Beom snorted, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment," he said, lifting his glass in a mock toast before taking another sip.
Beom leaned forward, his movements unsteady but deliberate, as the alcohol coursing through his system gave him a confidence he didn't usually display. His face was flushed, a rosy tint spreading from his cheeks to his ears, and his half-lidded eyes sparkled with a tipsy curiosity. "When I was younger," he began, his voice tinged with amusement and nostalgia, "my sister and I were playing. But—" he chuckled softly, shaking his head at the memory, "she beat me so hard I got a scar on my eyebrow."
Sasha raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair with an amused smirk. "A scar, huh? Never noticed," he said, his tone light and teasing.
Beom nodded vigorously, his hand subconsciously brushing over the faint mark above his brow. "Yeah, it's not that visible, but you can see it if you come close," he said, his words slightly slurred as he gestured Sasha closer. "Right here. Look."
Sasha's smirk widened, but he didn't move closer. "I'll take your word for it," he said, his voice rich with mockery.
Beom pouted slightly, his brows furrowing as if Sasha's lack of effort was a personal offense. "Tch, you're no fun," he muttered, before shifting his gaze to Sasha's face, his eyes narrowing in drunken determination. "Speaking of faces...your face…" Beom's words trailed off as he leaned even closer, now just a breath away from Sasha, his gaze intently studying him.
Sasha blinked, taken aback by the sudden proximity. "What are you doing?" he asked, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and mild confusion.
"Your face," Beom repeated, squinting slightly as if trying to focus through the haze of alcohol. "It's so…smooth. No facial hair, nothing." His hand lifted without permission from his better judgment, his fingers hovering near Sasha's jawline. "How is it this smooth? Do you shave like…every five minutes or something?"
Sasha chuckled, his smirk returning. "Good genetics, I guess," he said with a shrug, clearly entertained by Beom's tipsy fascination.
Beom, however, wasn't satisfied with the answer. "Nah, nah," he said, shaking his head as if Sasha's explanation was utterly inadequate. "Nobody's face is this smooth. What's your secret? A thousand skincare products? A deal with the devil? Tell me."
Sasha's chuckle turned into a full laugh, his shoulders shaking as he watched Beom's drunken interrogation. "You're ridiculous," he said, shaking his head.
But Beom was too far gone to care about Sasha's amusement. He moved even closer, squinting as if examining Sasha under a microscope. "Lemme see," he muttered, leaning in until their noses were nearly touching. His breath smelled faintly of the alcohol they'd been drinking, and his words carried the unmistakable slur of someone who was more drunk than sober. "I bet if I look close enough, I'll find something."
"Careful," Sasha warned, his voice low with a teasing edge. "You're getting pretty close, Beom. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were flirting."
Beom leaned back in his chair, his movements exaggerated and clumsy as he waved his hand dismissively at Sasha. "Pfft, as if," he repeated, his words slurring slightly as he crossed his arms over his chest like a child refusing to admit they lost an argument. "I'm not interested in smooth-faced pretty boys like you. You'd be more my type if you had a beard or something. Maybe a little rugged—like one of those lumberjacks in commercials, chopping wood and stuff." He paused, blinking as his alcohol-fogged mind caught up with his words. "But—uh—just to be clear, I'm not into men. Nope. Not even a little."
Sasha's smirk widened, his eyes glittering with mischief as he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Oh?" he said, drawing out the word like he'd just heard the most intriguing confession. "Not even a little, huh?"
Beom's face twisted into a mixture of indignation and drunken confidence. "Nope," he said firmly, poking his own chest for emphasis. "Not. Even. A. Little. I like women. Beautiful women. Soft hair, nice curves, and—and they smell like flowers or vanilla or whatever. Men don't smell like that. They smell like...like sweat and bad decisions."
Sasha chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "Sweat and bad decisions? Is that so?" he said, his voice teasing.
"Yeah," Beom slurred, pointing a finger at Sasha with the kind of exaggerated seriousness only a drunk person could muster. "Like you! You probably smell like...like motor oil and heartbreak." He snorted at his own joke, clearly amused.
Sasha raised an eyebrow, unable to hide his grin. "Motor oil and heartbreak? That's oddly specific."
Beom nodded, swaying slightly in his chair. "Yep. You look like the kind of guy who'd leave a trail of broken hearts wherever you go. Like, some poor guy or girl is probably out there writing a sad song about you right now. Probably in Russian. With, like, violins and everything."
Sasha burst out laughing, leaning back in his seat. "I didn't know I had such a dramatic effect on people," he said, pouring himself another glass of alcohol.
Beom waved his hand again, as if brushing off Sasha's response. "It's not your fault. It's the face. And the stupid accent. People probably fall for you and then realize, 'Oh no, he's an asshole!' But by then it's too late, 'cause they're already in love or whatever." He took another sip of his drink, wincing slightly at the burn before setting the glass down with a thud. "But not me. Nope. I see through you, Sasha. You can't charm me with your...with your stupid long legs and your...your face."
Sasha tilted his head, clearly holding back laughter. "My face?"
"Yeah, your face!" Beom said, pointing at him again. "It's too symmetrical. Nobody's face should be that symmetrical. It's unnatural. Makes people do dumb things, like trust you."
"Do dumb things like trust me?" Sasha echoed, clearly amused. "So you're saying my face is a weapon?"
Beom nodded solemnly, or at least as solemnly as someone drunk could manage. "Exactly. A weapon of mass destruction. If there's ever a war, they'll just send you in to, like...smolder at the enemy or something. They'll surrender in five minutes. Bet you don't even need a gun."
Sasha finally let out a full laugh, shaking his head. "You're something else, Beom."
Beom leaned back in his chair again, crossing his arms with a triumphant grin. "Damn right I am. I'm Beom-Ki, undefeated champion of not being charmed by assholes like you." He paused, squinting at Sasha. "But seriously, you do kinda smell like motor oil right now. Did you roll under a car or something?"
Sasha laughed even harder, raising his glass in a mock toast. "To motor oil and heartbreak," he said, clinking his glass against Beom's.
"To motor oil and heartbreak," Beom mumbled, taking another sip before slumping slightly in his chair, muttering under his breath about "pretty boys with symmetrical faces."