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There’s probably some psychoanalytical mumbo jumbo that would describe Yoojin’s fascination with Sung Hyunjae’s competence as some sort of deep-rooted desire to be taken care of. Add in the significant age gap between them, and any armchair shrink would be salivating, theorizing that Yoojin didn’t get enough love and attention from his parents, so now he’s seeking it out in an older man—gotten his wires all crossed, his kinks in a knot, real messed up in the head.
Yoojin wishes it were that simple, honestly. Beats just thinking that Hyunjae is fucking hot when he’s brilliant and Machiavellian and just a little too scary for anyone’s own good.
Primarily Yoojin’s.
Shit. There’s just something about that cool imperviousness that gets Yoojin’s hackles up, makes him want to poke at Hyunjae, test out how far he can push before that deceptively easy smile shows a sharp edge. It’s not like he’s into it because he doesn’t value his own neck or wants to get hurt—if he did, he’d have hooked up with Riette a while ago.
No, no, he’s quite satisfied with all of his limbs remaining attached and his skin not becoming a map of scars.
“You’re staring at me,” Hyunjae says without lifting his head. He’s been reading the newspaper for the last ten minutes, sipping from his first cup of morning coffee, which Yoojin knows he takes black, no sugar, like a punch to the face.
Goddamn S-classes. They all have stomachs made out of steel. They’ll never have to worry about indigestion or ulcers. Bastards.
Yoojin shrugs, shoving even more perfectly fried egg into his mouth. “Yeah, so what?”
“Mn, nothing, I suppose. I certainly don’t mind, although that’s a rather fearsome expression you’re wearing.” Hyunjae has long, strong fingers, the kind that women go nuts over. Yoojin knows that because they do go insane about Hyunjae’s hands online, they have fan clubs. All of them say they’re like a pianist’s hands, the hands of an artist, so deft yet delicate—
Yoojin’s seen those hands crush throats. Felt those hands grip his neck like metal shackles. But they’re right, all those crazy women—Hyunjae’s hands can be very graceful in quiet moments like this, as if they aren’t capable of unthinkable violence, cradling the coffee mug and turning the pages, coming to rest on the table, the fingernails round and shiny and buffed by the nail salon that Yoojin is sure is housed somewhere in the Jupiter Guild.
“Yoojin-gun.”
Yoojin snaps to, blinking. “Yeah?”
“You’ve got…” Hyunjae sighs, folds the paper, and reaches across the table with a napkin, dabbing at Yoojin’s mouth. “How careless you can be, Yoojin-gun. Or—”
And whatever Hyunjae is going to say next will piss Yoojin off, he can feel it in the air, static electricity shimmering up his arms, curling down his back.
“Don’t you dare—”
“Or is it that you enjoy me fussing over you, hm?” Hyunjae ignores him, lightly patting the corner of his mouth, wiping away more runny yolk. “Are you feeling lonely, Yoojin-gun? Is that why you keep staring at me? All you had to do was say something, darling.”
“I hate you,” Yoojin says frankly. But he doesn’t move, just tips his chin slightly forward, and Hyunjae’s thumb is warm on his bottom lip, stroking back and forth exactly twice before pulling away.
Yoojin’s heart thuds in his chest, echoing against the mana stones buried beside it. He ducks his head and stabs what remains of the fried egg, deliberately making a mess of himself and eating loudly, mouth open, like Hyunjae’s touch isn’t lingering on his lips.
“Yoojin,” Hyunjae says, indulgent, eyes crinkling at the corners, voice wrapping around Yoojin—smooth and dark, like the first sip of whiskey that burns just right.
Hyunjae leans back in his chair, the newspaper forgotten. “If you truly hated me, you’d have left by now. Or tried to stab me in my sleep. But here you are, eating my food, drinking my coffee, and staring at me like I'm a puzzle you’re determined to solve.”
“You’re not a puzzle.” This is underscored by another violent stab that scratches up the plate. “You’re a pest. Maybe I’m just biding my time. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike. A weak F-class like me can’t do something outrageous like that without preparing, you know? Who do you think I am?”
Hyunjae laughs softly. “Indeed. You’re right. A weak F-class couldn’t hope to take down an S-class, no matter how… intimate a position they might be in.”
“Shut up,” Yoojin mutters, shoving the fork into his mouth. The egg is cold now, but he chews it anyway, if only to avoid saying something he’ll regret. Hyunjae’s laughter is fond, twisting Yoojin’s stomach in a way that has nothing to do with indigestion.
The morning sunlight, combined with the breeze, creates the perfect sensation on his skin, painting the whole rooftop garden as some sort of picturesque backdrop for—well, the kind of movie those women in Hyunjae’s fan club would swoon at.
Ridiculous. This is just. Ridiculous. This isn’t Yoojin’s life, This is someone else’s life. It’s absurd. It’s infuriating. It’s—
“You’re thinking too hard,” Hyunjae says, interrupting Yoojin’s spiraling thoughts. “I can hear the gears grinding from here.”
“Those are my molars. From how annoying you are.”
Hyunjae tuts. “That’s even worse.”
Yoojin glares at him, but there’s no heat in it. Not really. It’s a great morning. There are no gates threatening to break open. His brother is at home, overseeing the guild. For a blessedly rare moment, all is peaceful. The world is ending, sure, but it’s always ending. Nothing new there, and not worth stressing out about when he’s got sunshine on his shoulders and Hyunjae’s careful, measured gaze on him.
“I want japchae for lunch,” he announces, slightly petulantly, like how Yoohyun used to sound on the rare days he felt bratty. But he takes it a step further, waving his fork around like a royal scepter. “Not the cheap stuff, either! Or takeout. I want it handmade. Can you do that, guildmaster-nim, or is that beyond your skills?”
Hyunjae lifts his coffee cup again. “Understood. Shall I prepare bulgogi while I’m at it? And perhaps,” he pauses, considering, “some added vegetables. You need to gain your strength, after all.”
Yoojin’s eyebrows go up. He points the fork at Hyunjae, not caring that it’s damn rude. “Yeah? Why’s that? You gonna put me to work for my meals? Cheapskate!”
Hyunjae smiles, showing just enough teeth that Yoojin thrills. Not that he forgets how dangerous Hyunjae can be, how dangerous he is. He’s not stupid, but…
Well.
Even he’s got a weakness or two.