MLCD Chapter 3.1 || Psyche

If loneliness is the start of love,

 

What makes love end?

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As the autumn wind blew, the fallen leaves cascaded from the massive sycamore tree standing in front of the apartment building. Unfortunately for Shavonne, who was walking down the street carrying a basket of onions to gift to “anybody”. The leaves seemed to have it out for him. They fell on his head, shoulders, and face, sticking to him as if they were determined to cling on.

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So unlucky. Shavonne grumbled to himself. He knew that collecting fallen leaves before the first snowfall was considered bad luck. He remembered the myth the orphanage director used to tell him every autumn. But those thoughts had faded away with time.

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He blew with his mouth to remove the leaves from his face, shook off his shoulders to free his clothes of the clinging leaves, and shook his head as hard as he could to drive out the fallen leaves that had been stuck in his hair. Whether he was covered in leaves or not before the frost didn’t matter; his 29 years had been filled with misfortunes, leaving him wondering what cursed him.

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Shavonne also brushed off the fallen leaves from the onion basket. One leaf, two leaves… As his fingertips touched the leaves, they crumbled as if they were dried out. Finally, he tried to get rid of the remaining leaves, but a gust of wind blew them away. Autumn rustled throughout the street.

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Less than a month had passed since the end of summer, yet autumn had unmistakably arrived. In two weeks, frost would appear, in four weeks, snow would fall, and eight weeks later, homeless people would freeze to death on the side of the road. Bunch experienced brief warm days and long, harsh cold days.

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After entering the apartment building, Shavonne checked the mailbox out of habit. The mailbox that had always been empty was now filled with letters after a long time. One, three, five… He lost count. However, Shavonne’s expression remained lukewarm. ‘Probably advertisements,’ he thought. ‘If not, it’s likely a wrong address.’

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And this wasn’t just a groundless assumption. Was it three or four years ago? Suddenly, Shavonne, who had never received any letters except advertisements, received dozens of them. It turned out to be the result of a false article published in a cheap gossip magazine called “Truths,” stating that a popular actor lived in Apartment 303.

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Carrying the mail half-heartedly, Shavonne headed home. As soon as he entered, he heard a familiar voice coming from the kitchen.

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“Mr. Shavonne, you’re craving onion bagels today, right?”

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It was Lewellyn. At some point, Lewellyn had made himself comfortable in Room 303, as if it were his own place, and Shavonne didn’t mind sharing the space as long as nothing unusual happened.

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Shavonne, who put down the onion basket, answered while unbuttoning his coat.

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“Not at all. I’m not on the mood for them today.”

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“No way. Even if you say that, I know that you want it. I can tell what Mr. Shavonne feels.”

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“Have you ever really known what I’m thinking? You’re really something.”

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“Of course I know. Now Mr. Shavonne wants to give me a crushing hug, make out, and then have onion bagels cooked by me.”

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…It was clear that the onion bagel Shavonne had to eat ‘after a crushing hug and making out’ with Lewellyn was already made. The fact that he had to eat an onion bagel, whether he wanted it or not, remained unchanged.

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Shavonne let out a silent sigh. The dish Lewellyn cooked wasn’t to his taste because it always contained whole green onions, and the onion scent and taste were too strong. Shavonne offered to cook it himself, but Lewellyn didn’t eat it at all. Every morning, lunch, and evening, he hugged an armful of onions and went to the kitchen to make a dish with onions as the main ingredient.

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“Don’t make it.”

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He used to be that angry.

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“Why? Is the food I cook awfully bad?”

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Yes! Exactly! Shavonne, who was going to answer that, saw Lewellyn’s face darken and kept his mouth shut. When he opened his mouth again, he could only say with a murmuring voice.

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“Mr. Lewellyn, that’s…”

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However, Lewellyn did not seem to be willing to wait until Shavonne found an appropriate explanation. He dropped his head helplessly and spoke as if he was holding back his tears.

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“I know. It’s my fault. I won’t bother you anymore.”

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Shavonne was shocked. He was too out of his mind to notice that it was really effective, and he was somehow not sane enough to realize that what Lewellyn had said was really familiar. The more he thought of Lewellyn’s face, the more unrealistically handsome it was and the more he got stuck in his mind.

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It seemed to be true that you had to sacrifice something for it to be true love. Taste. It must be taste that Shavonne had to sacrifice. Shavonne hurriedly soothed Lewellyn.

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“I’ll eat it. I’ll eat it…”

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Only then did Lewellyn raise his head and look at Shavonne. He had a bright smile on his face as if there was no sign of darkness from the beginning.

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“Good idea!”

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For a moment, Shavonne belatedly recalled that Lewellyn’s acting was as good as an actor. The famous actor Mr. Lewellyn said with a big smile.

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“I knew it would work what Mrs. Banshee.”

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“Mrs. Banshee?”

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It was a familiar name. No way… Shavonne’s face was distorted.

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“Yes, the main character from Adam Isle’s novel that Mr. Shavonne has ghostwritten.”

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“All right. It’s my fault.” It was only then that he could see why he was familiar with what he said, “I won’t bother you anymore.” Shavonne tried to laugh, but only both corners of his mouth were raised awkwardly, and he could not laugh. That fucking novel… Shavonne thought.

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In the end, the two agreed to limit Lewellyn’s cooking to less than five times a week, with Shavonne being fed precisely. One out of those five times was now.

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“I’ll just check the letter first.”

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“I can’t wait even a minute more.”

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“It won’t take long.”

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“Mr. Shavonne, you should know that my patience is at rock bottom because we’ve been away from each other for three hours.”

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“Let’s see if it’s really at rock bottom or not.”

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He picked up the mail carelessly and quickly scanned the fifteen envelopes. Private horsemen’s associations, grocery stores, brothels… Not surprisingly, they were all advertisements. Should I think it’s fortunate that at least no letter was sent by mistake? Shavonne sighed.

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It was then. Shavonne, who was checking a letter envelope half-heartedly, stood tall and stopped his hand.

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There was a letter from Krainer Publishing. Shavonne frowned. Krainer Publishing was one of the top ten publishers in the whole Bunch.

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Right. It can’t help but be one of the strongest. The founder, Viscount Krainer, used all his connections with the royal family, nobles, and up-and-coming businessmen to sweep all the patronage of Bunch. Talented people follow where there is money. It would be strange if Krainer Publishing, which brings together only talented people in each field, does not succeed. But why would a publisher like that want Shavonne?

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He opened it. The letter, which started with ‘To you whom I respect’ and ended with ‘Chongchong¹,’ was full of words. However, Shavonne, as if it were like his major, was very familiar with the format, as he would increase one sentence to ten paragraphs. Less than 10 seconds after opening the letter, Shavonne got to the point. It was simple.

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『 We would like to work with you. 』

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Shavonne clicked his tongue out loud. If you want to do a scam, at least show some sincerity.

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Krainer Publishing couldn’t have wanted to hire Shavonne. Exactly, they couldn’t hire a ghostwriter like him, who had no name and had a “good price-to-performance ratio.” If they were the real Krainer publisher, they would have hired a famous and talented ghostwriter at Bunch.

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“I guess the ‘it won’t take long’ of Mr. Shavonne means a year?”

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Lewellyn happened to be calling at that moment. Shavonne was deceived by a fraudulent letter. He crumpled it as the crunching sound echoed in his hand. “Your patience is weak. Severely,” Lewellyn teased. “You’ll be surprised to know how patient I am. Of course, I won’t tell you,” Shavonne replied playfully. “Yes, yes,” Lewellyn chuckled.

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Shavonne tossed the letter into the trash can before heading over to where Lewellyn was. “Don’t leave me alone for too long,” Lewellyn scolded him. “That’s mistreatment.”

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Shavonne halfheartedly accepted the comment, not wanting to get into a verbal confrontation. The promise they made to each other about “a crushing hug and make out” was fulfilled. However, they didn’t get to the point of eating the onion bagel as planned, as they both ended up going to bed. It was just another routine day, and before he knew it, Shavonne had completely forgotten about the letter.

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But a week later, when he found a letter in his mailbox from Turner, an editor at Krainer Publishing, Shavonne’s memory was reignited. He wondered if it was another fraudulent letter, but upon opening it, he discovered it was very similar to the previous one. However, this time the focus had changed somewhat.

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『I would like to work with the author who ghostwrote 《The Life of John Gray》by John Gray and 《Banshee’s portrait》 by Adam Isle. 』

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Shavonne’s belief that there was no sincerity in the letter was proven wrong.

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Even though Shavonne knew that Krainer Publishing wouldn’t hire him, he was momentarily confused by the sincerity of the letter, wondering if there was a possibility they could be interested in him. ‘Is it even possible that they know me…? It can’t be real, right?’

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Lewellyn helped him sort out his thoughts.

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“You think it’s a scam, right?”

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“There’s no way it isn’t.”

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“Why would such a wealthy publisher want to use me? Even if they did, I’m sure they have motives other than just work.”

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“You’re right. Think about it. Why would they offer so much money just to work with you? There must be something else going on.”

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“… Stop talking.”

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However, three days later, when “Krainer Publishing Company” visited the apartment building, Shavonne had to reconsider his thoughts. This time, it wasn’t a letter; it was a real person.

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A person.

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“I’m Turner from Krainer Publishing,” he introduced himself. “I’m a fan,” he said with a smile. “I really wanted to meet you.” He asked for a handshake.

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He was a real person.

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Ninety-nine out of 100 orphans raised in orphanages are illiterate. This is because unlike the monastery, where personality, sociality, and knowledge are thoroughly taught so that orphans can become workers of the monastery, the orphanage provided only food, clothing, and shelter and provided no education.

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In such an environment, Shavonne was able to avoid being illiterate by one in 100 because he liked reading novels. He didn’t just like novels. He liked anything if it had a story. He enjoyed street plays, puppet shows, and playing alone in the attic of the orphanage, avoiding people’s eyes.

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However, plays on the streets have not been seen since the ban on performance disturbance was passed, and he couldn’t do puppet shows since the director closed the attic of the orphanage. He had no choice but to read novels to satisfy his hunger for stories. He had no choice but to learn to read.

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― You want to learn writing?

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People laughed their noses out. Some grabbed their stomachs and laughed as if they had heard a joke.

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― Wouldn’t it be better to learn etiquette? You have a handsome face and a flawless body. As long as you learn manners, I think you can get a job as a servant in a rich family.

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― Learn how to make alcohol at a brewery rather than learn to write. Writing can’t fill your stomach, but you can with alcohol.

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― Why don’t you go to the auction house and learn the tricks? Dreams? Hey, you’ll starve to death if you follow your dreams.

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How good would it have been if they had only stopped after a good laugh. People laughed at Shavonne, teased him, and cut him down, asking if he could learn to write, and spat.

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Shavonne didn’t give up. No, he couldn’t give up. He had a story to tell, the story of a child who grew up 15 years in an orphanage and defied the odds by not getting thrown out into the streets. He wanted to share the story of being adopted and finding a loving family. He wished to write about a boy who became a servant to a rich man and demanded to be respected as a human being, regardless of his looks, or someone who defied expectations and became a skilled potter in a brewery. He yearned to create characters who weren’t defined by stereotypes.

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All the alphabets he knew were S, H, A, V, O, N, and E, but one day he wanted to write a story. A story that defied the odds and didn’t lead to a tragic end. A story that didn’t end with ridicule and mockery.

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However, the reality was not so easy. If the initial problem was that there was no way to write before learning to write, it became that no publisher accepted Shavonne’s writing after he learned it. One, two… A mountain of rejected manuscripts had piled up.

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On the tenth day of rejection of the manuscript, Shavonne stood by the window and looked blankly at the clear sky and thought. What if he had learned etiquette? He might have become a servant in a rich family by now.

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On the 11th day of rejection of the manuscript, Shavonne stood by the window and thought blankly at the sunset. What if he had learned how to make alcohol? He might have owned a brewery by now.

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On the 12th day of rejection of the manuscript, Shavonne stood by the window and looked blankly at the night. What if he had learned the tricks? He might have become a successful businessman, receiving 2,000 dollars every time he made a deal.

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But Shavonne was Shavonne. Not a servant, not a brewery owner, not a tycoon. He was just a man, living in poverty in room 303 of Ira Apartment House on Ira Street.

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So he gave up on creating his own stories and devoted himself to ghostwriting. He got paid if he wrote what he was told. It was a small sum of money, but it was enough to survive.

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“The Life of John Gray” was written by Shavonne, but John Gray was the author. “Banshee’s portrait” was also written by Shavonne, but Adam Isle was the author. Quotes, commas, periods, lines, words, and scenes were all out of Shavonne’s control, and he was not acknowledged as the author.

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While looking down at the book, Shavonne gazed at the word “author” engraved on the cover with his fingertips. He wished it said Shavonne. If that happened, he might be able to like his own name for the first time in his life.

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Would the day come when Shavonne would become the “author”?

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He didn’t know. A young Shavonne at the age of less than 15 might have been sure about it, but now, at around 30 years old, he couldn’t be.

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Dreams hurt people. If there was anything he had learned in life, it was that the less he expected, the less desperate he felt, and the less he dreamt, the less painful it was. Shavonne didn’t want to be hurt anymore.

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But…

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― This is Turner from Krainer Publishing.

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― I’m a fan.

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― I really wanted to meet you.

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The “fan” who suddenly appeared in front of his eyes was shaking Shavonne’s resolve.

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Shavonne was taken aback and didn’t know how to react. This “fan” appearing in front of him disrupted his certainty about the situation.

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“It can’t be,” he muttered as he stood in front of room 303. “I can’t believe that someone who’s never been published could work with Krainer Publishing,” he said aloud.

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Shavonne was right, and he stepped back without even realizing it. He couldn’t accept the idea that Krainer Publishing wanted to work with him as an author, not just a ghostwriter. It all felt like a cruel joke.

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If he said, ‘Okay, let’s work together’ and nodded he felt like everyone would laugh at him, punch him, spit and say ‘Did you really believe that?’. It felt like a dream.

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Shavonne just.. opened the door. He had been napping with Lewellyn, and upon hearing the knocking, he woke up reluctantly. He didn’t expect to meet someone who fulfilled his long-held dream after opening the door and asking who it was.

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“You can do it.”

 

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“I can’t.” 

 

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Shavonne wasn’t used to have good fortune at all. To him, having sudden luck was something that made him confused, not happy, so he was rather suspicious. Fear overshadowed any sense of happiness.

 

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Stepping back, a sensation brushed against his back – the door of room 303.

 

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“How can you be sure you can’t do it?”

 

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“How are you sure that I can do it?”

 

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His throat was sore.

 

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“What you read is what I wrote based on the publisher’s guidelines, not my preference. Go find John Gray and Adam Isle, not me…”

 

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“No.”

 

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Turner cut his words short. The eyes that stared at Shavonne were cold.

 

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“It’s got to be you, Mr. Shavonne.”

 

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Shavonne looked at Turner skeptically but remained silent. A sigh escaped Turner.

 

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“I can’t help it. It might not be the most pleasant news for you, but I must inform you.”

 

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An unpleasant story? So there was an explanation, as he thought. Just as Turner had indicated, it wasn’t shaping up to be “pleasant.”

 

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“I happened upon the three novels you submitted under your name to a publisher – all rejected. Yes, they haven’t been discarded. These manuscripts have been rotting in some editor’s drawer for at least three to seven years.”

 

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A furrow appeared on Shavonne’s forehead. Turner had knowledge of a manuscript known only to Shavonne, Dr. Fawkes, and the ten publishers who had received the submission. While Shavonne attempted to protest, Turner granted no opportunity.

 

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“I admit it was impolite, but I couldn’t resist reading it. I was engrossed from the first page and read through to the very end. My presence here should demonstrate how serious I am.”

 

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Turner’s deep eyes turned to Shavonne..

 

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“I’ve been an editor for eight years alone. I’ve never read a novel as good as yours in those eight whole years.”

 

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Shavonne blinked. It felt unfamiliar. He didn’t know how to react. Should I say, ‘Don’t lie?’ Or ‘thank you’?

 

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Shavonne was less familiar with praise than he was with luck. When he did proofreading, he was told, “It’s not bad, but you have no sense,” and when he completed the ghostwriting, he was told, “It’s old-fashioned. Not sophisticated at all.”

 

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It was not just with writing. When he did chores at the orphanage, he cleaned but was scolded for taking too much time, and his efforts to soothe whining toddlers were misconstrued as aggression. So it was natural that he thought he was lying. But…

 

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“You’re exceptional.”

 

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Exceptional. That wasn’t a word that went well with Shavonne. Shavonne looked down at the floor. It was somehow burdensome to face someone who said Shavonne was exceptional..

 

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“That…”

 

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He hesitated momentarily before continuing. Suddenly, he heard something breaking in the house. As if the sharp sound of something breaking made him go back to Earth, Shavonne came to his senses quickly. Is a plate broken? Or a glass? He didn’t feel the unrealistic sense that he was still dreaming anymore.

 

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“We’ll talk about it another time…”

 

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Turner grabbed Shavonne as he hurried into the house. It was unbelievable how hard he held him, as if he wasn’t an editor but a gangster. Turner took his business card out of the pocket inside the coat and handed it to him. When Shavonne didn’t take it, he forced it into Shavonne’s hand. 

 

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“Call me.”

 

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Even before Shavonne could answer, he heard something breaking in the house. Shavonne hurried in.

 

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Lewellyn, who had just fallen asleep, was not in bed. He was in the dining room connected to the kitchen.

 

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It was so messy that there was no room to step on it. Tables, chairs, and trash cans had fallen down, and a bowl broke and rolled around the floor. The fragments of the bowl sparkled finely under the afternoon sunlight that deflected through the window.

 

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“God.”

 

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Shavonne sighed. Lewellyn looked back on Shavonne late, as if he had only noticed that Shavonne had come. “Oh,” he said in a short, hoarse voice. “I’m sorry,” he added. “It was a mistake.” A flat, dry voice. There was no emotion in it.

 

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Shavonne felt a sense of difference. However, there was no time to know what was wrong. Shavonne saw something dripping from Lewellyn’s hand. It was blood. Shavonne’s eyes were wide open.

 

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“What’s that?”

 

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Lewellyn looked down at his hand. He answered right away.

 

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“Blood.”

 

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“No, I know it’s blood…”

 

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Lewellyn didn’t like blood. Like what happened at the restaurant 《Golly》. Even when Alan, who was overpowered by Lewellyn, shed blood, Lewellyn seemed unhappy. He frowned and clicked his tongue as he piled napkins up on Alan’s face so that he wouldn’t see the blood he had shed.

 

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But now Lewellyn got braver. There was no expression on Lewellyn’s face, as he looked down at his bloody hand. ‘Don’t you have any thoughts on your own blood?’ A question came to Shavonne’s mind.

 

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“Let me look.”

 

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He approached and checked his hand. The wound was on the palm of the hand. To be exact, ‘the wounds’. One, two, three… There were as many as five cuts. The blood didn’t stop, as if it had been cut deep. Shavonne clicked his tongue.

 

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He picked up the cloth and pressed the wound gently. He wondered after he had been doing that for about three minutes if the blood would have stopped, but he was still bleeding. Shavonne pressed the wound again. 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes… Lewellyn remained calm like a child.

 

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The wounds stopped bleeding after 20 minutes. Shavonne brought a new cloth and wiped the blood off Lewellyn’s hand. Of how much blood he shed, he didn’t even wipe half of it, but the cloth was already wet.

 

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“Didn’t it hurt?”

 

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Suddenly, Shavonne asked. Lewellyn, looking down at the floor, only looked up at Shavonne. He kept glaring.

 

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“It hurts.”

 

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A pitchless, dry voice. Shavonne felt something was different. He stopped wiping the blood off Lewellyn’s hand and looked up at him. Lewellyn was still keeping his eyes on Shavonne.

 

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“It still hurts.”

 

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Then he laughed a little. Before he knew it, Lewellyn’s eyes were back as usual.

 

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***

 

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-That…

 

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Beyond the door, Shavonne hesitated and spoke. Lewellyn, who had been listening to every word Shavonne and a man exchanged, decided that he would no longer stand by and watch.

 

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He kicked down the table and threw a bowl to pieces. He picked up a handful of scattered glass and clenched his fist with all his might. A sharp shard penetrated the palm of his hand. When he opened his hand, the flesh was torn into a mess, and his palms were covered with blood. Tsk. Lewellyn clicked his tongue. He hated blood, but he needed a distraction to completely take Shavonne’s attention from him.

 

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That man…

 

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— It’s got to be you, Mr. Shavonne.

 

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— I happened upon the three novels you submitted under your name to a publisher – all rejected. Yes, they haven’t been discarded. These manuscripts have been rotting in some editor’s drawer for at least three to seven years.

 

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— I admit it was impolite, but I couldn’t resist reading it. I was engrossed from the first page and read through to the very end. My presence here should demonstrate how serious I am.

 

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— I’ve been an editor for eight years alone. I’ve never read a novel as good as yours in those eight years.

 

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— You’re exceptional.

 

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Lewellyn didn’t know who he was, only that he called Shavonne Mr. Shavonne, read Shavonne’s three unpublished novels (that Lewellyn never even knew existed), and praised Shavonne and Shavonne’s novels as exceptional. It was obvious that he would hurt Shavonne.

 

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‘I alone am enough to be the only harm to Shavonne.’

 

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Lewellyn looked down at his hand. The wound was not as deep as he thought. It didn’t bleed that much. Lewellyn pressed the fragments on the palm to worsen it. Now it was better. Blood fell on the floor, and only then was he satisfied.

 

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The problem was what came next.

 

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“God.”

 

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He heard a sound made out of surprise and then a sigh at the doorway. It was Shavonne. Pretending that he had seen Shavonne just now, Lewellyn looked back at Shavonne. Why are you looking for a God? When I’m here. He tried to talk back as a joke, but he couldn’t. Before raising both corners of his mouth to smile, he saw it.

 

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Shavonne’s ears were red.

 

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“…”

 

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Lewellyn couldn’t open his mouth. Shavonne’s ears rarely turned red. “Mr. Lewellyn, I like you.” The day he said that, it was the first time his ears turned red, and it hasn’t happened since then, even though Lewellyn tried doing things to see Shavonne’s ears turn red again.

 

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When Shavonne just woke up, he’d said something to embarrass him (Mr. Shavonne, can’t you stop seducing me? I want to take a rest, too), and had sex. Talked about what Shavonne’s condition was like (What should I do, Mr. Shavonne? I guess you don’t want it to end this way). Remind him of what Shavonne, during sex, was like (Don’t you remember? You just cried under me. Didn’t you ask me to bite your throat?).

 

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However, Shavonne only turned his eyes, scolded him as he went to sleep, or talked about the weather, meals, and money, but his face was not red. His ears never turned red either, of course.

 

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But now?

 

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‘Mr. Lewellyn, I like you.’ was the first time Shavonne’s ears had become red, and it remained the only one since the day Shavonne said so. The fact that Shavonne’s ears were red because of “the man”, not because of Lewellyn, was too much for him.

 

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Did he see you too? Did he see your ears burning red because of all that sweet talk? He saw it. Yes. He must have seen it with his own eyes. I’m not happy. The fact that that man’s memory could not be extracted even if his two eyes were pulled out, and the fact that Shavonne, who had red ears, would still remain in his head made Lewellyn unhappy.

 

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Does he even know what it means to have Shavonne’s ears blush? He doesn’t know. How would that bastard know? Huh? I guess he was just thinking about how happy he was to receive a compliment. You idiot. He wouldn’t know that he saw inside Shavonne’s heart, something that he never showed, even when he sobbed while having sex.

 

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It’s unfair. I didn’t know why luck only goes to people who don’t know its value. It shouldn’t have been him who saw that. It should have been me. Yes, it should have been me.

 

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But, but…

 

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It felt as if he had been hit. A heavy lump filled his neck with nausea. He wanted to break Shavonne’s ankles so that lucky moment wouldn’t go to someone who didn’t know its value.

 

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No, I can’t. Even if he broke them, his bones may stick together again someday. He had to cut them off. Would a knife be good? Or saw? Neither a knife nor a saw were bad, but the surest way was to crush them. Unlike cutting with a knife or sawing, there was no variable in crushing. There was no such thing as an emergency situation to prepare for.

 

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But Lewellyn couldn’t break, cut, or crush the ankles. He couldn’t even cling to him and tell him not to go. He couldn’t dare to do that.

 

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It wasn’t because of ethics. It wasn’t because of morality. It was because he lacked the courage to do it. It was just because he knew that if he put his low desire into practice, Shavonne would abandon Lewellyn.

 

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He wasn’t afraid to be hated. It was Lewellyn’s idea that if he could not be loved, he should be hated. Whether it was love, contempt, or hatred, he liked whatever Shavonne gave him.

 

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But not to be abandoned.

 

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Lewellyn wanted never to be abandoned again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, never again to be abandoned again.

 

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“Ah.”

 

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With a short, hoarse voice, Lewellyn said. Lewellyn’s voice was flat and dry to hide his overheated head.

 

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“I’m sorry.”

 

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He added.

 

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“It was a mistake.”

 

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Lewellyn grabbed his hand briefly and let go. He dug into the palm with his fingernails and covered the wound that had already been stabbed by the fragments. Blood flowed down his hand and onto the floor.

 

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“What’s that?”

 

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Shavonne’s eyes were wide open. Blood was really helpful. In no time, on Shavonne’s face, instead of remembering the meeting with that man, there were only signs of concern about Lewellyn’s safety. It was a wise choice to hurt myself, Lewellyn thought inwardly. He looked down at his hand to answer.

 

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“Blood.”

 

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“No, I know it’s blood…”

 

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Shavonne came up and checked his hand. “Let me look.” He liked Shavonne lowering his head while looking at his bloody hand and clicking his tongue after seeing the five cuts.

 

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Shavonne stopped the bleeding. He liked Shavonne’s touch of pressing the wound with a cloth. It was warm. His mind, which had been overheated, gradually cooled down. The desires that emerged at the surface of his consciousness also subsided.

 

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How long have we been like this. “The bleeding should have stopped, right?” Shavonne took off the cloth. Shavonne’s hand, which was pressing Lewellyn’s wound, left. Lewellyn was determined to flinch. He was afraid it might have stopped bleeding already. A belated regret came to his mind that he should have covered it with more fragments or pressed his nails. Fortunately, however, the blood didn’t stop. Lewellyn gave a sigh of relief at the sense of blood flowing down his flesh.

 

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Five, ten, fifteen minutes… Lewellyn had to tremble with anxiety every time Shavonne checked whether it had stopped bleeding or not. He was afraid Shavonne’s touch that gently pressed the wound would leave, in case the blood had stopped.

 

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It stopped bleeding after 20 minutes. The blood has already stopped… What can I do about it? He felt bitter again. Thinking there might be no more blood, Lewellyn looked down at his hand. Thumb, black finger, middle finger, ring finger, and small finger caught his eyes. Small finger…Lewellyn’s eyes stopped on it. The thought that it might be okay to cut it quickly crossed his mind. Lewellyn was a fast-paced man. At the next moment, if Shavonne had not warned, “How did you make such a cut? You don’t even like seeing blood… Be careful.” Lewellyn must have put the idea of cutting off his small finger into practice.

 

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“Didn’t it hurt?”

 

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Shavonne washed Lewellyn’s hands and asked. Lewellyn, looking down at the floor, raised his head and looked at Shavonne. Did I get hurt? It was a strange question. Did I get hurt? Was I hurt? I’m not sure. It was something he had never thought about.

 

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“It hurt.”

 

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But he answered like that. If he said he was hurt, Shavonne would take care of Lewellyn. If he didn’t, Shavonne would take away all his attention, pity, and compassion.

 

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“It still hurts.”

 

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As his red ears cooled down, Shavonne looked as usual. Lewellyn finally regained peace of mind.

 

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“Oh, by the way, who was the person that stopped by earlier?”

 

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It was a question that had been hovering in his mouth all the time, but he pretended it had come up by chance. Shavonne explained it without any doubt.

 

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“It was the editor of a publishing company. Remember that I told you recently that I kept getting scam letters under the guise of a publishing company? I guess it wasn’t a scam.”

 

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There was a faint sign of excitement on Shavonne’s face as he was speaking. Lewellyn chewed on his lips. Lewellyn wasn’t the reason he was all excited. There were different kinds of happiness an editor could give and happiness a lover could give.

 

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‘If he were really the editor of a publishing company…’

 

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A thought flashed through his mind.

 

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The judgment that he was harmful didn’t simply stem from jealousy. If anyone asked what the evidence was, Lewellyn would answer it as a hunch. A hunch. I mean, a hunch to recognize his own kind.

 

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The way he approached him was the same as the way Lewellyn used to. Digging into the opponent’s weakness. There was only one difference. Lewellyn sought Shavonne’s solitude, and he sought Shavonne’s desire.

 

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– What you read is what I wrote based on the publisher’s guidelines, not my preference. Go find John Gray and Adam Isle, not me…

 

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So when Shavonne said that, he replied.

 

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— It’s got to be you, Mr. Shavonne.

 

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Shavonne had always been hidden by others. John Gray and Adam Isle were the ‘others’. If you tell Shavonne that you are not a shadow, that you are not a person to be hidden… It would be quite effective.

 

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— I’ve been an editor for eight years alone. I’ve never read a novel as good as yours in those eight years.

 

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Shavonne’s manuscript was repeatedly rejected. If you tell Shavonne, who must feel like shit because he thinks his manuscript is crappy, that you’ve never read a manuscript as good as his… Yeah, this works pretty good as well.

 

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— You’re exceptional.

 

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If you tell someone who has never been called exceptional that he’s exceptional… This had a really high effect.

 

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Of course, Lewellyn may have been wrong. He could really be an editor, he could really be in love with Shavonne’s novel, and he could really think Shavonne was exceptional.

 

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But what if he’s not?

 

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What if he pretended to be the editor of a publishing company that fell in love with Shavonne’s novel and praised Shavonne as being exceptional?

 

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When he learned the truth, he couldn’t even guess how deeply Shavonne would be hurt. The higher you go, the more painful it is to fall. Your wings would be broken, your bones crushed, and your blood would burst like a waterfall. He couldn’t allow anyone to do that to him. That was why Lewellyn had to check his hunch.

 

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If he were for real, he would congratulate Shavonne. Of course, no matter how close the relationship between the two would be, he should also be careful that they don’t get too close.

 

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But if he’s lying…

 

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“An editor?”

 

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Lewellyn pretended to be interested.

 

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“What kind of publisher is it?”

 

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Lewellyn naturally asked the question so that it would not be seen that he was wary of him. But the following answer… was not good.

 

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“You wouldn’t know even if I told you.”

 

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There were two chances left. If he dug more than that, he would figure it out. Lewellyn said it with a nonchalant attitude.

 

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“I might.”

 

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Shavonne laughed. As expected, a bad answer followed.

 

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“Huh, you mean someone like you who has never touched a book?”

 

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One last chance. Lewellyn frowned, pretending to have been hurt.

 

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“It upsets me if you look down on me too much. I love books.”

 

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Shavonne laughed once again. As expected, a bad answer followed.

 

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“Does a book lover write New Year as New Yeer?”

 

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He was convinced that he would not be able to find out who he was through conversation. Lewellyn gave up on the questioning. Even if he didn’t ask, there was a way to find out who the person was.

 

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***

 

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“How can you say you want to have sex when your hands are like this?”

 

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“When did I have sex with my hand? It was with something else.”

 

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“No… Anyway, what will you do if you can’t use your hands…”

 

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“I’ll do it with your tongue instead. That’s a good thing, right? I remember Mr. Shavonne liking how I used my tongue more than my hands.”

 

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Sex was rough that night. Usually, Lewellyn used to be considerate during sex because of Shavonne’s pace, as all the exercise he did was sex, walking, and going to the store, but today he wasn’t.

 

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“Five minutes… just five minutes off.”

 

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They were in a dark room without a single light. In the darkness, Shavonne gasped. The sweat flowing down Shavonne’s cheek shone faintly and then disappeared. Lewellyn laughed.

 

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“I must have been in heat, as Shavonne said. I can’t stay still for five seconds, let alone five minutes.”

 

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Then Shavonne spoke quickly.

 

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“Slowly… do it slowly.”

 

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“I’m already doing it slowly.”

 

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“I-I’m… at the bottom… of… of my energy.”

 

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“My weak Mr. Shavonne, don’t you think you need to improve your physical strength? Mn? Am I wrong?”

 

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Then he bit, sucked and licked.

 

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Shavonne was out of energy when the sex was over. He couldn’t even lift a fingertip and just lay around. Even when Lewellyn called him, he didn’t even open his eyes nor answered. He fell asleep as soon as he was done having sex. Lewellyn smiled faintly. Just as he expected. And, just as he intended.

 

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He lay in bed side by side with Shavonne. With his chin on the pillowcase, he looked down at Shavonne. Shavonne’s face was dimly visible in the dark. Closed eyes, nose, closed lips… White forehead with messy black hair. He thought of sweeping his hair, but didn’t. Lewellyn’s hands were cold enough to wake up a sleeping person just by touching them. Like a corpse, or a hand colder than a corpse. That’s how people used to call it.

 

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Looking into his lover’s face was never boring. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes… Looking at him for an hour, the sound of rain began to come from a distance. It was a drizzle that soaked the night

.

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He rose from bed without making a sound. He was careful with his footsteps across the house and lit the candles carefully so that Shavonne wouldn’t hear the rattling sound of candlesticks. It was a small flame, but it did its work.

 

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He searched the trash can for a letter from the publisher. Letters from private horsemen’s associations, letters from grocery stores, letters from brothels… There was a rustling sound and it soon permeated into silence and disappeared.

 

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It didn’t take a long time to find the card of the publisher. The paper was crumpled in a mess. Lewellyn recalled Shavonne, who was crumpling the paper and throwing it away, saying, “There’s another scam letter.”

 

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He tried to spread the paper, but there was a loud rustling sound. His body became stiff. Fortunately, Shavonne didn’t wake up when he quickly looked at the corner. He seemed to have fallen asleep so hard that he thought that he had been too rough during sex.

 

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Lewellyn grabbed the piece of paper. He quietly left the house, putting his heart and soul into making sure that there was no sound of extinguishing candles, footsteps, or closing doors. He left the apartment house and stood under the eaves. The dull lights of gas lamps installed at the eaves of apartment houses lit up Lewellyn.

 

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It was night and it was raining quietly. Grass, trees, and fallen leaves on the side of the road, which he could only see its black outlines, were soaked.

 

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Lewellyn spread the piece of paper. No matter how messy it was, it had to be unfolded carefully. There was a rustling sound, but it was faded by the sound of rain.

 

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The card was filled with words. Not only the card but also the letters were wrinkled, making the words “Dear sir” look wrong. If he read it, he would find out which editor of which publisher sent it. It was the moment he was about to read the next paragraph.

 

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“Mr. Lewellyn?”

 

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The hand holding the piece of paper stopped.

 

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“What are you doing there?”

 

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He heard a familiar voice from behind his back. It was Shavonne.