an undertone of something Beom couldn't quite place. "So you can play for me."
Beom-ki paused mid-chew, the sweet tang of the orange lingering on his tongue as he blinked slowly at Yaroslav. "Excuse me?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he lowered the fork to his plate. "What do I look like to you, huh? Your personal violinist-slash-entertainment committee?"
Yaroslav tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but he didn't reply. His silence only fueled Beom's incredulity.
"Oh, no, no, no," Beom continued, stabbing another piece of orange with unnecessary force. "You think you can waltz in here, sit on my couch—when there's about fifteen other perfectly good ones you could've chosen—and now you want me to serenade you like we're in some kind of period drama? What's next, Yaroslav? Shall I fetch you tea and read you poetry under the moonlight?"
Yaroslav's smirk grew, his expression calm, almost amused, but Beom wasn't done. He chewed the orange slowly, letting the juices burst in his mouth as he pointed his fork at Yaroslav. "Let me make one thing very clear. I don't care if you bought a violin, a grand piano, or a whole orchestra. I'm not playing for you." He leaned back against the couch, crossing his legs and narrowing his eyes at Yaroslav. "Do I look like a performing monkey to you?"
Still, Yaroslav remained silent, his smirk now bordering on infuriatingly smug. Beom threw his hands up in mock exasperation. "Oh, I see what this is. You're one of those rich guys who think everything and everyone is for their amusement, huh? 'Oh, let me just buy a violin and make the poor guy play for me because I feel like listening to music.' Newsflash, buddy, I'm not your court jester."
Yaroslav finally spoke, his tone maddeningly calm. "You're overthinking this."
Beom raised an eyebrow, stabbing a piece of kiwi this time. "Overthinking? No, no, no. You're underthinking. You can't just assume people will do what you want because you throw some expensive toy at them. What's next? You'll buy a pair of tap shoes and expect me to dance too? Because let me tell you right now, I—"
"I just thought you might enjoy playing again," Yaroslav interrupted, his voice softer this time. Beom froze mid-rant, the words dying on his tongue. He stared at Yaroslav, who was now gazing at him with an unreadable expression, his usual sharpness dulled by something more vulnerable.
Beom shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling like he had overdone it. "Well," he muttered, stabbing another piece of fruit and stuffing it into his mouth. "Still not playing for you." He chewed aggressively, his gaze fixed firmly on the TV.
Yaroslav leaned back with a satisfied hum, as if he had expected that answer all along. "We'll see."
Beom shot him a glare, his fork clattering against his plate. "No, we won't. Case closed." But even as he said it, a small, unwelcome thought crept into his mind: It had been a while since he played. And he did miss it, didn't he?
He scowled, shoving the thought aside. "Ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, but the faintest flicker of curiosity lingered despite himself.
Beom was sprawled comfortably on the couch, his focus entirely consumed by the TV. The flickering lights of the screen danced across his face as he munched absentmindedly on the fruit in front of him. His guard was completely down, absorbed in the mindless entertainment, unaware that Yaroslav's gaze had shifted from the screen to him.
Yaroslav's sharp, piercing eyes lingered on Beom's profile, the faint lines of concentration on his face, the way the light illuminated the delicate angles of his jawline, the soft curve of his lips as he chewed. Without thinking, Yaroslav's voice broke the silence, soft but firm, spoken in Russian. "Ты красивый." (You're beautiful.)
Beom froze mid-bite, his teeth sinking into a piece of kiwi that now hung precariously from his fork. Slowly, he turned his head toward Yaroslav, his brows furrowed in confusion and suspicion. Despite the language barrier, Beom knew enough Russian to understand what had just been said. His mind raced, trying to process if he had heard correctly or if his brain was playing tricks on him.
Yaroslav, unbothered and bold, leaned in closer, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, seemed unusually soft yet intense as they bore into Beom's. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness in his movements. He moved forward, closing the distance between them with a deliberate slowness, his intentions clear.
Beom's breath caught as he realized what was happening. "What the—" he thought, panic flashing through his mind. Yaroslav was really leaning in, his face dangerously close, and before Beom could react, those piercing eyes of his flickered down toward his lips.
"Oh, hell no," Beom thought in a rush of panic. Without thinking, he grabbed the nearest thing—his fork—and swiftly shoved the fruit he was holding directly into Yaroslav's mouth. Kiwi juice dripped slightly as the man's lips instinctively closed around the fork. The unexpected intrusion made Yaroslav freeze mid-lean, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement.
Beom seized the moment. He shot up from the couch, grabbing his book and holding it to his chest like a shield. His face was flushed, whether from embarrassment, anger, or sheer disbelief, even he couldn't tell.
"Good night," he said curtly, his tone sharp as he spun on his heel. Without sparing Yaroslav another glance, he stormed out of the room and up the stairs toward the bedroom. His footsteps echoed in the quiet hall, a mix of hurried and indignant.
As he reached the privacy of the bedroom, he slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, his heart pounding. He stared at the book in his hand, then threw it onto the bed, running a hand through his hair. "What the hell was that?" he muttered under his breath, his voice low and frustrated.
His mind replayed the moment on a loop—Yaroslav's words, the way he leaned in, and, most annoyingly, the sincerity in his eyes. "He's insane," Beom muttered, his cheeks burning. "What does he think this is, some romance movie?" He paced the room, shaking his head. "Beautiful? Seriously? What kind of line is that?"
Beom flopped onto the bed with a groan, pressing a pillow over his face. Despite his best efforts to shake it off, Yaroslav's words lingered in his mind, uninvited and annoyingly persistent. "Beautiful," Beom scoffed to himself, trying to dismiss it, but the faint heat in his chest betrayed him.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Yaroslav leaned back on the couch, chewing thoughtfully on the kiwi Beom had so forcefully offered him. A small, knowing smile played on his lips as he stared at the now-empty space where Beom had been sitting.
"Good night," he murmured to himself, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.
Beom's heart pounded against his chest as the moments stretched on, each one more suffocating than the last. He tried to ignore the rising tension in his chest, hoping that it would pass, hoping that somehow he could escape the situation he found himself in. But it was impossible to ignore the weight of Yaroslav's presence behind him. He could feel it—the closeness, the heat radiating from Yaroslav's body, the way his arm curled around Beom's waist, as though Yaroslav could melt into him completely, drawing Beom into something he didn't want, didn't ask for.
Beom had always kept his distance from people, whether consciously or not, because it was safer. He hated feeling vulnerable, hated the idea of someone else holding power over him, controlling his emotions, controlling the situation. But with Yaroslav... it was different. The man had a way of slipping past his defenses, of getting under his skin in ways Beom didn't fully understand.
He closed his eyes briefly, praying for some moment of clarity, for a way out of this. But as Yaroslav's breath fanned against his neck, Beom couldn't think clearly anymore. His mind became clouded with conflicting thoughts, emotions he couldn't suppress. He tried to remind himself of the rules, of the walls he had built around himself, of how he should feel. But it was hard to focus, to keep the fear at bay when Yaroslav's touch was so damn intimate, so persistent.
His muscles stiffened instinctively as Yaroslav's lips brushed against the sensitive skin of his neck. Beom couldn't stop the shiver that ran through him, nor could he stop the fluttering of his heart in his chest. He wanted to pull away, to tell Yaroslav to stop, to force him to listen, but his body... his body wasn't responding the way his mind wanted it to.
Why is he doing this? Beom's thoughts were frantic, tumbling over one another as he tried to make sense of everything. Why is he so close? Why now? The confusion gnawed at him, swirling around his mind like a storm. His thoughts were fragmented, each one a question that he couldn't answer, each one more frustrating than the last.
The soft touch of Yaroslav's lips against his skin felt like an intrusion, but it also stirred something else in Beom—a strange, unwelcome warmth. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation, trying to ignore how Yaroslav's hand was creeping lower, sliding over the fabric of his shirt in a way that made Beom's skin crawl and burn at the same time. No. No. This isn't right, Beom thought, willing himself to break free from the strange pull, the strange ache that was building up inside him. I can't let this happen. I won't let him get away with it.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone