Work Text:
By the time Kim Sung-Ryong shows up at his door on Sunday night, Yul’s apartment is a disaster zone and he’s desperate. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all weekend!”
“I know. It was so annoying, I had to turn off my phone.” Sung-Ryong smirks and slips past Yul into the entranceway, shucking off his shoes and looking around for slippers.
Serves him right that there are none. He’s wearing black suit pants with a denim jacket, sunglasses hooked in the vee of his mustard-coloured shirt, and after associating with conventionally dressed prosecutors for the last two months, it makes the inside of Yul’s skull ache. Yul scowls.
Of course, that just makes Sung-Ryong grin wider. He glances in and whistles. “Ooh, nice place. I can’t believe you haven’t invited me over before now. So what’s the big emergency?” Then he catches sight of the torn paper and detritus strewn throughout the living room. “What happened? Did you have an intruder? Are you all right?”
The mutt chooses that moment to scamper into the room and drop a chewed slipper at Yul’s feet—the last of the guest slippers. It barks hopefully.
“A puppy! You got a puppy?” Sung-Ryong points at it, as if Yul isn’t already fully aware of its annoying existence. “That’s great!”
Yul can literally feel his blood pressure rising. “Get rid of this mutt!”
“But she’s so cute.” Sung-Ryong crouches down and pets the damned thing. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you? What’s your name?”
“Get rid of it!”
Sung-Ryong stands up again, eyebrows arrayed quizzically. “Listen, I know you think I’m a thug, but I’m not a murderer. And I especially don’t kill puppies.”
Yul clutches his head in frustration. “I don’t mean kill it! I mean get it out of my apartment—now!”
The mutt backs away, its tail between its legs, then retches and throws up on Yul’s expensive Persian rug.
“Poor thing. You’re scaring her.” Sung-Ryong is obviously biting back laughter, no doubt aware that if he doesn’t, Yul will have no choice but to strangle him. Instead he affects a curious expression. “Why me? What about your silver-fox hitman, Park In Hyuk?”
“He’s retired to the country.” Yul goes to the kitchen for paper towels and disinfectant, and hurries back before the vomit can soak in to the rug.
Sung-Ryong just watches. “What, to grow cabbages? You know, I feel sorry for those cabbages. If they don’t grow right, he’ll probably drag a hood that smells of ass over them, kidnap them away from their friends and threaten them with a cleaver—” He crouches down to coax the mutt out from behind the couch, where it’s hiding. “You haven’t met him, but trust me on this.”
Yul growls. “Get rid of that dog! You’re the one who brought it here.”
“Me? When did I do that?”
“Yesterday morning.” Yul already knows Sung-Ryong is guilty; he just has to prove it. “It was here when I got home from the gym. My apartment was a disaster zone.”
“I can see that.” Sung-Ryong picks up a cushion from the floor, dusts it off and drops it on the couch. “But it wasn’t me. I was in—” He pulls a train ticket from his breast pocket and brandishes it dramatically. “—Gunsan.”
“Right,” says Yul. “Because every innocent person carries an alibi with them at all times.” He throws the dirty paper towels away, leaves the disinfectant on the kitchen counter for the next inevitable mishap, and washes his hands twice.
“What alibi? I kept the ticket so I can expense it. You may not have heard this about me, but I’m an accounting genius.” Sung-Ryong has followed him to the breakfast bar and leans against it lazily.
Yul shoves him back towards the living room. “You did this. You fix it.”
“Why would I bring you a dog? Why would you think that? Tell me, I’m genuinely curious.” Sung-Ryong rescues the other cushion from the floor, and kneels down to beckon the dog. “You know, she’s just making a mess because you shout at her and haven’t bought her any dog toys. Isn’t that right?”
The mutt whines and wags its tail tentatively.
“Good girl, come on, come here.” Sung-Ryong holds out his hand in invitation, and the mutt takes a few steps forward and licks his fingers.
It has orange fur, and yesterday its eyes had been bright and mischievous as if it were laughing at Yul. It was so familiar that for a moment he’d even had the crazy idea that Sung-Ryong had somehow transformed into a canine. Today it’s a bit more dejected and wary—but so it should be! It’s basically shredded his apartment. And here’s Sung-Ryong, rewarding it with pats. “Of course it was you. Who else?”
“There’s no one else?” Sung-Ryong stops making a fuss of the mutt and stares at Yul. “Aw, you missed me.”
Yul’s head jerks up. “You’re talking nonsense.”
“I didn’t bring you this adorable puppy, but if I had, you should be thanking me. She’s obviously a high quality animal.”
“I don’t want a dog,” says Yul through gritted teeth.
“Why? Is your life already too full of cuteness and affection?” Sung-Ryong, seated on the floor, shifts to lean against the couch and regards him. The mutt tilts its head to exactly the same angle, but Sung-Ryong doesn’t seem to notice. “Listen, I came all the way here. At least offer me a drink.”
Yul is tired and unsettled. This is not the time to drink with a man who is disconcerting just for being himself. How anyone can be so openly flamboyant is a mystery to Yul, but it’s a mystery he has zero intention of solving. “Just take the dog and go.”
“Aren’t you even going to ask me why I went to Gunsan?”
“I don’t care.” Yul looks at his shelves full of neatly aligned books, at least where the dog couldn’t reach. No photos. Sung-Ryong and the dog are still watching him. He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Why did you go?”
“There was a funeral. An old friend.”
Yul sighs, defeated. He can’t remember the last funeral he went to. He has no family or friends to lose. He goes back to the kitchen for a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He’ll clean up properly later, after Sung-Ryong and the dog have gone.
When he comes back, the mutt has crawled into Sung-Ryong’s lap and fallen asleep. It’s drooling on his pants, and Sung-Ryong is stroking its ears as he stares off into space with a melancholy expression. His fingers move gently through the orange fur, and Yul catches himself staring and sits on the couch to pour the whisky. There’s shredded paper and the remains of slippers everywhere. Forget doing it himself—he’ll call his cleaning service.
He hands Sung-Ryong a glass, distracting him from his reverie. Expecting reminiscences about whomever has passed away. Instead Sung-Ryong says, “What are you feeding her?”
“Who?”
Sung-Ryong indicates the puppy. She has eyelashes. Yul hadn’t noticed that before.
“Oh. Rice.” Yul will die before he admits he bought puppy food. He only did it so the mutt wouldn’t get sick and create even more complications before Sung-Ryong could take it away, since Sung-Ryong was refusing to answer his phone.
“Rice?” Sung-Ryong shakes his head disapprovingly and takes a drink, then another and stares into his glass.
Yul follows suit.
“The man who passed away, he was the first gay man I ever knew.”
Yul manages not to choke on his whisky and takes a moment to make sure his tone is neutral. He doesn’t want to sneer. “Were you lovers?”
“What? No! He was really old. Don’t be gross.” Sung-Ryong subsides back into his glass. “But he was a good person. A good listener. He was the one who told me it was okay.”
Yul takes another drink, summons his courage. “No one told me that.”
“Really? Then I will.” Sung-Ryong leans his head back so he’s looking at the ceiling. “Seo Yul, there’s a lot of things wrong with the way you live—so many. Trying to get rid of this dog, for starters. But there’s nothing wrong with you being gay.”
He says it so easily, no judgment, no surprise. Yul moves down to the floor so they’re side by side and lowers his voice. “Did you already know?”
“I have an excellent gaydar.” Sung-Ryong meets his gaze. “Why?”
“Do you think other people—?” Yul breaks off, hating himself for caring what people think. Perhaps he should emigrate to Denmark.
“Only if they’re looking for it. I was looking. There’s a certain kind of secretive man who resents me, I mean, profoundly. They want to sleep with me, but don’t want to be seen with me.”
“What kind of— That’s not it.” Yul has tidy encounters with men like himself, anonymous in their expensive suits, who leave quietly afterwards, no awkward fuss. Sung-Ryong is all awkward fuss. Completely not Yul’s type.
Sung-Ryong shrugs and looks back to the ceiling. “Okay, whatever.”
Another sigh escapes Yul, though he’s not sure why. Probably just that Sung-Ryong is incorrigibly frustrating. That’s been the case from the moment Yul met him, and it always brings out the worst in Yul. “Do you ever still think about how badly I treated you?”
“What are you talking about? That’s ancient history.” Sung-Ryong empties his glass and pours them each another drink. It’s a signal they should change the subject, but Yul can’t stop.
“I even had you kidnapped that time.” The words spill out unchecked. The whisky must be loosening his tongue.
“Was it just the once?” muses Sung-Ryong. “It seemed like more. But you were kidnapped too. Do you still think about that?”
Yul can’t quite hide his flinch. He still has nightmares sometimes: being tied up, helpless, at the mercy of thugs. The bitter smell of decay and sweat. Not knowing if anyone would come to save him. And he’d done that to Sung-Ryong.
Sung-Ryong purses his lips knowingly. “See, this is just one more reason you should keep the dog.”
Yul snorts. “Speaking of kidnapping, where did it come from, anyway? Where really?”
“I don’t know. Really.” He seems genuinely bemused, and Yul believes him.
They both look at the sleeping dog, its silky head butted against Sung-Ryong’s belly.
“Is she a ghost?” says Sung-Ryong. “No, she drools too much for a ghost. Maybe a time traveller?”
Yul ignores this stupidity and sips his whisky. “It could be a stray.” It’s unlikely. It’s too healthy and confident to be a stray, and that still wouldn’t explain how it had made its way into his apartment.
Sung-Ryong scowls, as if personally offended. “Anyone can see she’s not a stray. More likely a gift from Fate!”
As if Fate is to be trusted. “Well, wherever it came from, it has to go. I’ll take it to the pound tomorrow. If its owners show up, they can get it from there.”
Sung-Ryong rests a protective hand on the dog’s back. “You know, it’s really sad that when something comes into your life that could show you some affection, your first instinct is to kick it to the curb.”
“It made a mess.” Yul gestures at the state of his living room. “It practically destroyed my house.”
“Life is messy. Maybe your house needed a little destruction.” It’s possible Sung-Ryong isn’t really talking about the dog.
But Yul can’t afford to get distracted. “I don’t have time for that. I have to focus on fixing myself and living a decent life.” Lately he can feel old habits starting to creep back. He needs more control, not more chaos. “It’s not a good time. Were you really at a funeral, or was that just a story so I’d drink with you?”
It comes out meaner sounding than he meant, but Sung-Ryong disregards the jibe and swirls the last little bit of whisky in his glass. “You know how I turned things around? By taking advice from good people, accepting friendships and acts of kindness, and starting to care about someone other than myself. You can’t do that on your own. How can you learn to forgive yourself when you make mistakes, if there’s no one else there to forgive you?”
“Are you volunteering?” Yul shoots back, before he can think better of it.
Sung-Ryong stares at him. “Are you seriously only realising that now? I’ve been volunteering since I got you out of jail.”
“You didn’t get me out of jail,” says Yul, automatically.
“I made you a prosecutor again.”
The conversation is sliding sideways, the point slipping out of reach. “What are we talking about right now?”
“You’re deciding if you can stand to be seen with me.” Sung-Ryong’s expression is ironic.
Honestly, Yul can’t think of anything worse than having someone on the sidelines, watching him fail. But if it’s Sung-Ryong, maybe it would be all right. Sung-Ryong might berate him and call him names, but he wouldn’t think less of him—he’s already seen Yul at his worst. And Yul’s tired of pretending he doesn’t find Sung-Ryong attractive. Still, he hesitates. “You make everything into a three-ring circus!”
“Why not? It’s fun.” The irony flattens out into defiance.
“If everything’s a joke, how is a person supposed to know when you really mean what you’re saying?” complains Yul.
“I mean this.” Sung-Ryong leans over and kisses him. It’s not an impudent peck on the cheek, for once, but a real kiss, lips meeting lips, warm and sensual, making Yul’s breath catch. He’s been waiting for this and he never knew it.
He pulls away a fraction. “You’re sure you’re serious?”
“Mm.” Sung-Ryong’s eyes are dark, his gaze fixed on Yul’s mouth.
Yul’s skin is shivery and hot. “You think you’ll still mean it when you’re sober?”
“I’m not drunk. What about you?”
Yul has a slight buzz going, enough to let his guard down, but he knows full well what he’s doing. “Me neither.”
Sung-Ryong sets his glass aside, grabs Yul by his sweatshirt and kisses him again, and Yul cups his neck and kisses back, revelling in it. It’s worlds away from the anonymous men he’s been with. Everything is vivid and distinct, the texture of Sung-Ryong’s lips and tongue against his, the scrape of stubble and the slight graze of teeth. When Yul was with those other men, he really only thought about himself, but now, curiosity is welling up inside him: what does Sung-Ryong like? What will make him shudder and groan? How will he react if Yul slips his hand under that mustard-coloured shirt and slides it across his belly? Is Sung-Ryong’s skin as hot and aching as Yul’s own? Is he hard?
It’s all specific and unnerving, and Yul can’t stop. No, he doesn’t want to stop. He’s finally with someone who can keep up. He slips open a button on Sung-Ryong’s shirt and smooths across his skin, dips his fingertips below the waistband of his pants.
Sung-Ryong pushes him off, gasping. “Wait, wait a moment. You’ll wake the puppy.”
Yul’s stomach lurches, disappointment and fury rising like a shield. He snatches his hand back, determined not to let Sung-Ryong hold this over him. “I knew you didn’t mean it.”
“Oh, your trust issues.” Sung-Ryong shakes his head. He’s breathless and still fisting Yul’s sweatshirt, his other hand resting on the sleeping dog sprawled in his lap. “I mean it, all right? Of course, I do. I just, this is moving fast for me, so—do you mean it? What are we doing, here?”
He actually looks vulnerable, the most open Yul’s ever seen him. And nervous, which makes something twist in Yul’s chest. After a moment, he lets go of Yul’s sweatshirt.
Yul’s frustration ebbs, replaced by concern that Sung-Ryong is changing his mind. “What do you think we’re doing? What do you want to do?”
“I want to date.”
Yul blinks. There are so many reasons that’s a terrible idea. He could enumerate every one of them.
“If all you want is to fuck, that’s your prerogative,” adds Sung-Ryong. “But you’ll have to find someone else.”
“You’re a romantic.”
Sung-Ryong scoffs, but his ears are pink, and Yul’s discovers with a shock that he doesn’t want to fuck anyone else. He wants this, whatever it is. Whatever it takes.
Dating has always been for other people. He’s never seriously considered it, not with any of the men he’s known. But he’s also never felt this warm rush of concern for someone before. Is this tenderness? Affection? Sung-Ryong being like this, open and vulnerable, is a precious thing, and Yul wants that in his life. He may even need it. “Okay. Let’s try it. Let’s date.”
“Really?”
“Mm.” Yul puts his hand over Sung-Ryong’s on the warm little body of the sleeping dog. He rubs her ear with his thumb, and then lets his hand slip to Sung-Ryong’s thigh, leans across and kisses him gently, not asking anything more.
They’re going to date. The future, which a minute ago had seemed an endless stretch of work and struggling to contain his bad habits, already seems brighter and more interesting. He might even keep the dog if it’ll make Sung-Ryong happy. He can handle a little mess.
The doorbell rings, startling them apart and waking the puppy, who tries to scramble up but ends up tumbling onto the floor, eyes still half-shut.
Yul goes to answer. It’s a woman in her fifties with a puffy face, messy hair and no makeup. “Excuse me,” she says. “Have you by any chance seen my dog?”
The puppy comes running at the sound of her voice, its tail wagging frantically, and she crouches down. “Marigold! There you are! I was so worried about you!”
Yul’s head drops.
Sung-Ryong comes over, his black pants scattered with orange dog hair, and bends down to say, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Marigold.” But the dog is busy sniffing and licking her owner’s hands and face.
In between patting the dog, the woman explains she is staying in her friend’s apartment next door. She arrived home from a business trip to New Zealand early yesterday morning, picked up her puppy from the kennel, and promptly fell into bed and has been asleep ever since, under the combined weight of jetlag and a cold. How the dog ended up in Yul’s apartment remains a mystery.
The woman glances in and sees the state of his living room. “Oh, she’s made such a mess. I’m so sorry. Let me pay for a cleaner.”
“It’s fine,” says Yul. “She was no trouble.” He bends to pat Marigold goodbye, and the next moment they’re gone.
He and Sung-Ryong are alone.
Sung-Ryong shakes his head. “A strange dog materialised, and you didn’t even knock on your neighbours’ doors?”
“There was no answer.” Yul had been so sure Sung-Ryong was responsible for Marigold’s appearance, he hadn’t tried very hard.
“You could have been charged with dognapping—that wouldn’t look good for a public prosecutor.”
“Shut up.” Yul draws him close and hugs him, hoping that will curtail any further teasing. It’s surprisingly effective. Sung-Ryong snuggles closer, his arms firm around Yul’s waist, his breath warm on Yul’s neck. Yul wants him desperately, but he can wait until Sung-Ryong is ready. It’s not as if he has a choice. “What kind of dating?” he asks, to distract himself.
Sung-Ryong pulls away just far enough that they can look at each other. His gaze is brimming with mischief. “Obviously for our first date, we should go and choose you a new dog.”
For once, the teasing doesn’t make Yul bristle. He’s in on the joke. “Obviously.”
END