Into The Thrill

Haewon placed his hand over the back of the one caressing his forehead, clasped it, and pulled it away. The man's pupils trembled. His neatly shaped fingers brushed softly past Haewon's eyebrows, eyelids, cheeks, and jaw.
"There’s no fever."
"I have a fever. Check again."

Haewon pushed the man’s hand inside his slightly opened shirt. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed dryly, looking troubled. Reaching the limit of his patience, the man wrapped Haewon in his arms and pressed his lips to the nape of his neck. His hands urgently loosened Haewon’s waistband, drawing out his half-hardened penis as if handling a child.
The hands of a musician—hands that played instruments, hands that created sound—moved below, stroking him. Haewon rested his cheek against the man’s shoulder, watching the focused expression on his face.
"Ah…"

When he let out a moan, the man glanced up at him. Haewon, his lips slightly parted as if to kiss him, exhaled hot breath from a close distance. As the man's grip tightened around him, Haewon bit his lip to suppress another moan. He grabbed the man's arm in desperation. His chin tilted upward into the air.
"Ah, ahh…!"
His hips twitched involuntarily. The traces of release dripped from the man’s hand with a thick viscosity, like honey. Haewon stared dazedly at his dampened lower half. Strength left his fingertips, and his entire body sank into a languid haze. He rested his forehead against the man’s shoulder, rubbing against it.

The man, diligent and silent, wiped the milky liquid off his hand with a tissue and cleaned up Haewon's lower body as well. He pulled Haewon’s trunks back up, covering the softened member, and zipped up his pants. Only after the man had finished tidying everything did Haewon finally open his eyes.
The first violinist of the HanKyung Symphony was also Haewon’s senior. He pulled out two wet tissues and wiped his hands.
Senior Choi kept his lips tightly shut, showing no intention of speaking. Haewon pulled up his pants and sat on the narrow practice room chair. Breaking the silence, he spoke.

"I didn’t leave because I hated the conductor. I just quit because I didn’t want to do it anymore."
It took thirty minutes for the real reason for their meeting to come out. Since everyone had left for a guest performance in Japan, and no one was around, it was Choi who had first called Haewon to meet at the concert hall’s string instrument practice room. Yet, now that Haewon was here, he was being met with nothing but a disapprovingly pursed mouth.
Haewon, looking up at him like a scolded child, casually placed his hand over the back of Choi’s neatly shaped one. Immediately, Choi’s eyebrows twisted, crumbling slightly.

As if engaging in something improper, he couldn’t even let out a sound, only gasping for breath as he grabbed Haewon's cheeks and pressed their lips together again.
In an age where intellectuals had been wiped out, where an unchecked pursuit of sensation was deemed beautiful, humanism had become just another name for justified, prideful desire.
Choi, the very model of an upright citizen, a man who wished to live as one of the last remaining intellectuals of this era, now touched Haewon's body and indulged in it, only to recoil in horror afterward—like a reptile disgusted by the shed skin it had just molted. He wiped his hands vigorously with a wet tissue, as if trying to erase all traces of sensation.

Haewon, too, wiped the man’s semen off his hands with the tissue he was given, watching Choi go to such lengths to scrub his own hands clean. The way he busied himself, as if trying to rid himself of his guilt, struck Haewon as somewhat pitiful.
At times, Choi’s hypersensitivity to this kind of thing was rather endearing. Completely oblivious to the fact that he was being teased, he was, as always, desperately trying to shake off his guilt.
Haewon walked up behind him and pressed his face against Choi’s back, wrapping both arms around his waist.
A stable job. A stable income. A stable family.

A man who could be called the model of stability suddenly froze, his back stiffening.
"You haven’t been working on anything since then."
He was referring to Haewon’s album project with Kim Jaemin. Since then, Haewon hadn’t taken on any notable work. Thanks to the card his father had given him, there was no real need for him to work hard.

By bringing this up himself, Choi had unwittingly admitted that, despite pretending otherwise, he had been keeping an eye on Haewon.
Haewon didn’t reply. He simply rested his face against Choi’s shoulder and remained still. The man’s breathing gradually steadied. He hurried to justify himself.
"Juhee mentioned it. That you haven’t been working since then."

Juhee was Haewon’s college classmate, a member of this symphony, his junior—and Choi’s wife.
Trying to use his wife’s name as an excuse, as if that could prove he wasn’t interested in Haewon, only made him all the more endearing. Haewon couldn’t help but chuckle.
"That’s not what I meant, I mean…"

"I’m managing things just fine. You don’t need to worry about that."
It wasn’t so much a reassurance as it was a way of telling him to stop caring.
"If you stop playing for too long, your hands will stiffen, and you’ll lose your touch."

Practicing was a habit for Haewon. Even if he hated it, it was something he did without fail. The only things he avoided were activities that required interactions with others. Strangely enough, he never neglected his violin. He still attended lessons twice a week and practiced daily.
Choi still didn’t know that Haewon was continuing his lessons with Professor Jang.
Choi believed that Haewon had left the symphony because of him. And Haewon had let him believe that. Watching him struggle with guilt and make up self-justifications was amusing.

Looking at Choi, Haewon thought he understood where human compassion stemmed from.
"The second violinist is leaving for Germany soon. We’ll be holding a public audition, but if you’re interested, I can push for you strongly."
"…Would that be okay for you?"

Haewon asked, wondering if it would be fine for him to be hanging around, in front of Choi and in front of Juhee. Choi still believed Haewon had left the symphony because of him.
Haewon was an irregular presence wedged between Choi and his wife, a part of an improper equation. Even if Choi wasn’t just making the offer to ease his guilt, Haewon had absolutely no desire to return to the symphony. Organizations and regulations didn’t suit him. With his father’s wealth, there was no reason for him to endure them.
Choi’s eyes twitched. His gaze wavered, unable to settle, hovering over the clutter of sheet music strewn across the table.

His awkwardness and disheveled state were almost irritating to watch. Haewon and Choi were not, and never would be, in some tragic, fateful relationship.
To put it bluntly, Choi was just a fleeting distraction in Haewon's dull routine. A channel he turned to occasionally when he was bored, only to change it again with a scowl after five minutes. Nothing more than that.
"Don’t mind me. I won’t mind you either."

"I do mind you."
"Haewon."
A beast suppressing its lust, living with a blade buried deep in its gut. The gap between man and beast writhes in his stomach.

"I appreciate the offer. I’ll think about it."
"Opportunities like this don’t come often. Most people would do anything to hold onto their spots, but you… what’s with you?"
A position in the symphony held no appeal for Haewon. The salary wasn’t high, and the benefits weren’t particularly great. Other than the advantage of being able to collaborate with renowned musicians or selectively take on private lessons and tutoring requests, there wasn’t much merit to it.

The ordinary worries of an ordinary person—the warm, human scent of Choi’s world—sometimes felt foreign to Haewon. He had never seriously contemplated how to sustain his life.
Haewon knew very well that this wasn’t what he wanted.
This wasn’t it.

Something more… something more stimulating…
"Hm?"
Lost in his own thoughts, Haewon only now realized that Senior Choi was waiting for an answer.

"Ah, right. I’ll let you know. I have somewhere to be today."
"Alright. It’s getting cold, so dress warmly. It’s early winter, but it’s already chilly."
Haewon put on the coat he had taken off earlier. Choi approached him, holding what appeared to be his own scarf. As Haewon fastened his coat buttons, Choi wrapped the scarf around his neck. A faint, familiar scent lingered. As Choi adjusted the knot of the scarf, Haewon lightly brushed his lips against his. Choi lowered his gaze, his stiffened cheeks gradually flushing red.

"Thank you, senior."
"I’ll call you soon. Soon."
A pitiful attempt at seduction—never crossing the line, yet unable to sever the lingering attachment, always promising a "next time." Choi spoke of calling again, of meeting again, but neither had ever actually happened, and both knew they never would. He could neither swallow nor abandon his hunger, barely satisfying himself with the taste alone.

Haewon gave him a final glance before stepping out of the practice room.
The hallway was silent, with most of the symphony members abroad for overseas performances. Haewon exited the building and got into a taxi that had just pulled up.
"To H Hospital’s funeral hall, please."

After giving the driver the destination, Haewon sank into the back seat, pulling the scarf up to cover half of his face.
Taeshin was dead.
He had received the call last night. His phone had been dead for so long that he hadn’t even noticed. When he turned it back on, there were nearly a hundred missed calls.

Among them, about ten were from Taeshin. As Haewon scrolled through the missed calls, his phone suddenly rang. It was Taeshin’s number.
He answered indifferently, expecting another one of those tedious conversations about unrequited love from a straight man. He had already assumed it would be an exhausting call.
But it wasn’t Taeshin on the other end. It was his mother.

She was sobbing.
That night, the night Haewon hadn’t answered, Taeshin had jumped from the rooftop of his thirty-story apartment building. It was midnight. Snow had blanketed the artificial garden of the residential complex in white. His head split open upon impact, and dark red blood spread across the pure snow.
He had never been beautiful, never remotely interesting. But that night, he was different. The crimson staining the white snow was beautiful. His grotesquely twisted body, unlike his forgettable self in life, suddenly fascinated everyone.

Taeshin’s mother believed Haewon was one of her son’s closest friends, simply because they had attended the same high school and still kept in touch. But the voice she spoke in as she relayed the news wasn’t grief-stricken or sorrowful—it was something else entirely. It was a sound unlike anything Haewon had ever heard before.
It was the sound of something breaking apart, a beast wailing in despair.
It sent a faint tremor to Haewon’s fingertips.

He swallowed dryly, again and again, as he listened to the news of Taeshin’s death. A light dizziness followed.
That night, before he jumped, Taeshin had called Haewon ten times.
Haewon had always ignored about ten of his calls before eventually picking up, once the ringing grew too irritating. But that night, he hadn’t even noticed.

Taeshin was dead.
It was the death of someone he had at least been somewhat close to.
It didn’t feel real. It was unfamiliar. Foreign.

He wasn’t at an age where the deaths of those around him should be commonplace.
Taeshin had been too young. His death had been unexpected, even shocking, to someone as indifferent as Haewon.
After hanging up with Taeshin’s mother, Haewon sat dumbly on his sofa, phone in hand, for a long time.

Taeshin had always been melancholic, but not to the extent that he needed medication. In that sense, he was similar to Haewon—a child of wealth, spared from the struggles of those who fought desperately within society’s framework.
His sense of reality had always been off. He was careless, too carefree. The only thing that ever troubled him was his unreciprocated ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) love.
And he had been hopelessly in love.

So, in the end, was it because of a man?
That thought alone made Haewon feel not sympathy, but disgust—an aversion bordering on revulsion.
So, it had come down to something as trivial as that.

He almost wished there had been another reason.
He hadn’t even answered Taeshin’s call, yet it felt as though he was being forced to listen to his lament, even in death.
Even after dying, he was still being a nuisance.

Haewon shook his head, as if trying to physically rid himself of the thoughts. Then he got up and took a shower.
Even for someone as dull and detached as Haewon, there must have been some guilt about not picking up the phone on the night Taeshin jumped.
When he stepped out of the shower, he did something unusual—he grabbed his vibrating phone immediately.

It was Choi.
The senior who had occasionally kissed him, occasionally groped him, spilled his cum like a wet dream, and then, without a word, married one of Haewon’s college classmates.
The funeral hall was packed.

Taeshin’s parents were prominent figures in society, people who had accumulated immense wealth. The number of mourners was naturally large.
Thanks to being born into a rich family, Taeshin’s send-off was anything but humble.
An only son from such a prestigious family—committing suicide.

The funeral buzzed with curiosity rather than grief.
Guests whispered the same question—why?—but quickly quieted, mindful not to let their voices stand out.
In the middle of the lavishly arranged chrysanthemums sat a framed portrait of Taeshin, beaming brightly.

Three years? No, maybe four, since Haewon had last seen his face.
Ah, right. That’s what he looked like.
A plain face, nothing striking. Gentle eyes, neither particularly unique nor memorable.

Seeing Taeshin’s face again felt oddly new.
He had called Haewon ten times before jumping. He had always pestered Haewon to meet up, but Haewon had always brushed him off with the excuse of being busy—even when he had nothing to do.
Since graduating high school, they had never made a formal plan to meet. Any encounters had been incidental—at concerts, at parties, because they moved in the same circles.

And yet, on the night he died, Taeshin had called him ten times.
Haewon paid his condolence money but didn’t enter the mourning room. Instead, he stood outside, staring at the portrait for a long while before turning away.
Even when Taeshin was alive, and even now that he was dead, Haewon had nothing to say to him.

He didn’t want to offer condolences.
"Oh? Aren’t you Moon Haewon?"
"Ah."

As Haewon turned to leave, someone grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.
A high school classmate.
The face and name were both unfamiliar.

"You heard about it too? You were close with Taeshin, right? What happened?"
"I haven’t been in touch with him for a while. Seems like they contacted everyone from the alumni association."
"Probably wanted to make sure he wasn’t sent off alone. You’re already leaving? Let’s have a drink, it’s been a while."

"I have things to do."
"Come on, man. Sit down. It’s been almost ten years. Aren’t you happy to see an old friend?"
Ignoring Haewon’s reluctance, the man dragged him toward a low table covered in layers of white disposable plastic sheets. Someone had recently finished a meal, leaving behind a messy spill of yukgaejang broth. A funeral staff member came by, peeling off the topmost plastic sheet. The table was instantly clean again, as if nothing had ever been spilled.

She placed a pair of wooden chopsticks and a plastic spoon in front of them.
"Would you like a meal? We have yukgaejang and galbitang. Or would you prefer some snacks?"
"You hungry?"

"I’m good. I had a late lunch."
"One yukgaejang, some snacks, and two bottles of soju, please."
Sitting cross-legged felt awkward. Haewon fidgeted uncomfortably, grasping his ankles and pulling them close to his body.

"I heard you left HanKyung Symphony? Thought you were doing session work for classical albums. Guess it’s going well?"
"……."