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Gaon startles awake, immediately wincing at the stiffness in his back. At first, he isn’t sure what woke him up, and then his gaze catches movement in his periphery.
Yohan is back.
Instead of jumping to his feet and immediately asking question upon question, Gaon remains where he is, quietly moving his gaze to follow the chief’s movements. He’s coming into the room, but the absence of both his coat and Elijah’s presence at his side hints at Yohan being home for more than just a few minutes.
“Did you put Elijah to bed ?” He asks, just to check.
Yohan steps closer until he lets himself fall on the couch, almost slouching. It is such a surprise Gaon feels his eyes widen. Though he is starting to get used to the sight of him in a bathrobe, too much skin rendered visible by the opening, and hair down in his eyes, that carefree position does not go with the pristine shirt, smooth vest and styled hair. Two worlds colliding, creating a disturbing supernova. And it’s imploding too close to him, a few inches away at most.
“Yes.”
Gaon doesn’t ask if he woke her up to reassure her that he was safe and sound.
“So,” he says instead, bracing himself for Yohan’s irritation or avoidance as he shifts sideways. “What happened ?”
“What makes you think something happened ?” Is the immediate, frustrating -if predictable- answer.
Gaon isn’t even annoyed.
“I might not have the pretension to say I know you, but I know enough.”
Though he expected him to bristle at the assumption, the chief doesn’t. He simply leans his elbow on the back of the couch, and leans his cheek on his fist.
“Really ?”
“You wouldn’t leave your niece to worry over you all night. If you had plans with a woman, you would have warned her you would be out, or you would have made these plans around Elijah.”
“Awfully presumptuous,” Yohan mutters, but his eyes are narrowed almost to slits, heavy with what must be sleep or drinks.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
In the short time he has known Kang Yohan, Gaon has known just as surely that he is not a liar. Sure, he is a master at handling and shaping words in the way that will benefit him, but he doesn’t make it a habit to lie to one’s face.
His gambit pays off. Yohan’s jaw clenches, probably more in frustration at having been caught or having to explain himself than true annoyance at Gaon.
“I was…indisposed. I’m sorry to have kept you up.”
“Indisposed ?” He immediately perks up. “Were you injured ?”
“No, no,” Yohan says, but it sounds just shy of slurred and does not reassure him in the slightest. “Just drugged.”
For a second, Gaon thinks he heard wrong.
“I’m sorry, what ?”
“Did you know it is the most practical method of kidnapping ?”
“Kidnapping ?”
“The victim is unable to defend themselves and the drug remains in their system a while after, which makes it difficult to go to the police afterwards.”
What the actual fuck. How can speak like this is just another random fact and not a kidnapping of Korea’s most famous judge ? And exactly how the hell did he get kidnapped ? How did someone get the jump on Kang Yohan ?
Priorities, he thinks.
“Are you… are you still drugged ?”
His eyes narrow further, the iris almost invisible with how dilated the pupil is. The dark eyelashes brush his cheekbones almost leisurely.
“I should hope so,” he determines after a second where Gaon’s apprehension rises, “otherwise I really need to set up an appointment with my ophthalmologist. And get a cane.”
“Did you drive ?”
The man seems to consider it for a moment, his head tilted sideways as if focused on a distant sound.
“Surely not,” he finally answers, but he seems uncertain. As if he doesn’t quite know how he got home.
“That is not reassuring in the slightest,” Gaon grumbles, which seems to amuse the chief to no end, even eliciting a small chuckle.
The sound is so unexpected it makes him startle, eyes drawn to the lazy smile now stretched across Yohan’s lips. It… well. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling right now.
In order not to inspect that too closely, Gaon shakes himself.
“You should probably lay down and rest.”
Yohan instantly scoffs, but he starts to straighten up anyway. Gaon supposes he is scoffing at the fact that he is right.
“I suppose so,” the chief manages to say haughtily, and then promptly almost falls on his face as he tries to get up.
Gaon rushes to grab his arm and help him find his balance again, both of them now up and too close for propriety.
“Alright,” Gaon resigns himself, and given the sigh Yohan lets out, he isn’t any happier at the turn of events.
“Wait.”
The way he immediately obeys might be cause for concern, but he resolves to dwell on that later -or never, never is good. Yohan disentangles himself from him with much more difficulty than warranted, his movements wide and imprecise as he reaches for the buttons on his vest. Before Gaon can comment on it, he’s scrambling to undo them and kind of managing, albeit more violently than the expensive cloth probably requires. Gaon watches, equally concerned and amused by the lack of manners. The vest is eventually discarded like dirty laundry on the couch, to be cleaned later. Without it, Gaon is privy to the white shirt clinging to Yohan’s every curve, denying any doubt that the clothes are the only reason he looks so handsome. He would even venture that without clothes…
Yohan suddenly wraps a strong, if ungraceful, arm around Gaon’s shoulders without a word. He clearly expects him to resume their movements, and Gaon does so with a heavy sigh.
It’s extremely tenuous to make their way to Yohan’s bedroom, despite it being so close. It’s not because of the chief’s sluggish gestures and consequent weight leaned on Gaon, unfortunately. It’s the distraction of having him flush against him, all heat and skin protected by a thin layer of fabric only, the smell of his cologne invading Gaon’s nose as if to stay there.
It’s very unsettling, is all.
So he chokes all those thoughts and throw them, bound and gagged, somewhere deep down he will examine later on, in the privacy of his own room and preferably when Yohan is in a healthier state.
The room is plunged into darkness. The bed is perfectly made, and Gaon wonders fleetingly if the chief allows Mrs Ji to clean up his room or if he does it himself. Somehow, both seem terribly odd.
Gaon unlocks the grasp around his shoulders and, with both hands gripping Yohan’s wrists, lets him find his balance on his own again. It doesn’t look easy, but with a frown and a little more than a minute, he eventually manages. Gaon leaves his side only to turn on the light, but when he spins around again, the sight stops him short.
Kang Yohan, chief judge of the Live Court Show, is fumbling to undress himself, eyelids heavy and gestures imprecise.
Walking all the way to the room seems to have taken its toll on him. Yohan has much more trouble unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt than he did the vest, fingers sliding over them uselessly. Gaon lets him struggle for a few moments, enjoying this more boyish version of an otherwise always kept together man. Maybe he shouldn’t, but now that the danger has passed and he has felt Yohan warm and alive and breathing right under his hands, Gaon cannot help himself.
Then he steps forward, gently pushes Yohan’s hands out of the way and tries not to let himself get distracted by the insistent, wide gaze he feels flying over his face.
It feels quite unnatural to have the chief’s face so open, have him relying on Gaon.
Yohan clearly hates being at the mercy of someone’s goodwill, which isn’t surprising from someone who believes selfishness is inherent to human beings, and their default motivation to everything. Gaon ignores the huffs and puffs and annoyed looks that make him look more petulant than the judge would ever allow before someone other than his niece, and takes to undoing the remaining buttons.
Now, he did not exactly think it through. If he had thought this through, he would have remembered Yohan is an incredibly attractive man that values his privacy and the facade he puts on before everyone. He would have gathered that seeing him vulnerable and intimate, gilded in the gentle light of his room, would be breathtaking to say the least. That undressing Yohan is an experience in and of itself not suited to Gaon’s conflicting emotions and his -newly discovered, very overwhelming- attraction for the man.
All these thoughts twirl in his head like a hurricane while the shirt gapes open and uncovers, little by little, the hard plains of his chest, the brown nipples, the vertical line separating the defined abdominals. Gaon has to level his respiration as he goes, shaken up beyond reason.
Except that, when he is done and takes a step back for his own sanity, it’s worse.
The sight Yohan makes, exposed yet still mostly dressed, styled hair now ruffled, cheeks red with effort or the drug, lips parted and eyes hooded- it’s just indecent.
“God,” Gaon blurts out, feeling his face heat up and his fingers clench over nothing, so eager to touch.
This is so very unfair, because the situation is anything but conducive to such wants, but it cannot be helped when Yohan looks like he does. Utterly irresistible.
The bastard might know it, as well, given how he tilts his head to the side as if evaluating Gaon, even though that must be impossible with the drugs’ continuous effects. Still, he wets his upper lip -which makes Gaon bite his own in an attempt to control himself.
“Won’t you help with my belt, judge Kim ?”
How is it that even drugged, even unable to undress himself, Yohan can behave as if he’s in a position of power ? As if he has the high ground and Gaon floundering would be his admitting defeat ? It’s foul, is what it is. Gaon feels so vexed he almost walks back out, damn the certain guilt that would eat at his guts for the rest of the night.
Then again, Yohan mostly puts on a front to hide any weakness. Maybe there is something to uncover there; though not today.
“Sit down,” he urges, as kind as he can make it.
The way Yohan sprawls back without his usual poise, looking for all intent and purpose lost in the bed, showcases how strongly the drug has affected him. One hand behind him, he leans all his weight back on it, leaving the front of his body sprawled and open to observation. And Gaon can’t help himself, catches his eyes trailing down the sharp line of his neck and the gaping shirt, pristine white contrasting the tan skin left on display. While Gaon was never one for societal beauty, or one to see value in someone’s good looks, he never could deny how attractive Yohan is. It took him by surprise that he was so charming as well, his confidence rendering his every gesture captivating. And now Gaon has to deal with the fact that of course, he is attracted to his wit and intelligence and personality, but hell, the sight of him on display like this makes him want to drop to his knees.
Which, he does. Not for the purpose he would like, and is likely going to imagine later tonight, but each knee hits the ground with a small thud anyway.
Yohan is now looking down at him from the higher ground, his legs spread to accommodate him. The position, adopted with easy laziness, exudes a certain kind of power that causes a tingle to crawl up Gaon’s spine.
He focuses on his task instead of the tension in Yohan’s thigh when he accidentally brushes it.
Yohan’s hand flies down, and when it fails to find a grip or a reason to draw back, he simply pats Gaon’s head.
Gaon’s breath hitches quite involuntarily in his throat; Yohan might not be in any state to even understand the implications of his gestures, but Gaon is very much aware. Heat becomes a bottomless pool in his lower stomach, the strong fingers still threading strands of his hair as if in praise. With the position, he cannot not think about it, and the image makes him squirm in place.
It is absolute torture to unbuckle the belt. The tint of the metal brings a flush to Gaon’s cheeks, he can feel it. Desperate both to have this over with and to keep it going, he tugs at it. Smooth, expensive leather slides through the hoops and against his skin, as if begging to be wrapped around his wrists.
He thinks helping him out of his pants entirely would be too much for them both, especially for the embarrassment Yohan will probably feel and ignore in the morning. So he slowly stands back on his feet, the hand in his hair sliding down with the movements, frustratingly unwilling to leave his skin until there’s no other choice. And there he stands, looking down at the chief with his nails digging in the supple leather of the belt.
God, but he looks like a painting, those bathed in warm lighting that urge you to come hither and touch. The only reason for not obeying is the fear -the absolute certainty- of ruining the masterpiece with the brush of a finger.
“Sir,” he clears his throat, moving away to carefully place the belt over the armchair in the corner; it can be put in the dresser tomorrow. “You have to get your shirt off.”
“Mmm,” Yohan simply says, eyes leisurely following Gaon. “You should go then.”
“Sure,” Gaon snorts. “And let you fall and crack your head open.”
“You shouldn’t see.”
It’s barely a grumble, something Gaon has to pick up with a little more attention.
“A little late for that,” he mumbles back, because the vision of Yohan’s naked chest will haunt him anyway, what’s a bit more skin.
With much groans and a reluctance Gaon doesn’t yet understand, the chief pushes himself up until he’s sitting straight. It must be quite uncomfortable, as he blinks a few times and takes more than a moment to meet Gaon’s gaze again.
“Turn around.”
Despite the obvious slurring of his words, there is no doubt he means them. They hold power, too, power that makes Gaon obey almost instantly, though he huffs at least once to express his discontent.
The ruffle of the sheets and the clothes and the occasional groan make it too easy to imagine, and he finds himself longing to face him again, if only to kick that thought to the curb when met with reality.
A sudden crash and low curse make his heart jump, force him to whirl around. If Yohan truly went and cracked his head…
“Chief, are you-”
The breath dies in his throat as Yohan straightens up, the light shining mercilessly on his back and leaving all the marks of his violent past for him to see.
The first one he sees, of course, is the cross burned into his skin. The mockery of a religious sign etched into the body of a man who is the opposite of pious. The testimony of the church fire, a testimony Yohan can never escape from, no matter if he started the flames or not. The colour palette of the scar itself hovers between the pink fading of ancient marks and the darkness of burnt wood. There is no helping the way his gaze drags along the cross, straight down and then up again, across the broad shoulders and along his spine.
Because of how intently he is watching, Gaon notices the older marks, underneath the cross but peeking out from the sides. He doesn’t realise how close he has gotten until he gets the full view of them, the clear, calculated repetition of the same mark all over his back, attesting of the intentional violence bestowed upon him.
With that hindsight, most things about Yohan suddenly make sense.
Gaon is surprised to find his eyes wet, to find his fingers stretching forward. That’s when he lingers on the thought of people hurting him, feeling entitled enough to touch him and leave marks on his own body. Entitlement is the last thing Gaon feels now, faced with a vulnerability Yohan probably never entrusted anyone with.
That shakes him awake.
Yohan hasn’t moved. Gaon knows him well enough by now to know he’s doing it on purpose, letting him look his fill. Maybe he expects him to ask; maybe he expects him to leave.
So Gaon does neither of these things, draws his hand back to his side and sticks it in his pocket for good measure.
“Are you in pain ?”
He manages it through the lump in his throat, but thank God it doesn’t sound watery.
“Psychosomatic only,” comes the hollow response. “Though maybe the drugs are to thank for the numbness right now.”
“I…”
What ? I what ?
Understand ? He doesn’t, couldn’t. I hate that you were hurt this way, that you’re forced to leave with a reminder of the worst moment of your life on your own skin ? What is he supposed to say, exactly ?
“Nobody knows it’s there,” Yohan says in a breath, as if to himself; as if he didn’t mean to say it at all. “Just the doctors.”
And now, Gaon.
Abruptly, he remembers that Yohan asked him to turn away. Not for the pants, and not from his drugged state, but from this.
“Did you not want me to see ?”
He is aware it’s not quite fair to ask questions, especially one like this, when Yohan is in no state to answer how he normally would. Yet the words escape anyway.
Humming low in his throat, Yohan tilts his head, lets it fall backwards.
“I do not mind. It simply is… ugly.”
The word feels wrong in Yohan’s mouth, applied to his body, to a part of him. Nothing about the judge could ever be ugly in Gaon’s eyes, not even the cruelest words he has already thrown at his face. None of it is ugly, and this scar is just another reminder of how terrifyingly human he is. How all that he does, despite hiding his true motives behind layers of pride and haughtiness and even, sometimes indeed, cruelty, comes from how broken he is. How broken people made him.
Out of nowhere, Yohan starts to laugh, though it can hardly be called that. Husky and close to choked, as if his tongue impairs its fullness.
“How fitting it is,” he muses, “that you would be the one to see it.”
“Because I look like him ?”
The words taste bad in his mouth, like every time he is reminded of Kang Isaac and their resemblance.
“No,” Yohan says, and doesn’t elaborate.
They’re still standing too close, and Gaon has to fight not to come closer still. It is stupid to want that, as stupid as wishing to touch and kiss the scarred parts of Yohan’s back, but he wishes all the same. He won’t, of course. The desire will remain and fester. But he can refute Yohan’s previous statement, can try…
“It’s not ugly.”
A noise escapes the chief judge, something so unfamiliar Gaon cannot even begin to understand the intricacies of it. He doesn’t try. Bites down all of the things he could say, might say in a different situation.
“You should rest, chief.”
It says a lot that Yohan doesn’t protest, simply hums in quiet assent. He lets Gaon gingerly lead him to the bed and watch him get under the cover. Only once it is clear the judge is in no state to get up and cause even more trouble tonight, eyes already closing and breaths heavy, he turns to leave.
As he closes the door, Gaon finds himself praying for a dreamless sleep; for Yohan to be blessed with a short reprieve; for him not to wake up gasping and reaching for a ghost.
Maybe…
Maybe, with time, and effort, and more than a little compromise, Gaon can be the one he reaches for when he wakes from a nightmare.