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theeurekaproject · 4 years

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Nam Amor Patria

Acidalia’s reflection stared back at her, unblinking.

She looked horrible. Her skin was pale and washed-out, a sickly shade of orange more reminiscent of a bad spray tan than natural Martian carotenes, and the bags under her eyes were about the size of the Americae Septentrionalis continent. An oozing, red gash went down from her shoulder to her forearm, leeching blood into the bathwater and turning it a sickly brown. Ace didn’t wish Acidalia any harm, but he certainly hadn’t been gentle, either, and one of his pins had driven itself into her flesh and just ripped, went down her skin like scissors cutting wrapping paper, leaving a nasty avulsion behind. She thought she’d stopped the bleeding, but it returned with a vengeance the minute she moved her arm.

“Vae,” she muttered to nobody but herself, watching the wound open again. She’d put butterfly bandages on it in lieu of stitches, but they weren’t waterproof, and they kept coming off and taking more skin with them. Now her whole arm was raw and red, scarlet from the blood and stinging from soap and antiseptic. She reached for another bandage, but her elbow brushed against the corner of the box a little too hard, knocking the entire thing into the water.

Acidalia sighed. Reasoning that any attempt to improve her situation was futile, she leant back against the solium and shut her eyes. It wasn’t good for her skin to be sitting in such a hot bath for so long, but at this point she’d most likely be dead before she turned 21, so the long-term health of her integumentary system was not her main concern. How soon will it be? she wondered, sitting up slightly to glance at the door. Would Alestra come in now, gun in hand, and shoot her in the bath, leaving her floating like Gatsby in a pool of her own mistakes? Or would it be tomorrow at dinner, with ricin-laced wine? Maybe she’d be lucky and it would happen tonight, and she’d die just like she fell asleep, painlessly and unaware.

That was a stupid thought. Alestra would never be that merciful.

Part of Acidalia almost wished they’d kill her soon—at least then she’d be dead and she wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. The other part of her was terrified. Existential dread swelled up deep inside of her, making her heart beat at the speed of an FTL starship. She didn’t want to die. She’d prepared herself for her inevitable demise, thought about it over and over in her head, but she still didn’t want to die. She thought she’d be able to treat this whole situation with more grace, but she seriously doubted her ability to retain any kind of dignity or eloquence while facing her doom. Nobody looked elegant strapped to a gurney with pentobarbital in their arm. No one was graceful in front of a firing squad.

Maybe she’d drown herself before they could get to her, Acidalia mused. Then she’d have the last word. But she wouldn’t, not really—she’d be dead either way, then T would be left without a sister and the Revolution would be left without a Cipher. Besides, she didn’t think she could really force herself to do that, to sink under the water and just breathe until her lungs were full and useless. She could hardly inject herself with hypodermic needles; there was no way she could seriously harm herself without giving up.

Faex. This was a no win situation.

Irritated by her inability to change her predicament, Acidalia decided to ditch the idea of a hot bath altogether. It was supposed to relax her, but she couldn’t get the image of her own bloodied corpse floating, facedown, out of her mind. It was late at night, or maybe early morning—Acidalia was a night owl; all of the interesting things in Eleutheria happened after dark—but she dressed in her favorite evening gown anyway, couple with the Imperial crown. She might as well die while making a statement. Soon enough, she wouldn’t have to hear anybody’s judgement anymore.

She hadn’t realized, before, that her impending doom would affect her so much. She knew that this was a hard game to win, and oftentimes victory and death were synonymous; war was like chess, and sometimes pawns have to be sacrificed in order to save the king. The odds of Acidalia making it past twenty were already low before she joined the Revolution, and she thought she’d come to terms with that. Still, standing here, wondering which breath would be her last, was heart-wrenching. There were so many things she would never get to do, so many sights she would never see, so many dreams left unfulfilled. And then there was T.

Oh, god, T. Acidalia felt selfish, suddenly, for musing on all of her life’s shortcomings when T would be the real victim of her murder. Once Acidalia was dead, that was it; there would be no more pain or heartache for her. T, though… T would still be alive. T would have to watch them desecrate her corpse, see the propaganda with her face on it, deal with the remnants of her legacy. Meanwhile, the Revolution would flounder. Acidalia was their secret weapon—without her, they’d be at a horrible disadvantage.

“This is just wonderful, isn’t it?” Acidalia murmured sadly to nobody in particular. She felt trapped like a prisoner on death row, counting her time in hours instead of years. What would her last words be? She hadn’t ever thought to write such things down.

There were escapes, of course; there were always escapes. She could flee to Mars and abandon all hope of freeing Eleutheria from Alestra’s brutal grasp. It would be easy; she’d blend in with the crowd far more than any other Terran girl, and it wouldn’t be difficult to doctor her documents and adopt a new identity. She could settle down and marry someone and find a mediocre job, and the entirety of the empire she once led would be subject to the cruel and unjust laws her mother passed. Acidalia would survive, but T would be crushed, and she’d be abandoning everything and everyone she loved for the sake of leading an unfulfilling life.

It wasn’t worth it. Acidalia didn’t want to die, but she’d rather go out fighting than live as a coward.

And that left… what, exactly? Even if she managed to escape the palace walls, where would she go? If she went to a Revolutionary base, they’d try to tail her, and the risk of being found was much larger than the benefit of a slightly higher chance of survival. She could steal one of the royal family’s stealth ships and hover in orbit, praying that the cloaking tech held up, but there was such a high chance that they’d find her. She’d only be staving off the inevitable. Who would offer her asylum when Alestra wanted her dead? Alestra stopped at nothing to get what she wanted. She’d happily murder anyone who gave aid to Acidalia.

So Acidalia would die. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do other than pen her last will and testament. What would it even say? “I leave all my wealth to my bastard brother, who you’ll kill if you find out he exists?” And her corpse would be shown on every television in Eleutheria, and her mother, the ever-brilliant orator, would make a rousing speech about pruning family trees, and she’d smile poisonously into the camera and say that it’s a shame, really, to have to spill so much Cipher blood, but Acidalia was never much of a Cipher to begin with. And somewhere beneath the waters of the Atlantic T would cry and try to hide it, and Andromeda would pace, and it’d be hours—minutes, maybe—until she had her armies fighting in alleyways and people rioting in the streets. Then Alestra’s icy grip would come down upon them with the strength of a hypernova, and they’d bleed, they’d bleed until the streets were slick with blood and viscera, and there would be nobody left to stop it, nobody left to—

Oh, Deus, Acidalia thought, I’m such an idiot. She should have gotten out of here years ago. If only she had the forethought to realize the lengths Alestra would go, if only she’d seen just how little worth the court placed on her life…

But there was no use in such hypotheticals.

Okay. Either I die, or I don’t. It’s time to start thinking about this logically. Acidalia sat down at the desk in her study and stared at the plain white countertop as if she had documents to look through. There were two options: Alestra killed her, or she lived.

In scenario one, Acidalia would die prematurely, T would have a meltdown, and Acidalia’s extremely unique and specific skillset would no longer be available to the Revolution, leaving them at a firm disadvantage. The initial deaths would be minimal, but it would be days at most before war and rioting decimated the planet, killing untold amounts of people in the process—especially with no Cipher to counter Alestra. Any weapon produced by a Cipher could easily leave half the population or more dead or incapacitated, though Acidalia doubted her mother would go that scorched-earth—she wanted an empire to rule, after all. Alestra would most likely only target a small percentage—ten, perhaps, or maybe fifteen. That was slightly over two billion citizens. Initial deaths, one; resultant deaths, 2,000,000,000. And that was being generous.

In scenario two, Acidalia somehow managed to survive the next few weeks, and she’d be there to serve the Revolution when the time came. If she were to live, she’d have to find help from other people, most of whom Alestra would kill. She considered again the option of seeking asylum on Mars. If Alestra could find hints as to where she’d gone—and she would find hints—she’d murder everyone who had ever interacted with Acidalia, probably after torturing them for information. That’d probably be somewhere in the realm of 200 people. And then there’d be rioting anyway, because Acidalia was well-liked amongst certain castes, and tensions would rise to dangerous levels. But Acidalia would be there to help, and two billion people would not die.

So Acidalia had to survive. It was basic math. The damage Alestra could do in her absence outstripped any issues her survival could possibly cause. Two hundred people dying painfully was horrible, but two billion people bleeding to death in the streets and begging for help from long-dead Katherine was much, much worse.

***

An hour later, Acidalia left her bedroom with a designer purse stuffed full of illegal documents and guns concealed in holsters beneath her skirts. She’d formulated the most basic of plans involving a faked suicide and a disguise. It sounded like something out of a terrible B-movie she and T would make fun of together on one of their rare outings, and it wouldn’t be enough to convince Alestra of anything, but it might keep her busy for a while. All Acidalia really needed was time.

As she walked through the palace hallways, the servants gave her a wide berth. They’d all seen the events at the coronation, and they knew how much of a target Acidalia was—none of them wanted to be caught in the crossfire. Acidalia didn’t blame them. She’d stopped using human servants years ago once her mother made it clear that just being around her put their lives at risk. Still, Alestra and Aleskynn liked the dopamine rush that came with ordering people around, so the humans stayed in the palace, tiptoeing around the hallways and whispering to one another in vulgar Latin.

Acidalia tried to appear calm and causal, so as not to ring any alarm bells. There were very few noblewomen awake at this hour, but she could hear her sister giggling in the distance, and even little Aleskynn could be dangerous when she wanted to be. Alestra was nowhere to be seen, and the Imperial Guard was strangely absent. The silence made Acidalia’s skin crawl.

I have every right to be here, she told herself. I am the Imperatrix Ceasarina, and I can go wherever I’d like. But her internal monologue’s attempts to convince her conscious mind that everything was fine did not change the reality of her conundrum whatsoever, and she could feel her anxiety increase tenfold with every step she took. She brushed her fingers against her thigh holster, checking to see if it was still there.

As she crept closer to the hangar where her personal ships were stored, the corridors grew more silent, and throngs of servants dissipated into tiny clusters of robots hovering a few feet off the ground. Aleskynn’s laughter faded into nothingness, leaving only the haunting hum of air conditioning and eerie electronic chimes behind. The air felt stale, suddenly, and less perfumed than it had been before. More tension hung in the atmosphere, and every one of Acidalia’s footsteps felt as loud as a nuclear blast. Still, she moved forward, trying desperately to control her fear, pushing it underneath layers of determination. If it came down to it, she’d fight her way out of here. She had to. Otherwise, the consequences would be immeasurable.

She was almost there, now, almost to the hangar, and the silhouette of the Revelation loomed in the distance. Acidalia hurried her pace, wishing she’d had the foresight to wear flats instead of these ridiculous heels. But she could change later when she was safe and sound someplace else; every one of her ships was stocked with enough clothing and accessories that she could live in orbit for years and never repeat an outfit. The Cipher family was materialistic that way, and when Acidalia’s grandmother had this shipyard built, she probably wasn’t considering the possibility of her little girl turning murderous and starting another civil war. Poor Harmonia, Acidalia thought bitterly. Being Alestra’s daughter was bad enough. She couldn’t imagine what raising her must have been like.

Then again, Harmonia had died young, probably at Alestra’s hands. So maybe Acidalia could imagine. Not for the first time, she shuddered, and tried to pass it off as a response to the ice-cold air of the hangar.

She was so close, so close she could see her target’s shadow flickering in the false candlelight. She wouldn’t be like Harmonia—she wasn’t half as spineless or as shallow. She had a plan and an escape and a means to get away and a revolution behind her and a brother who loved her and a thousand other resources that the stars never graced Harmonia with. She’d survive this. She’d survive, even if it meant fighting Thanatus off herself. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to.

Suppressing nervousness with arrogance, Acidalia made her way across the hangar, well aware that she was a sitting duck for any sniper. There was nothing to hide behind, and her heat signature was probably painfully obvious, a splotch of red paint against a backdrop of cool blue. At least a bullet in her skull would be a quick death, she reasoned. Only a few more paces, only a few more steps, and—

There was a person sitting on the Revelation’s steps, gazing up at the sky.

Acidalia’s heart skipped a beat before resuming its pulse faster than ever before. The woman seemed to sense her presence, and she turned, smirking. Her smile was scarily perfect: two rows of impeccably straight teeth surrounded by candy-coated, sparkly, blood-colored lips.

“Salve, Cassiopeia,” Acidalia said breezily, though she was forcing the words out of her mouth. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run, but there was no escaping now; there’d be a fight this evening, whether with bullets or clever wordplay.

“Ave, Acidalia,” Cassiopeia replied, her voice icy. “What’s a girl like you doing out this time of night?”

Shoot her, Acidalia’s subconscious screamed. Shoot her! But Cassiopeia wasn’t dumb enough to do this alone—impetuous, maybe, but not dumb. She’d have reinforcements, and murdering their leader was bound to incite even more violence.

“I’m going on a short excursion to Mars. I have meeting with President Arlen Tycho regarding the quality of the latest Utopian warships.” It was a plausible lie; Cassiopeia had no way of knowing who on Mars was responsible for what, and there had been issues with Utopian warships in the past, though they had more to do with Revolutionary sabotage than oversights in Utopia Planitia. Still, something told Acidalia that Cassiopeia wasn’t here to listen to her stories about Martian shipyards.

“That’s interesting.” Cassiopeia’s voice was gentle, but there was something dangerous in her eyes, electric green and burning like Greek fire.

“I must ask what your purpose here is,” Acidalia added, well aware that any wrong move could cause this woman to snap. She had always been about as stable as a decaying radioactive isotope, and just as deadly, too.

“I think you already know that.” And with that, Cassiopeia’s voice shifted; she lost the saccharine awe most people took on while interacting with the Imperatrix and replaced it instead with an angry roughness.

“I’m afraid I do not.” Sometimes playing dumb was the best option. Acidalia reached into her dress for her pistol.

“Isn’t it obvious, Cipher? I’ve come to finish what I’ve started.”

#on the edge of eureka #eurekaproject #POV Acidalia #Cassiopeia #short chapter this week sorry guys #Acidalia

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jonguntitled-blog · 7 years

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Yoon Bae/Byeong Ki

Sooji barged into Yoon's office, her eyes fixed on the file that she had in her hands. They skimmed over the numbers in front of her as she kicked the door closed behind her with her foot, wearing flats again today. Yoon looked up at his intruder with a smirk, he'd been playing some new time wasting game on his phone. "Knocking is always a polite way to enter a room, ya know." Yoon glanced over her slim figure as she walked up to his desk, stopping in her tracks without looking up from the file to meet his wandering gaze. Sooji rolled her eyes and set the file down on the desk before looking up to finally look at him. But her eyes went directly to his freshly dyed platinum locks and widened in response. "Yoon what the fuck?" He gave another shit eating grin and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "Yes, my love?" "Uh...your hair?" She gestured to the mop on his head. "Ah, yes. My new roommate dyed it for me. Do you like it? His idea. Said it looked me look more lively and young." He took a strand between his fingers, twisting it around his index finger. "New fuck toy?" "You sound jealous." "I'm not fucking jealous." Sooji tried to hide her venomous tone but failed miserably. "Uh huh sure. Well, his name is Byeong. And he's a real sweetheart. So don't fuck with him, got it?" Yoon's expression became stern as he straightened his posture. Sooji glared at him, taking in the darkness in his eyes. "You're serious?" "Yes, Madam. I fucking am." Yoon said, his tone growing darker as he rose to his feet and walked around his desk. He walked up to her, towering over her so they were but a foot away from each other. He took her chin in his hands, making her look up at him, "and when I say don't fuck with him, I mean don't send any of your men or women after him either do you understand me?" Sooji remained still, her eyes trained carefully on his dark irises. "I can do whatever I want, Choi. I'm not intimidated by you." "Yes, but you're intimidated by Sungho right?" Sooji tried not to flinch at the mention of her brother's name, the implication of Yoon's words. "If he found out, it could mean really bad things for you. Horrible things for your company, for everything you've been working for." His fingers moved to grip her jaw now and dug into her skin. She clenched her jaw and tried to turn her face from him but he held her firm, "He'd kill you." "One of you will, I'd rather it be him." Yoon grinned, tilting his head as he kept his eyes trained on her. "Let go." "Promise me, Sooji." "Fine, fuck. I promise." She pushed against his chest. He released his grip, taking a step back from her. "Now, what's that file?" "It's just some fucking numbers. This months earnings, go over it. Sungho wanted you to look over it. Fuck..." she mumbled the last word, rubbing the skin around her jaw. Sooji shot him her usual annoyed glare before turning on her heel to exit his office, slamming the glass door behind her as she left. ~ As Yoon entered the passcode into the keypad to his apartment, he started to wonder if it was a more secure system than just having a good old key and deadbolt. Maybe he should double up with a deadbolt, key, security system and the passcode. Now that Sooji knew of his new houseguest and all. Hearing the high pitched beep signaling that he entered the correct code, he pushed the door open and closed it behind him, locking it and tossing his keys onto the counter immediately. His eyes scanned his spacious apartment before settling on the young boy who had recently begun occupying his living space and his quite frankly, his mind. The small figure was lying stretched out on his black leather couch, Yoon's cat Kally sleeping comfortably on his chest rising and falling with his steady breaths. Yoon felt a small smile slip onto his lips as he walked further into the apartment, the cool air surrounding his body, the boy must have forgotten to turn on the heat when the sun had gone down. He saw him wearing one of Yoon's black hoodies that the boy was no doubt swimming in, complete with Kally's white fur covering the fabric. He had piled on two more blankets on top of him before falling asleep to keep warm and Yoon clicked his tongue and shook his head at the boy. He walked over, Kally waking from her nap. She looked up and gave a lazy and quiet meow before jumping off the boy's chest, stirring him awake as well. He made a sleepy moan and blinked his eyes a couple times before glancing up at the older man who now hovered over him with a warm smile on his lips. "Hyung..." the boy let out in a quiet whimper, slowly sitting up on the couch. Yoon quickly occupied the space where his head had been laying and the boy returned to a laying position, his head now resting in Yoon's lap. "Enjoy your nap, Ki?" Yoon's voice was husky and deep as he spoke to the younger. Almost as if by habit, his hands found their way to the boy's hair, stroking the dark purple strands. The boy hummed before his eyes fluttered closed again, failing at resisting the temptation of sleep. "Boss lady didn't approve of your dye job." Yoon said with a light hearted chuckle, his fingers digging into the boy's scalp in gentle circles. He let out another hum before furrowing his brows and slowly opening his eyes to look up at the older. "Wh-what? I thought you worked for a man?" "Ah..." Yoon nodded, brushing his bangs from his forehead, admiring the feint scar the boy had near his hairline. "I do, but I don't think he will be around much longer. So, I refer to her as my boss as well you see?" The younger made a tired noise but nodded slowly before closing his eyes again, shifting so he was lying on his side, facing towards Yoon. "I missed you..." his voice was but a whisper and his face pressed into Yoon's stomach as he spoke but Yoon was always one to listen closely to Byeong. Especially when every word that came from the young boy's lips made him smile. The older man would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that this boy was the reason he came home every night. ~ Byeong clenched his jaw and felt a tick as he died for the tenth time in a row on the same fucking level at the same fucking spot. He'd been going at this for the last two hours and he was about to swear off video games for the rest of his life at this point. His knuckles were sore from the grip on his controller and he wanted to throw the fucking thing across the room but he didn't want to break Yoon's things. The man was already nice enough to let him stay here for free, let him eat his food and buy him shit. He didn't need to be breaking his things too. Byeong just set the controller down on the couch beside him and leaned back, letting his head rest on the back of the couch and let out an exhausted breath instead. He'd just give up for today, that would be a smart move, yes. Yoon should be home from work soon anyway, right? He looked at the clock on the cable box, it read 9pm and the boy furrowed his brows in confusion. It was pretty late, even for Yoon. Maybe the man went out for a drink? Maybe he was working late? He found himself worrying about the older man, worrying about if he was hurt or if something had happened to him. Before his thoughts could get too out of hand, he heard the familiar beep come from the front door and his heart leapt in his throat, a smile creeping onto his lips. He looked over at the door to see Yoon taking off his shoes and locking the door behind him. He went about his usual procedure of tossing his keys aside but he didn't look up and greet Byeong like he normally did. Byeong's smile faded as he stood to his feet and walked to the older man, his pace slowed as he drew closer. Something was off, his clothing looked wrinkled, his knuckles were bloodied. There were dark stains on his black dress shirt, small rips in his slacks. "H-hyung?" Byeong couldn't make the shakiness in his voice more obvious if he tried. Yoon's face snapped up and his eyes met Byeong's instantly. The man had been gripping onto the doorframe as he held it to support his weight to take off his shoes. Seeing Yoon's face now in the light, Byeong felt a hitch in his breathing. His face was bloodied, a bruise forming on his cheekbone, a cut on his eyebrow. His lip was split and trickled blood, one of his eyes was sporting a shiner while his nose looked like it could potentially be broken. Byeong's mouth felt dry as he took in the sight before him. He wanted to run but instead he felt himself moving forward, moving closer to Yoon who stood still as a statue in front of the doorway to the apartment. The boy reached his hand out to the older as he came within arms reach, Yoon taking his hand without a second thought. He pulled the younger tightly against his chest, quickly locking him into an embrace neither of them expected. Byeong wanted to ask what happened, what was wrong, whose blood was on his clothes, who he fought with, where he had been? The boy had so many questions for the man who had taken him in and yet no words could come to his lips. Instead the boy buried his face into the crook of the older's neck, breathing in his scent, the mixture of the man's coconut body wash and his expensive Dior cologne. A mixture he never expected to love so much, but he lived for it every night when Yoon came home. He wrapped his arms around the older's waist and clutched at the fabric of his shirt, holding on for dear life like the man could vanish and disappear from him at any moment. "Come to my bed tonight." Yoon's voice was husky again tonight, deeper than usual. Byeong didn't hear him this way often, but when he did it was usually when the younger boy was sleepy and oftentimes he would chalk it up to him being tired and just dreaming it. But he wasn't sleepy right now and he wasn't high or drunk. He was 100% sober and he definitely did not mishear what Yoon just said to him. He simply nodded in response as he felt the older pry his arms off of him. ~ Yoon's eyes scanned the club lazily as he barely held onto his glass of scotch on the rocks, half finished. He yawned, it was late for him, just past midnight and he was exhausted from the office and all the files Sooji had him sort through today. Now Tang had him checking on one of his assets to make sure the owner wasn't fucking around behind his back with any illegal prostitution. Yoon rolled his eyes at the thought as he took another sip from his scotch. The strip club was sleazy enough, of course he had prostitutes in the back, it practically screamed so when you walked into the place. But Yoon wasn't about to report that to Tang, it just meant more paperwork for him at this point. Sooji would have the man killed soon anyway, she'd figured out the old man's plan. Yoon knew Tang's plans as well, and once he executed the big one he had coming up, Sooji would lose it and Tang's head would be on a stake planted outside the company office for all to see as a warning of not to fuck with the 4'11 Korean princess. Yoon felt a smirk cross his lips as he thought of her, sprawled out on his crisp white sheets, warming his bed for him as she did from time to time. Her long black hair spread over his pillows and her golden skin against the white making a contrast that made his insides turn and his heart flutter. He'd never been one to favor the fairer sex, but Sooji he definitely had a soft spot for. At times he felt a pang of guilt, but they quickly dissipated when she made soft moans or whimpered his name with her nails breaking the skin of his back. As he took another sip from his drink a warm hand pulled him from his thoughts. He looked down to see tanned skin against the paleness of his exposed forearm, his eyes followed the arm to come to a very young face and Yoon had to hold back a gasp at just how breathtaking the young man in front of him was. The man, no he was definitely a boy, gave a shy smile to Yoon. The first thing Yoon noticed was the collar around the boy's neck, black leather complete with a little bell like he was a kitten. Yoon had to furrow his brow in confusion as to why the boy would even be wearing that but as his gaze wandered further down the boy's body, he understood it was part of a costume. Fuck, this kid was a stripper? Yoon took a deep breath and set his drink down on the table he had been sitting at alone, straightening out his lazy and relaxed posture. Looking around the busy club, he made sure no eyes were on them as his hands snaked to the boy's hips, leather pants holding onto them for dear life. "Come here." Yoon spoke in a low whisper and the boy obliged, moving to stand between Yoon's legs. The older man's slender fingers felt cold on the younger's exposed skin, he wore a tight too small leather vest that exposed most of his torso along with the low rise black leather pants that hugged his toned legs and left little to the imagination. Yoon found himself licking his lips as he drank in the boy's body, he was young and his figure was small but he was muscular and even in the dim light of the club Yoon could see the curves and definition of his muscles in his skin. What was really driving the older man wild was how low his pants were sitting on his hips, his hip bones protruding from the leather. They sat just above where he knew the boy's cock would be. If he tugged them down just a bit, he could see the base. Yoon hadn't felt this hungry for years, not since Sungho was free. Quickly he felt the boy push his hands off of his waist and Yoon felt a rush of anger and rejection hit him before he realized why the stripper had done it. He looked up to see that the man - the man he was supposed to be watching - was walking around now. The boy looked down at Yoon and started to slowly sway his hips, dancing in front of him and placing his hands on the older's shoulders. So he could touch him but Yoon couldn't touch the younger, strip clubs really were for masochists.

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