INT Ch 2.1

Haewon placed his hand over the back of the man’s hand, which was gently brushing against his forehead, and slowly pulled it down. The man’s gaze flickered. His fingers softly traced Haewon’s eyebrows, eyelids, cheeks, and jawline, lingering on his face.

“You don’t have a fever.”

“I do. Check it again.”

Haewon guided the man’s hand inside his shirt. The man swallowed dryly, visibly uneasy. Reaching the limit of his patience, the man embraced Haewon, pressing his lips to Haewon’s neck. His hand urgently unfastened Haewon’s waistband, drawing out his semi-hard length with a touch as tender as soothing a child. Haewon rested his cheek on the man’s shoulder, watching him intently.

“Ah…”

As Haewon let out a moan, the man briefly met his eyes. Haewon parted his lips, as if inviting a kiss, releasing warm breaths in close proximity. When the man tightened his grip, Haewon bit his lip, stifling a moan, gripping the man’s arm as his body shivered slightly.

“Ah… ah!”

His hips jerked as he climaxed, a viscous trail trickling down the man’s hand. Haewon glanced down, dazedly observing his lower half, limp and slackened. He leaned his forehead against the man’s shoulder, nuzzling softly.

The man diligently cleaned his hands with a tissue, then helped tidy Haewon’s lower body, pulling up his briefs to cover him and zipping up his pants. Only after the man finished did Haewon open his eyes.

Haewon’s senior, the first violinist of the Hankyung Symphony, was wiping his hands with a couple of wet wipes, his lips pressed tightly shut, seeming reluctant to speak. Haewon sat on a narrow practice room chair and finally broke the silence.

“I didn’t quit because of the conductor. I just didn’t want to do it anymore.”

It was thirty minutes into their meeting when the purpose of their encounter finally surfaced. Since everyone else had gone to Japan for a concert tour, the senior had invited Haewon to meet in an empty practice room at the concert hall, yet he simply stared at Haewon with a disapproving frown, barely saying a word.

Haewon, looking up at him like a scolded child, gently placed his hand over his senior’s, causing the man’s brow to furrow as if in frustration.

As if he were committing something shameful, he gasped for breath, grasped Haewon’s cheek, and kissed him again, stifling his voice.

In this era, where intellectuals were practically exterminated, advocating for sensory indulgence rather than restraint had become a glorified ideal. And this senior—who prided himself as the last bastion of knowledge—awkwardly grappled with his own urges as he wiped his hand with wet wipes, as if trying to cleanse himself of impurities.

Haewon, wiping his own hand with the wet wipes the senior offered, watched as the man diligently cleaned himself. The sight of him, desperately trying to erase his guilt, struck Haewon as somewhat pitiful.

At times, Haewon found the senior’s overly self-conscious reactions rather endearing, as he hurriedly tried to shake off his guilt.

Haewon walked up behind him, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist and resting his face against his back.

A stable job, stable income, stable family.

With all the hallmarks of a model life, the man’s shoulders stiffened.

“You’re not working on anything else, are you?”

He was referring to the album Haewon had worked on with director Kim Jaemin. Since then, Haewon hadn’t taken on any new, high-profile work. Thanks to the card from his father, he had no need to actively pursue jobs.

The senior inadvertently revealed that he was paying attention to Haewon despite trying not to.

Haewon didn’t reply, instead pressing his face against the man’s shoulder in silence. Gradually, the man’s breathing calmed. He tried to cover his slip.

“Juhee mentioned it. She said you don’t seem to be working much since then.”

Juhee was Haewon’s college classmate, a member of the symphony, his junior, and his senior’s wife.

Trying to use his wife’s name as an excuse for his interest in Haewon only made him seem more endearing. Haewon couldn’t help but smile.

“That’s not what I meant. What I’m trying to say is…”

“Don’t worry about me. Just don’t.”

Haewon meant he didn’t want the man’s attention, but he misconstrued it yet again.

“If you rest for too long, you’ll lose your touch, your sensitivity.”

Practicing was a daily routine for Haewon, even when he disliked it. The only things he avoided were activities requiring social interaction. For some reason, he couldn’t neglect the violin. He still attended lessons twice a week and practiced daily, though his senior didn’t know he was still studying under Professor Jang.

The senior believed Haewon had quit the symphony because of him. Haewon let him believe this misunderstanding, finding it amusing to watch him struggle with self-justification. Observing him allowed Haewon to understand how compassion for humanity took root.

“The second violinist is going to Germany for further studies soon. We’re planning to hold an open audition, but if you’re willing, I could strongly recommend you.”

“Would that be all right, Sunbae?”

Haewon asked if it would be okay for him to hover around both him and Juhee. The senior believed Haewon had left the symphony because of him.

Haewon was a forbidden entity sandwiched between him and his wife, Juhee. Even if the offer wasn’t just a guilt-ridden gesture, Haewon had no interest in returning to the symphony. Structured organizations and rules simply didn’t suit him, and with his father’s wealth, he didn’t need to endure them.

The senior’s gaze faltered, drifting aimlessly across the messy table covered in sheet music.

His desperation and awkwardness were so blatant it became off-putting. As he assumed, Haewon and he were far from anything serious, nor did Haewon ever intend for it to be.

To put it bluntly, he was nothing more than a minor distraction in Haewon’s life, like a TV channel he occasionally tuned into when bored. A fleeting outlet for Haewon’s urges—something he’d briefly watch for five minutes before changing the channel, face crinkling with distaste.

“Don’t worry about me. I won’t worry about you, either.”

“I do worry about you, Sunbae.”

“Haewon.”

A dark beast, living with suppressed desire buried like a knife inside him. The tension between beast and human stirred within him.

“Thank you for the offer. I’ll think about it.”

“Opportunities like this are rare. Everyone’s fighting tooth and nail to stay in; meanwhile, how are you…?”

The position in the symphony held little allure for Haewon. The pay wasn’t high, the benefits weren’t exceptional. Aside from getting to perform with famous musicians and picking up private lessons or college prep students, there wasn’t much appeal.

The ordinary concerns and thoughts of ordinary people in his world occasionally struck him as foreign. Haewon had never seriously pondered the tools and methods needed to sustain a lifetime.

Haewon knew well enough this wasn’t what he wanted. This was not what he wanted.

Something more… something more stimulating…

“Huh?”

Lost in his own thoughts, Haewon suddenly met Sunbae’s gaze, searching for an answer.

“Oh, right. I’ll get back to you. I have somewhere to be.”

“Alright. It’s cold these days; dress warmly. It’s only early winter, but the chill is setting in.”

Haewon shrugged on his coat. Sunbae approached, holding what appeared to be a scarf. As Haewon buttoned his coat, Sunbae wrapped his scarf around Haewon’s neck. A faint, clean scent enveloped him. Haewon leaned in and brushed a soft kiss against his lips. Sunbae’s face froze, the color creeping up to his cheeks.

“Thanks, Sunbae.”

“I’ll be in touch. Soon.”

A shabby seduction, lingering just shy of crossing boundaries yet unable to let go entirely. “Soon” and “I’ll contact you” were words that passed through his lips but were never acted upon, nor would they be in the future—they both knew that well. He pacified his hollow cravings by savoring but never fully indulging.

With a glance, Haewon offered a final farewell and left the practice room.

The hallways were empty, as the majority of the symphony had gone abroad, leaving silence in their wake. Exiting the building, he stepped into an arriving cab.

“To the H Hospital funeral home, please,” he told the driver, sinking into the backseat and pulling the scarf up to cover half his face.

Taeshin was dead.

He’d received a call the previous night. His phone had run out of battery without his notice, and over a hundred missed calls were waiting, unanswered.

Among them were ten missed calls from Taeshin. Just as Haewon scrolled through the list, his phone rang again. It was Taeshin’s number.

He picked up indifferently, expecting another conversation about his unrequited crush—a tiresome exchange he had little patience for.

But it wasn’t Taeshin; it was his mother. She broke down on the phone. The night Haewon hadn’t answered, Taeshin had jumped from the rooftop of his 30-story apartment at midnight. In the courtyard, snow blanketed the artificial garden. On that white snow, his head had shattered, and the crimson blood spread like a stain.

A man who had never appeared striking to him, not even interesting, became that night someone else. The dark red blood pooling on the snow was beautiful, the twisted corpse a morbid curiosity.

Taeshin’s mother, unaware of how close he and Haewon actually were, had contacted him thinking he was Taeshin’s close friend. Her voice carried not just sorrow but a kind of sound Haewon had never heard—a visceral, animal-like anguish that made his fingers tremble.

Listening to her, Haewon swallowed hard, feeling faint.

That night, before jumping, Taeshin had called Haewon ten times. Haewon had ignored his calls countless times before, responding only when the ringing became insufferable. But he hadn’t known Taeshin was calling that night.

Taeshin was dead.

He had been one of the few close to him, and his death didn’t feel real. It felt strange and unfamiliar. Haewon was not yet at an age where losing people felt natural. Taeshin had been so young. His death, unexpected, shook even Haewon, who was indifferent to most things.

After the call, Haewon sat blankly on his couch, phone in hand.

Taeshin had been somewhat melancholic, though not to the extent of needing medication. Like Haewon, he didn’t have to claw his way up in the world due to his wealthy parents, which had given him an oddly relaxed outlook on life. What troubled him most had always been the unrequited love he received nothing in return for. And he was deeply mired in that love.

Was it all because of that man in the end?

As his thoughts drifted there, Haewon didn’t feel pity but rather a loathing close to revulsion.

So it amounted to nothing more.

He almost wished Taeshin had taken his life for some other reason. Even though he hadn’t taken the call, it felt like he was listening to complaints he didn’t want to hear. Even in death, Taeshin continued to bother him.

Shaking off thoughts of Taeshin, Haewon stood up and took a shower. Despite his detached nature, he felt a slight twinge of guilt for missing the calls on the night Taeshin had jumped. After the shower, he picked up his vibrating phone from the table with an urgency uncharacteristic of him.

It was Sunbae.

The same Sunbae who sometimes kissed him, who’d married one of Haewon’s college friends without a word.

The funeral hall was crowded. His parents, figures of influence in society and amassed wealth, had attracted a sizable crowd. Taeshin’s sendoff was anything but lonely, thanks to his well-connected parents.

Their only son’s suicide.

The funeral hall was buzzing not with mourning but with curiosity about death. The mourners intermittently asked each other “Why?” and, conscious of not drawing attention to their voices, would quiet down shortly afterward.

In the center of the beautifully arranged chrysanthemums was a portrait of Taeshin, smiling brightly.

Was it three years? No, maybe four years since I last saw this face.

Ah, so this is what he looked like.

A face with no distinct features, no peculiarities, but a gentle expression with kind eyes.

Taeshin’s face seemed strangely unfamiliar. Haewon had rejected his repeated attempts to meet over the years, citing busyness even when there was nothing urgent to do. Since high school, they had never met on purpose, except for the occasional accidental encounter at concerts or parties after graduation.

He had called me ten times. Even right before he jumped.

After offering a condolence payment, Haewon did not enter the room and instead stood outside, staring at Taeshin’s portrait for a long while before turning away. Before his death and even after it, Haewon had no words for him and did not wish to offer a prayer for his soul.

“Hey? Aren’t you Moon Haewon?”

“Ah.”

Someone grabbed Haewon’s arm and stopped him as he turned. It was a high school classmate, though Haewon couldn’t remember the name or face clearly.

“Did you get the message too? What happened? I thought you and Taeshin Sunbae were pretty close.”

“I haven’t been in touch with him for a while. They must have called everyone in the alumni group.”

“He probably did it so you wouldn’t be lonely on your way out. Are you leaving already? Let’s have a drink. It’s been a while.”

“I have to go, there’s something I need to do.”

“Don’t go yet, come on. Sit down. Isn’t it good to see someone after almost ten years?”

He dragged Haewon, who was reluctant, toward a low table covered with layers of translucent white plastic. Someone had left behind a messy spot with spilled spicy beef soup. A funeral worker came and removed the top layer of plastic, cleaning up the mess. She set down wooden chopsticks and a plastic spoon before asking.

“Would you like a meal? We have spicy beef soup and galbitang. Or would you prefer some snacks with soju?”

“Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine. Had a late lunch.”

“Just give me one spicy beef soup and two bottles of soju.”

Sitting cross-legged felt awkward. Haewon couldn’t sit comfortably and tugged his ankles closer to his body, shifting uneasily.

“You came from Hyeongyeong Symphony, right? You were supposed to do a classical album session, seems like it’s going well?”

“…”

This person, with a vague name and face, knew exactly what Haewon had been up to. Words circulate, spreading in all directions, until even people with vague names and faces hear about them. Taeshin’s death would likely spread the same way—drifting, pushing, disappearing, colliding, and eventually being forgotten. His death had only this much worth.

The reason Haewon didn’t want to drink with his old classmate wasn’t because he had no desire to mourn Taeshin, but because, due to their slightly closer relationship, he didn’t want to defend him in any way or offer any explanations on his behalf.

“How much does that kind of thing pay? For the album work, do they give you a running guarantee? I heard you sold like a hundred thousand copies. Pretty big hit, huh?”

“Well, just enough to get by.”

“You’re so indifferent. What’s the big secret in that?”

At that moment, the food arrived. The spicy beef soup was in a disposable container, and a plate with dried sliced pork, kimchi, rice cakes, and pickled skate was placed beside it.

He stirred his rice into the spicy beef soup and ate it quickly. Haewon tugged his ankles back as they kept slipping out. After swallowing a large mouthful, the man opened his mouth, with bits of rice still visibly rolling around in his mouth. Haewon winced at the sight, already feeling put off by the food.

“By the way, I heard Taeshin Sunbae committed suicide. Do you know why? Is it because artists’ minds are complicated?”

“Maybe.”

“Taeshin Sunbae did art, right? Was he a painter?”

He had majored in sculpture. He didn’t seem particularly talented, and he didn’t care much about it either. He had only chosen sculpture after graduating from a decent high school with the aim of entering a good university, but it was his parents’ decision, not his. Since he had no particular interest in studying, sending him to a good school was easier through art, which, for those who had money, was just a way to appear cultured, while for those who didn’t, it was an unattainable dream.

“Sculpture.”

“Ah, right.”

If he was close enough with Taeshin to attend his funeral, it seemed strange that the classmate didn’t even know what Taeshin majored in. Naturally, there wasn’t much for him to reminisce about with respect to Taeshin.

Haewon was watching him with a detached gaze when the classmate, who had been glancing around, suddenly stood up. It was Taeshin’s father. The classmate approached him, bowed his head, and shook his hand. His expression was somber and sorrowful, as if he might shed big tears at any moment.

“Sir, I don’t know what to say. I’m Kim Junghwan, Taeshin Sunbae’s junior from high school.”

“I see. Thank you for coming.”

“It’s nothing. I deeply regret letting my busy business be an excuse for neglecting Sunbae lately. I should have been more attentive. It’s my fault. We’d planned to meet soon, but he left so suddenly… so suddenly….”

Overcome by the grief of losing his son, Taeshin’s father squeezed Junghwan’s hand, patting it in silence. Those who have lost family members like this would all share the same emotions. Yet on his father’s face was not just sorrow but also regret and remorse.

“Right, you mentioned you’re in the distribution business?”

“Yes, I’m working in a direct distribution business that’s trending these days, with a good number of members.”

“Let’s talk more seriously about it another time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He patted Junghwan on the shoulder and started walking away. Taeshin’s father’s eyes met Haewon’s, but Haewon remained seated. After staring at Haewon for a while, he turned when another guest came to offer condolences.

Junghwan sat down in front of Haewon, a broad smile—unusual for a mourner—on his face.

Taeshin hadn’t had the best relationship with his father. Taeshin had once confided that his father seemed to have caught on to his personality. Taeshin tended to fall for straight men and would fall hard. He might have had a similar relationship with Junghwan here. As an only child, Taeshin was naïve, raised on love alone, and didn’t realize when he was being used. He firmly believed that others genuinely liked him back.

Haewon knew that Taeshin was being taken advantage of, but he never intervened. Why should he? Taeshin’s family was wealthy, so he figured it was fine if that money found its way to those less fortunate. It was like charity. This mindset made him feel more at peace.

“Aren’t you going to pay your respects?”

“Why should I? I’ve never even met him. Today’s the first time.”

“Then why are you here? Didn’t you come to see the chairman?”

“….”

Junghwan looked at Haewon as if confused. It seemed that Haewon was the only one here who was genuinely reflecting on Taeshin’s life and his death, and he resented Taeshin for burdening him with these feelings, even at the end.

As always, Taeshin’s death was as messy as his life. Haewon was sick of it. Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, this was finally the end. With Taeshin’s death, their connection was also severed.

Junghwan, seemingly hoping for another opportunity to talk to Taeshin’s father, looked like he was prepared to stay all night. He opened a bottle of soju, poured some into Haewon’s empty glass, and handed him the bottle, suggesting that he pour one as well. Haewon stood up.

“I’ve got to go. I have something to attend to.”

“Already? If you wait a bit, the chairman should be free once the crowd thins out.”

But Haewon hadn’t come with that intent. Junghwan, however, was lost in thoughts of his business.

Haewon got up without hesitation, picked up his coat, and started walking away. Junghwan called after him.

“Let’s keep in touch.”

“Sure.”

They exchanged words they both knew would lead nowhere, then parted ways. As Haewon turned to leave, someone entered.

A tall man with an imposing presence, perhaps accentuated by his black clothing, was so striking that it made those heading toward the exit pause.

The man handed over an envelope containing his condolence money and walked straight into the funeral hall. Haewon, too, paused, watching the man’s face and profile as he passed by.

Where have I seen him?

Ah, he’s the guy from the hotel swimming pool.

He’d been holding Haewon’s forgotten swimsuit on the tip of his finger in the shower booth.

Why was he here?

Could he know Taeshin’s father?

But it wasn’t likely he knew Taeshin. Knowing Taeshin’s taste for appearances, he would have mentioned a guy who looked like that if they were acquainted.

Curious, Haewon watched the man. Though he wasn’t a celebrity or public figure, many eyes in the hall followed him, including Haewon’s.

The man seemed to know Taeshin’s father, the chairman of Kyowon Group. He approached him with a respectful bow, offering his condolences. Watching his retreating figure, Haewon turned away.

∞ ∞ ∞

Haewon left the funeral hall and walked aimlessly. His officetel was only a ten-minute drive away. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, wrapping a scarf given to him by Sunbae Choi around his face, exposing only half of it to the street. He hunched his shoulders as he walked, but the chill of early winter penetrated his clothes.

Since it was about a ten-minute drive, he figured it would take around thirty minutes on foot and thought he’d try walking. But within five minutes, Haewon realized he’d made a poor decision, although he stubbornly ignored the empty taxis passing by and kept walking.

By the time he reached his officetel, Taeshin’s death had long since evaporated from his mind. His jaw trembled as he arrived. After stepping off the elevator, he loosened the scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, walked down the corridor, and headed toward his door. Then he noticed someone.

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“….”

“I kept calling and thought something had happened to you. When it crossed my mind that you might be in an accident, my heart dropped. When you didn’t respond, I thought you might have died.”

It wasn’t Haewon who had died—it was someone else.

“How did you find me here?”

Standing in front of Haewon’s officetel door was Director Kim Jaemin, who was supposed to be in LA, dressed even lighter than Haewon despite the early winter chill.

“If I want to find you, it’s not impossible. Did you shut off your phone completely?”

“No, I just turned it off.”

“Let’s go inside. It’s cold.”

He shivered slightly, evidently feeling the cold. Holding the scarf he had taken off in his hand, Haewon approached him. Kim Jaemin gestured towards the door lock with a nod, urging Haewon to open the door.

“It’s not polite to show up at someone’s home like this without an invitation.”

“Are you telling me to leave?”

“Who asked you to come?”

“I got on a plane yesterday to come see you and arrived in Korea this morning. I crossed the Pacific for you alone—it wasn’t some short trip up from the countryside. I spent twelve hours on a plane just for you. Do you think that’s something you say to someone who did that?”

“Just go. It’s late.”

Haewon punched in the door lock code and unlocked it. Leaving him standing there in bewilderment, Haewon went inside and shut the door. There was some noise outside as he seemed to pace around angrily, but soon, the sound faded. Haewon knew his pride wouldn’t allow him to knock or ring the bell.

He threw his clothes onto the bed carelessly and went into the bathroom. Standing under the shower’s hot stream, he let it warm his frozen body. The heat slowly relaxed his tense bones and muscles.

After finishing his shower, he put on a shirt and pants. Drying his damp hair with a towel, he tore open a packet of instant soup and placed it in the microwave. Just as he pressed the auto-cook button, the doorbell rang.

To his surprise, it was Kim Jaemin on the intercom screen. Begging to be let in was unlike him, and not a style Haewon liked. Haewon found himself suddenly feeling genuine dislike for him.

“…Sigh.”

A sigh escaped him. Haewon stayed by the microwave, ignoring Kim Jaemin. The bell continued to ring persistently throughout the soup’s two-minute cook time.

It was a frustrating, bothersome night in so many ways. The unexpected visit from Kim Jaemin was less irritating than Lee Taeshin, who had committed suicide.

Haewon put on his headphones. Searching up a recording of Lorin Maazel’s concert that he had watched on DVD recently, he turned the volume up to the max.

As he was listening to Wagner conducted by Lorin Maazel and spooning a few mouthfuls of soup to ease his hunger, he suddenly felt someone tap him on the shoulder. Startled, he turned his head.

Standing there were the officetel security guard and Kim Jaemin. With a rough hand, Kim Jaemin took off Haewon’s headphones that were blocking out the world.

“I thought something had happened. Why don’t you respond after coming inside? I really thought something had happened this time.”

“What is this?”

Haewon got up and looked at the security guard with an annoyed expression.

“Glad to see everything’s okay. I thought there was some kind of emergency since he said he was the elder brother of the 2205 resident. Are you both alright, then? I’ll be on my way.”

Ignoring Haewon’s incredulous look, the security guard left the officetel without a second glance. Kim Jaemin shrugged, as if what he’d done was no big deal, as if he was some kind of clever jokester.

Haewon snatched his headphones back from his hand, faintly hearing Wagner’s music still playing from them.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What else could I do if you wouldn’t show your face? On a night this cold, you really think I should’ve just gone away? Why are you acting so harsh today?”

“Leave.”

“It’s quite spacious. Must’ve cost a fair bit to rent a place like this. With what you’re making, you couldn’t cover rent here. Is it family money?”

He asked with genuine curiosity. Haewon’s income wasn’t enough to afford this high-end officetel in central Seoul. Haewon couldn’t understand it either. Security here wasn’t lax—they weren’t the kind to just open doors for anyone. They were former security professionals or people who’d completed relevant training.

“A hundred dollars didn’t sway them, so I gave them ten bills. They still seemed hesitant, so I emptied my wallet. It took around four thousand dollars to open that door.”

“Leave.”

“I don’t recall doing anything wrong. Did I make a mistake? Did I offend you somehow?”

For the first time, his expression turned serious. His usual playful look hardened, and his face was as tense as when he was producing an album.

“I told you to go. You come in here uninvited after I told you to leave. How can I welcome you? I wasn’t happy to see you in the first place.”

“I called a hundred times. Knowing your personality, if you’d gotten tired of me, you would have said so by now. I thought something must’ve happened. Once I started worrying, I couldn’t stop. This is the truth. I came because I was worried.”

He explained calmly, conveying his genuine emotions and concern for Haewon. But Haewon didn’t hear it. In his eyes, there was nothing but an intruder who had forced his way into his officetel. He brushed his damp hair back with a weary hand and said,

“Alright. Now that you’ve seen I’m fine, you can go.”

“I thought we were close enough for this. Giving you the main solo in the album wasn’t easy for me, with your lack of experience and unproven skills.”

“Oh.”

A laugh mixed with a sigh escaped him. Kim Jaemin’s eyebrow twitched at Haewon’s sneer.

“Do you really think I slept with you just to secure that one solo?”

Haewon asked out of genuine curiosity about what he thought. Kim Jaemin didn’t respond. He seemed to believe that giving Haewon the solo track on the album was, at least in part, a reason for why Haewon had been with him.

“That’s some confidence you have.”

“What?”

Haewon set down the headphones, which were faintly emitting sound, onto the table and picked up his bowl of soup. Ignoring Kim Jaemin, he sat on the sofa and continued to eat the still-warm soup.

“I didn’t want that solo track on the album badly enough to sell myself for it.”

It wasn’t an offhand comment. Haewon had never desired anything so intensely in his life that he’d need to sell himself to achieve it. He’d never even experienced the kind of longing others described.

He was alive because he wasn’t dead, breathing because he could. Music was something he’d learned, and as long as it didn’t fill him with a deep-seated distaste, he’d keep at it. If he was going to do it, he might as well do it well, and working with a famous composer was probably better than working with some nobody. Soloist was preferable to ensemble, so he took it. But it wasn’t for any higher purpose or reason. It was simply better than not doing it.

“So, can I take that to mean you slept with me just because you wanted to?”

“Think whatever you like.”

“So you didn’t even want to do the project that badly, yet you spent the entire summer in a hotel with me. How am I supposed to interpret that?”

“Don’t interpret it any way at all. Because it really doesn’t mean anything.”

“So, it was just to pass the time?”

“Did you only realize that now?”

Haewon emptied his soup bowl and set it on the table. He wanted him to leave. The exhaustion of walking half an hour in the cold and letting the fatigue dissolve in hot water now weighed heavily on his whole body. He was too tired to talk.

“Just leave. I’m tired.”

Haewon took the folded blanket, draped it over himself, and turned on a live DVD of Zubin Mehta’s conducting. Music was the only way he knew to escape things that felt burdensome and noisy.

He looked over at Jaemin, who was still standing there, as if wondering why he hadn’t left yet.

“Get out.”

“Keep acting like this, and I’ll make sure you won’t survive in this field.”

Haewon snorted and turned up the volume with the remote. Laughter escaped him, unrestrained. He then stopped laughing and spoke to Jaemin coldly.

“I’ve already lost interest in that field. And in you.”

Jaemin didn’t respond. Haewon’s expression showed no desire to hear any explanation or excuse from him. Instead, he increased the volume further. Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A major, second movement, resonated in the apartment’s living room. Haewon lay down on the sofa, using one arm as a pillow.

The movement’s serene introduction builds up like gathering snow, finally crashing like a mighty wave that sweeps everything away, leaving only the pure and untainted behind. Haewon thought that if there was something he wanted so badly he’d sell his body for it, it would be to hear Beethoven’s Symphony conducted by Beethoven himself. He would have sold his insignificant body a hundred times over to listen to the Berlin Philharmonic perform under his baton. But that was an impossible dream. Beethoven had died centuries ago, and there was nothing else he wanted so badly that he’d sell himself for it.

As Symphony No. 7 transitioned to the third movement, Haewon forgot that Jaemin hadn’t left and was still lingering.

Jaemin stepped in front of Haewon, holding the remote. The music abruptly stopped. Haewon looked up at him.

“What are you doing? Didn’t you hear me earlier? I don’t care about that industry anymore, or about you. Get out before I call the police.”

“Is this some kind of game? Like, are you playing hard to get?”

Even though Haewon had clearly told him to leave, Jaemin continued to interpret his words however he wanted. A skill, in its way. Jaemin was clearly unused to being dismissed, much less realizing the nature of what was happening to him.

Haewon reached for his phone. He picked it up from where it lay on the sofa.

“Hello? Police? Someone’s trespassed; please come right away. I’m at—”

Before he could give the address, Jaemin snatched the phone from him. On the other end, a man’s voice asked, “Hello? Sir? Go on.” Realizing Haewon was serious about calling the police, Jaemin’s face contorted. He raised the phone to his ear, his tone suddenly bright and conciliatory.

“I’m sorry. My friend was just joking. No, really, nothing’s wrong. Yes, sorry about that.”

He ended the call and tossed the phone out of Haewon’s reach. Though he didn’t mean to provoke Jaemin, he had, and now Jaemin was furious. His face revealed nothing but anger, with no trace of patience.

“Why are you acting like this? We had a good time. What were you thinking, spending all that time with me in the hotel? Did that really mean nothing to you?”

“…”

When Haewon didn’t respond, Jaemin let out a deep sigh.

“I didn’t mean it earlier when I said I gave you the solo for that reason. I’m sorry.”

“…”

Haewon stood up from the sofa. Jaemin had flown across the Pacific to see him, probably expecting Haewon to be delighted, maybe even to throw himself into Jaemin’s open arms. If Jaemin had shown up somewhere other than Haewon’s apartment doorstep, he might have been happy to see him. Perhaps he would have been mildly surprised and asked how this had all come about. But right now, he wasn’t in the mood for that. He didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone.

Before he died, Taeshin had called Haewon. Over ten times. Then, when he didn’t answer, Taeshin had thrown himself off the rooftop of a high-rise, crashing into the snow that had gently covered the ground below. He had committed suicide. Lee Taeshin was dead.

Haewon thought he hadn’t been that shocked. He thought he hadn’t been that sad. He felt oddly relieved knowing those bothersome calls would never come again, and even found it bearable to watch others at the funeral pretend to mourn while eying each other as fresh prey.

He should have answered that call. While Taeshin was teetering on the edge, gripping the cold rooftop railing as the high winds battered him, Haewon ignored the calls. He hadn’t even realized they were coming in.

The unexpected, oppressive weight now pressing down on Haewon’s limbs was guilt for Taeshin’s death.