Chapter Text
PART I : BEGINNINGS
He met Marmalade down in old Moulin Rouge
Struttin' her stuff on the street
She said, "Hello, hey Joe, you wanna give it a go?"
(1)
Thump.
The dough hits the stainless-steel counter with a dull, exhausted sound, a soft cloud of flour blooming outward like a sigh. Loose grains scatter across the surface. The scent of yeast and sugar, usually so comforting, feels cloying tonight, thick in the air like a shroud, pressing down like something left to rot under heat.
Daesung sits a little ways away on a backless stool, hunched forward, elbows on his knees. He worried at a loose thread on his jeans until it frayed further beneath his fingers, his gaze fixed on the half-eaten croissant Youngbae had shoved into his hands an hour ago “just to taste.” The pastry has gone cold. So has he.
“You’re gonna stare a hole through that croissant,” Youngbae says, his Busan accent slipping out, not looking up, rolling pin moving with practiced ease as he stretches the dough thinner on the slab.
They were done for the night. The ovens were off, the shop locked up. Youngbae was just tinkering now, testing a few last recipes for a special menu he wants to roll out at the bakery. It was only ever them here, after hours. Like always, Youngbae had texted earlier: come by? need a critic, as if Daesung wasn’t already planning to.
“I can’t eat,” Daesung mutters. His voice barely carries. “My stomach’s in knots.”
Youngbae sets down the rolling pin carefully, as if sudden movements might crack something fragile. He leans back against the counter and finally turns, giving Daesung his full, unguarded attention. “It’s decided, then?” he asks gently. “You’re really going.”
Daesung lifts his head and meets his friend's steady gaze. “I have to, hyeong,” he answers. “I can’t breathe here anymore.”
He didn’t need to explain any further to Youngbae. They’d been inseparable since Daesung was five and Youngbae seven. They had grown up sharing secrets and scraped knees, but while Youngbae had found his peace here, in flour and butter and the warm glow of the ovens, Daesung felt like he was suffocating every day.
It had always been this way. Daesung’s childhood was lived in fragments, like a mosaic of moments, darkened by his father's looming presence, his disapproving glances, his disappointed sighs. He remembered being seven, maybe eight, and bringing home a painting he’d made in art class. It was a chaotic splash of color, a sun with a smiling face and a house with lopsided windows. He had been so proud, his small hand clutching the paper as he ran into the house, eager for a single word of praise.
His father had been at the dining table, reading the morning newspaper. He’d slowly lowered it, his eyes, sharp and critical, scanning the drawing. There was no smile. No ruffling of his hair like he expected. Just a long, unnerving silence that stretched until Daesung’s pride curdled into its own anxiety.
“What is this nonsense?” his father had finally asked, his voice flat. “Wasting time on this when you could be studying your scriptures. This is frivolous. A boy should be strong, disciplined, not scribbling like a fool.”
He had taken the drawing, and without another word, ripped it in half. His mother hadn't stopped him either. But then she rarely ever did.
The sound of the tearing paper had felt like a physical blow, and Daesung could still remember the way something had folded in his chest, the hot tears he’d fought back because crying was another sign of weakness, another softness to be corrected. That was the day he learned that his joy, his creativity, was a liability. It was something to be hidden, stamped out.
The years that followed were a masterclass in erasure. He learned to speak only when spoken to, walk straighter, have more manly pursuits, be respectable. His interests were also all systematically dismantled. The drums he’d saved up for was “a distraction from his duties.” The friends he made outside of their strict religious community were "corrupting influences,” and thus forbidden. The only other place he was allowed to go was their community church. It was a must, every Sunday Mass. During one of those, he had first met Youngbae. The only good thing that came out of it.
It wasn't one single event, but a thousand tiny paper cuts, that had finally started gangrenizing up his whole body. Until running away was the only escape.
Seoul seemed like his beacon of hope, his one possible antidote. He wanted to save money, yes, to go back to school and study something he actually loved, maybe music, maybe art, if he dared to name. But more than that, he wanted to live. To walk down a street without feeling eyes drilling into his back. To hear music that wasn’t a hymn. To be no one. To be free.
“I’m scared,” Daesung admits, the words tasting foreign in his mouth. He’d never been allowed to be scared before. Fear was a sin for a man, a lack of faith.
Youngbae crosses the space between them and squeezes his shoulder, flour dusting Daesung’s dark shirt like snow.“Of course you are. And that’s okay. It means you’re about to do something brave.” He pauses, then smiles a little. “You’ve got this, Dae. You’re stronger than you think. Maybe Seoul would be good for you.”
Tears pricked at Daesung’s eyes. He let them fall silently. Daesung had never bothered pretending with Youngbae. There was no point.
“I don’t even have a place to stay,” he chokes out. “I don’t even have a job.”
“You’ll find them,” Youngbae says with an unshakeable confidence. “And I know you’ll work hard, like you always do. And you’ll call me. Every day.” Daesung huffs out something like a laugh, and nods, knowing it to be true.
“But jokes aside, if you need anything, anything at all, you call me. I’ll wire you money. I’ll get on a bus. I mean it,” Youngbae continues, more fierce this time.
Daesung nods once more, wiping his face off the remaining crumbs, with the back of his hand. He looks around the small, cozy bakery, at the man who was more his family than blood ever could.
This is what he'd truly miss.
“My bag is packed,” he says, his voice stronger now, more resolved. “The last bus to Seoul leaves at 2 AM.”
Youngbae’s smile widens, though there is a sheen of tears in his own eyes. “Then let’s get you there. Go and get rich in Seoul, so that I can mooch off of you later.”
They both knew that wasn't possible. Youngbae would never leave this place. And that was okay.
They didn’t say much after that. There was nothing left to say. Daesung thought this was it. The point of no return. Youngbae pulls him into one last fierce hug. “Go be happy, Daesung-ah,” he whispers into his hair. “You deserve it.”
Daesung holds on tight for a second, breathing in the scent of bread and butter and his only bit of home here. Then he pulls back, grabs his backpack, and, without looking back, leaves for the bus terminal.
The bag is relatively light, just some clothes, some cash he had been saving for years secretly, documents, scraps of a life he could carry. The only thing of weight is the neatly packed box of pastries Youngbae had pressed into his hands, for the road, wrapped carefully, like a promise.
When Daesung finally boards the bus and takes his seat, the town outside the window feels strangely distant already. There is no tug of longing for it.
Seoul can be cruel, unforgiving. He doesn’t know if he can ever call anywhere home, truly. Yet as the bus engine rumbles to life, a quiet chant loops through his mind, steady and protective.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
Maybe Seoul wouldn’t be so bad after all.
♪♪ ♡ ♪♪
Daesung shakes.
From nerves, from excitement— from everything hitting him all at once. He is jittery and his hands tremble around the straps of his bag as he steps off the bus, curious eyes scanning around the towering buildings of Seoul. He didn't have a plan. He didn't know where he's going, except the motel that he had mapped out on his way here.
But maybe that was the best part, Daesung thinks.
The absolute terror of not knowing what comes next hums under his skin, electric and strange and exhilarating. It’s better than waking up already exhausted. Better than staring out at an empty drive-through, counting the seconds until his shift ends, until he can go home and just…be. Even his home was only ever a room. There had been nothing for him back there. No future. He had always been afraid of one day just dying there.
So the first moment he got a chance, he fled. Fled from that place, leaving behind only a note in his room. Daesung assumes his mother will find it later in the day, will be sad momentarily, but they must have seen it coming. His father would most certainly create a scene for all the neighbours but will then decide he had an ungrateful son and it's only fair. Whatever Seoul holds, it couldn’t be worse than this.
The city announces itself loudly. Horns blare without apology, tires screech, voices overlap in a dozen different rhythms as people surge past him with phones pressed to their ears, lives already in motion. Daesung walks, shoulders hunched, eyes darting everywhere at once. He nearly laughs at himself when his neck starts to ache: he’s been craning his head back so far just to see the tops of the buildings.
They feel endless. Like they might never stop rising.
And the people! God there are so many people. All at once. Daesung loses track of how many people he bumps into. How many apologies he murmurs under his breath. How many times he nearly collides with a pole, or steps off the curb a second too early, a car horn blaring him back to awareness. He is clumsy with awe, drunk on the scale of it all.
By the time he reaches the motel, it feels like a minor miracle that he’s still in one piece.
The building is… something.
But there are worse places he could be, Daesung tells himself as he drags down the hall. And it’s temporary. Just until he finds work. Just until he gets on his feet.
The room smells faintly of detergent and rust. He drops his bag at the foot of the bed and exhales, slow and heavy. The paint above the crooked headboard is peeling, curling away from the wall like it is trying to escape too. The curtains didn’t quite close all the way. The mattress creaks when he sits.
Still.
He looks around again, taking it in properly this time, and something loosens in his chest. He’s sure with a little time, he can make this place feel like home too. Or at least something close to it.
Might take a little more work than expected.
♪♪ ♡ ♪♪
Daesung sighs again. It feels like that's all he’s been doing lately.
A full week has passed since he’d arrived in the city, and he hadn’t wasted a single day. He’d walked until his feet ached, searched until his eyes blurred, ducking into anywhere that looked even remotely like it might need an extra body. But there were no vacancies. No backup dancers or singers needed. No lounge servers needed. Hell, even the strip joint he’d passed earlier had given him a stink eye and a dismissive wave. Not a single place wanted him, even at Itaewon, where he was now, job hunting.
He drains the last of his coffee and scratches out yet another name on his list, the paper creasing under his pen. He’d thought a city as awake as Seoul would always be hungry for workers, clubs, hotels, restaurants, something. One spot at least had asked him to sing a few verses. And Daesung had sung a Sunday choir hymn. They’d ushered him out almost immediately. He wouldn’t call himself an eye candy, but he thought himself to be decent enough. Still, he should’ve known his lack of any “real-life experience” would come back to bite him in the ass.
The sun has already dipped below the skyline, the city shifting into something louder, brighter. He tosses his empty cup into a nearby trash can and turns, tempted to head back to the shady motel and call it a night.
Then his gaze falls upon a small building he must’ve passed a dozen times already.
Or maybe it only revealed itself now.
Bright lights pulses against the growing dark, reds and yellows flashing over an arched entrance. His eyes drift upward to the sign above it, letters shimmering as if beckoning: Lady Marmalade.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks he has heard that name. Along the side of the building, leaning on the side railing of a fire escape, stands a man with fiery red hair, a half-burnt cigarette dangling between his fingers. He’s adorned in lace, feathers, gems, boots so high Daesung can’t quite comprehend how the man is standing at all without toppling over.
And he swears…
He swears the man is wearing a corset.
There’s another man with him, Daesung realizes belatedly. Blonde, similarly dressed, a feathered collar detached and held loosely in his hand as he laughs at something the redhead must have said. The red-haired man turns, letting the blonde help unclasp his own choker, and Daesung catches a glimpse of his face: every inch of it dusted in glitter.
Their eyes meet momentarily. And Daesung is unable to look away. The red-haired man smiles at him, tilting his head toward the club’s front door, as if inviting him in, before punctuating it with a wink. Daesung’s stomach flips, and before he fully registers what he’s doing, his feet are already carrying him forward.
He keeps watching until the two men turn and head back inside. The blonde glances down at him then, expression more guarded, probably wondering why Daesung is staring at them, like a complete creep.
It isn’t until the door shuts and the redhead disappears from view that Daesung finally tears his gaze away and follows.
He squeezes past a couple in the doorway, murmuring apologies as he bumps into them, head ducked low as he slips into the dark, narrow hall beyond.
No one here would recognize him. He doesn’t know a single person in this city. And yet every instinct he has screams that he’s not supposed to be in a place like this.
The way the men on the fire escape were dressed. The looks of the couple at the door. It all tells him exactly what kind of place this is. If anyone back home saw him here, he’d never be able to show his face in public again.
This place wouldn’t even be allowed to exist in Busan.
And yet, saying he never wanted to see something like this would be a lie.
He stops at a small booth just inside, the man behind the glass eyeing him wearily as Daesung takes in the room, wide-eyed, heart thudding.
Dim lighting shows just enough of the tables to see mostly men occupying them, some women. At one of the corners is a particularly large group. Throughout, customers rush and weave through the aisles, scrambling to claim seats and refill glasses as the low murmur of anticipation swells, and the stage curtain at the front begins to rise. Daesung realizes there are two stages, one large right at the front, probably the main stage, and one circular, smaller, in the center of the room.
A sharp tap against the glass pulls his attention away from the stage to the man, holding out his hand. Probably a bouncer.
“You gotta pay to watch, kid”, he says, then frowns, eyes narrowing slightly “Are you lost?”
“No I—” Daesung falters. Something deep in his chest tells him he should stay. That he needs to see this. He reaches for his wallet. “Do I need a ticket? How much do I pay?”
The man doesn’t seem convinced, but answers anyway, “If you are not a regular, then yes. Per show is a hundred thousand. And your ID.”
Daesung glances down into his wallet and feels his stomach drop. He doesn’t have anywhere near that amount. He’s already bracing himself to be ushered out when a sudden roar erupts from the crowd.
The music starts.
Daesung’s head snaps toward the stage, eyes widening.
The men from before, plus more, stand under the lights. He’s never seen men wear so much: makeup, ornaments, glitter catching the light like constellations. And yet so little fabric. The red-haired man stands dead center. His outfit is different now, almost topless, heavy pearls draped over bare skin, a small beaded ensemble stitched together down his front, from collarbone to navel, like a halterneck crop top made of jewelry.
The man moves first. Then the others follow. And Daesung forgets to breathe. He’s never seen bodies move like this, languid, fluid, every gesture deliberate. Painted lips bitten, hips rolling in perfect sync with the music. He catches sight of the redhead again just as the blonde from earlier kneels before him, a rose clenched between his teeth. The redhead takes it, gaze sultry and unfocused, then drops down in front of the other man, face to face. He pushes the dancer’s knee apart, climbs into the space with practiced ease, strikes a pose—
And kisses him.
Right there. On the mouth. Onstage.
It’s brief, but the crowd explodes, clapping, hooting, whistles tearing through the room. And Daesung knows, instinctively, it isn’t just the kiss.
It’s him.
The man on that stage moves like something ethereal, elegant as a swan, regal despite the scandal of it all. When the dancers rise from the formation with exaggerated, faux-demure grace, Daesung is utterly mesmerized.
“Would you leave on your own, or…?” The bouncer’s voice yanks him back to reality.
“I—sorry,” Daesung blurts, panic rising. “Can I pay in installments or something?” The man stares at him like he’s grown a second head. Daesung is about to give up entirely, when his eyes catch a poster on the wall just behind the bouncer.
WE ARE HIRING: BARTENDER NEEDED!
“I’m here for the vacancy!” Daesung nearly shouts, trying to be heard over the music and the crowd. The bouncer looks him over funny, clearly suspicious, but after a beat, he gestures him through.
At the bar, Daesung spots another man, handsome in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, in an effortless way, focused as he pours a drink.
Is that a requirement here? To be breathtaking? Daesung wonders faintly.
“The boy says he’s here for the bartender job,” the bouncer announces.
The man behind the bar looks up, attention finally shifting to Daesung. “Thanks, Jaeho hyeong,” he says politely. “I’ll talk to him.”
Jaeho gives Daesung one last lingering look before heading back to his post, like he still has something more to add, but decides against it.
“Are you legal?” The man at the bar asks.
“Yes, of course”, Daesung answers, handing him his ID.
“You are not from Seoul?” Daesung shakes his head. “Why do you need this job?” The man probes. And Daesung doesn’t know what to answer: Because I am a runaway. Because I am broke. Because I have nowhere else to go. Because this place feels oddly magical. But none of them sound safe enough to say out loud. He hadn’t even read the full poster. Didn’t know the pay. Didn’t know the hours. All he knew was that he didn’t want to leave yet.
Before he can stumble through something passable, someone calls the bartender’s name from the other end. “Wait here,” the man says briskly and disappears. Daesung looks back at the stage, they are still performing. His eyes find the redhead almost immediately. It’s impossible not to, when he draws all attention to him with that smile on his face, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes as he winks at a nearby table. The crowd eats it up.
Their stage reminds Daesung a lot of his high school theatre. He had wanted to perform once, for some Christmas play, but his father had slapped him hard enough to send him reeling, called it shameful, locked him in his room, then pulled him out of school entirely until the holidays passed.
What’s happening here is nothing like that, it’s far more glittering, glamorous, and far more daring, but the ache is the same. Watching people onstage, watching an audience enjoy them, laugh with them. He hadn’t known something so risqué could also be so playful. So joyful. He didn’t even know it was possible.
The redhead leaves the main stage and walks towards the tables, flirtily touching some, brushing fingers, but never too close. He eventually reaches the circular, smaller stage in the middle. This time he’s joined by a woman, dressed in white feathers and a jaded crown. Daesung hadn’t seen her before now. The redhead swirls the woman, tilts her towards the crowd, his arm wrapped around her waist. But then the woman does the same, and the redhead falls to his knees this time, looking equally pliant, blissful, as he’s spread out on the stage like it’s his own bed.
They pull away, and it’s right back to playing coy, as if they hadn’t just touched each other like lovers. Back to teasing the audience directly, flaunting themselves like they know they are stunning. They are. Captivating. Breathtaking. Daesung is completely enamoured with every move they make, every wink, every kiss they indirectly send his way.
“So,” a voice says beside him. “Where were we? Daesung, right?”
He startles, turning back to the bar. He didn't realise that the bartender was already in his earlier position.
“Yes,” Daesung nods quickly.
“We’re severely understaffed this month,” the man says. “You’d need to be on your toes. Help with serving. Handle the bar when I’m busy. Can you make drinks?”
Oh. That kind of know-how.
Daesung swallows and decides honesty is safer. “Not… really.”
The man exhales, already moving past it. “That’s fine. I can teach you some. You can start with basic orders.” There’s urgency in his voice, an edge of someone just as desperate as Daesung is.
“Yes. I can do that. I can manage,” Daesung says quickly. “Thank you.”
“Good.” The man glances towards his watch. “It’s almost closing time. Can you wait a bit? I’ll explain the requirements then.”
Daesung nods immediately, too eager. By the time he looks back, the stage has gone dark, the performers vanished like a dream.
“Oh, and by the way,” the bartender adds, offering a small smile, and handing back his ID. “I’m Soohyuk. You’re younger, yeah? Call me hyeong.”
“Alright, hyeong,” Daesung replies back.
Soohyuk moves with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
He flips the sign on the door, tells Jaeho to lock it, and starts closing down the bar, wiping counters, stacking glasses, dumping ice with a dull clatter into the sink. The music has cut out completely now, leaving behind a strange quiet, the kind that makes the room feel twice as big. The last of the customers are long gone, laughter and perfume lingering like ghosts.
Daesung stays where he’s been told, hands folded in front of him, waiting.
He can’t help it, his eyes keep drifting toward the back hallway, toward the heavy curtain the performers disappeared behind. Where did they go? Do they just… vanish after the show? The thought feels silly, but the place still hums with some kind of leftover magic, and Daesung half-expects the redhead to reappear under a spotlight at any moment.
Soohyuk returns, drying his hands on a towel. “Alright,” he says, leaning against the bar, much more relaxed this time. “Let’s get you sorted.”
He explains quickly, clearly: Daesung’s shifts would mostly be evenings, weekends for sure. Though some days, preperation can start well ahead, during the day. Minimum wage plus tips, which, Soohyuk adds pointedly, can be very good here if you’re attentive. Basic rules: be polite, don’t get handsy with customers, don’t encourage anyone who looks too drunk, and absolutely no disappearing mid-shift. Staff drinks are a no. Flirting is allowed. Flirting is desired but nothing more than that, and definitely not between co-workers.
“Finally, I am not the owner but you'll report everything to me regardless. And you mess up, Jaeho hyeong tosses you out himself,” Soohyuk finishes mildly.
Daesung nods along to everything, absorbing it like gospel. Every word feels like a lifeline, a beginning.
“So then,” Soohyuk says at last, offering him a hand. “Welcome to Lady Marmalade.”
Daesung shakes it, relief flooding him so suddenly it almost makes his knees weak.
That’s when the back door swings open.
A group spills out, laughter, tired voices, the soft scuff of shoes on the floor. Daesung’s head snaps up automatically.
The dancers.
And there he is.
The redhead looks nothing like the man onstage.
Gone are the pearls and glitter and impossible boots. He’s dressed down in loose black pants and an oversized hoodie, hair messy and falling into his eyes, makeup scrubbed off except for a faint shimmer stubbornly clinging near his lashes. He looks… younger. Almost disarmingly normal. Something about the man makes Daesung incredibly nervous, he gulps.
Beside him is the woman from the stage, also changed, jeans, a cropped jacket, feathers nowhere in sight. She looks radiant even without the spectacle.
They greet Soohyuk easily, familiarity threaded through every word.
“Good show tonight,” Soohyuk says.
The redhead grins. “Crowd was good.”
His gaze flicks to Daesung, curious.
“Who’s that?” he asks.
Soohyuk gestures toward Daesung with his chin. “New recruit. Starting tomorrow.”
The redhead’s smile turns playful as he looks Daesung over, slow, assessing, as if wanting to measure his worth. “Pretty,” he says simply.
Daesung feels heat rush straight to his face. He ducks his head, mortified. Was it Daesung that he found pretty?
The man laughs, soft and bright. “Are you a little stalker?” He asks lightly. “I am pretty sure I have seen you outside, before the show.”
Daesung has never felt so exposed. He stammers out a strangled laugh, unsure what it's even supposed to sound like.
The redhead looks at him thoroughly amused though, but decides to let it go. “I’m Jiyong,” he says, offering a hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Daesung takes it, suddenly hyper-aware of his own clumsiness. “Daesung,” he says, and then, “You are perfect… I mean your number was so perfect.” He thinks this would be the right time for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Jiyong, however, looks flattered. He smiles, almost shyly, then tilts his head, and says in the most infuriatingly flirty voice,“Baby, all my numbers are.”
The woman decides to put a halt to this exchange. Daesung thanks her for it, in his mind. “Oppa!! You are back at it again”, she says to Jiyong, punching at him playfully. Then, looks at Daesung and adds with a smile, leaning in just a little, “I’m Chaerin. Welcome to the madhouse.”
Daesung smiles back. Soohyuk hands him a register and tells him to fill in his availability, promising he’ll shuffle the schedule around accordingly.
Daesung takes the pen, nodding along, trying to look focused. He definitely does not linger over the dancers’ names. He absolutely does not search for Jiyong’s. And he is certainly not shameless enough to mark himself available on every single date Jiyong is working.
(He does all of that anyway.)
Jiyong leaves first but not before a full scan of Daesung once again. “Will see you around then”, says Jiyong.
Daesung doesn't fumble when he says back, “Hope it's as much of a good news for you as it is to me.” He doesn't know where he finds the confidence from.
Jiyong laughs, full-body and giddy, “We will see about that.” And then he leaves.
♪♪ ♡ ♪♪
Back at the motel, Daesung lies on the bed fully clothed, staring up at the stained ceiling as the day replays itself in fragments. The noise of the city outside. The lights. The way hope had crept into him without permission. A feeling he’d never been allowed to name back home.
But ultimately his thoughts keep drifting back to the dancers—to how free they looked on that stage. Unapologetic and Alive.
And then, inevitably, to Him.
It’s the small things that undo Daesung. The way Jiyong’s smile had tilted, half-mischief, half-charm. The way his body moved like water. The way the jewels hugged him all over, the glitters kissed him. The casual confidence in his voice. The contrast between the man onstage and the one in an oversized hoodie, messy and casual. The way his hand had felt warm when they shook.
Before he realizes what’s happening, his body reacts.
Daesung startles, shame crashing into him hard and fast. He turns away, presses his face into the pillow, scolding himself under his breath. He’d always known, deep down, that something in him tilted toward men sometimes. It was a quiet, unwanted truth he’d learned to bury early. Encouraging it had never been an option. Not with his father. Not with his family. Not with the world he came from. He didn't even bother delving into it.
It’s the only secret he never even told Youngbae. Though sometimes, he wondered if the other man already knew. But if he did, would they still have remained friends? Some truths needed to stay hidden for survival, Daesung had learnt that early on.
What am I doing, he thinks desperately. Thinking about a man he just met, a stranger, a performer paid to entice. It feels wrong. Inappropriate. He imagines Jiyong finding out and recoiling at the thought, certain he’d be laughed at, or worse, slapped hard across the face.
And yet… he can’t stop.
His mind keeps returning to Jiyong’s undulated body, the confident smirk that played on his lips, the sheen of sweat on his collarbones.
A familiar heat begins to pool low in his belly, an unwelcome, insistent throb that matches the memory of the music from earlier. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to force the images away, to think of anything else. But it is useless. The vision of Jiyong’s body moving with such raw, unapologetic sensuality is burned into the back of his eyelids.
His own body betrays him, hardening with a speed that makes him dizzy. He feels like a voyeur. But the ache is overwhelming, a primal need that drowns out any guilt. With a groan of resignation, he let his hand drift down his chest, his own touch feeling foreign and clumsy.
He doesn’t fight it. He closes his eyes and gives in, letting the memory take over. He pictures the dance, the fluid roll of Jiyong’s hips, the way his back had arched. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly at first, then with a growing urgency that mirrors the escalating beat of the music in his head. He imagines the dancer leaning towards him. He chases the feeling the dance had given him, that electric pull, and he is so close.
When Jiyong's lips finally meet his, the orgasm hits him like a tidal wave, a violent, shuddering release that rips a gasp from his lips. His back arches off the bed, his toes curling as pleasure, sharp and blinding, courses through every nerve ending. For a few blissful moments, his mind is completely, beautifully blank.
He lay panting in the aftermath, drained and lifeless, the sticky evidence of his shame cooling on his stomach and the cheap motel sheets. The shame returns as a bitter tang at the back of his throat, but now entangled with euphoria.
He turns his head to the side, staring at the floral print on the wall. He forces his thoughts elsewhere, the beauty of the dance, the artistry, the joy onstage. Not the dancer, he tells himself firmly. It is a flimsy, desperate lie, but it is the only one he has. Clinging to it, he finally let the exhaustion pull him under, drifting into a restful, dreamless sleep.
Tomorrow, Seoul will wake him again.