"Uh, Mr. Vyshnevsky," the doctor began, his voice hesitant, as if unsure how to proceed in front of such an intimidating figure. "The bed is... uh, it's a bit low for this type of examination. Would it be possible to—"
"Follow me," Yaroslav interrupted, his tone curt and final. He didn't wait for the doctor to finish or for Beom to protest. Instead, he gestured for both of them to follow, his commanding presence making it clear that there was no room for argument.
Beom sighed inwardly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His body still felt heavy and sluggish, a reminder of the surgery he was recovering from. Why can't he ever ask instead of ordering people around? Beom thought irritably as he carefully got to his feet. Yaroslav's hand briefly hovered near his back as if to steady him, but Beom brushed it off with a sharp glance, determined to move on his own.
The walk to the next room was short but felt longer under Yaroslav's watchful gaze. Beom could feel the intensity of it, like Yaroslav was silently assessing his every step, every wince. It was both irritating and oddly comforting, though Beom would never admit the latter.
When Yaroslav finally stopped and opened the door, Beom stepped inside, his eyes landing on the unfamiliar setup. A higher bed sat in the center of the room, flanked by medical equipment that looked far too advanced for what he assumed was a routine check-up. His gaze fell on two stirrup-like contraptions attached to the bed, and it didn't take long for him to figure out their purpose. His stomach churned uncomfortably.
"Seriously?" Beom muttered under his breath, glancing back at Yaroslav. But the man's expression was unreadable, his focus already on the doctor as if silently instructing him to proceed.
"Sir, please lie down," the doctor said, his tone professional but firm.
Beom hesitated, his pride and unease warring within him. He wasn't exactly thrilled about the idea of being examined in such a vulnerable position, especially with Yaroslav standing there like some overbearing guardian. But he knew there was no way out of it. He sighed and climbed onto the bed, his movements slow and deliberate as he tried not to strain his recovering body.
Once he was settled, the doctor adjusted the stirrups, and Beom reluctantly placed his legs apart, resting them in the holders. The position was awkward and uncomfortable, and a flush of heat crept up his neck as he avoided looking at either of the men in the room.
This is humiliating, he thought bitterly, clenching his fists at his sides. His eyes darted to Yaroslav, who was still leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and his gaze unwavering. There was something in Yaroslav's expression that Beom couldn't place—concern, maybe? Or was it something else? Whatever it was, it only added to Beom's discomfort.
Why is he even here? Beom wondered, his irritation growing. Does he think I can't handle this on my own? Or does he just enjoy hovering like some overprotective bodyguard?
The doctor's voice broke through his thoughts. "I'll begin the examination now. Please let me know if you feel any discomfort."
Beom nodded stiffly, his jaw tightening as he tried to focus on anything other than the situation at hand. The ceiling, the sterile smell of the room, the faint hum of machinery—anything to distract himself from the vulnerability he felt.
As the doctor began, Beom's thoughts wandered back to Yaroslav. Despite his irritation, there was a small, begrudging part of him that felt... reassured by Yaroslav's presence. It was a confusing feeling, one that only added to the tangle of emotions he'd been wrestling with since meeting the man.
He's infuriating, Beom thought, his gaze flickering toward Yaroslav again. But maybe... he cares more than he lets on.
The thought was fleeting, quickly replaced by a wave of frustration as he shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable. Beom hated feeling like this—exposed, dependent, and unable to fully control the situation. But for now, he had no choice but to endure it, all while pretending that Yaroslav's unwavering presence didn't affect him as much as it did.
Beom's body tensed as the doctor finished his examination, his clinical tone breaking the awkward silence that had settled in the room. "Wow, surprisingly, this is really healing faster than I imagined," the doctor said, adjusting his gloves and glancing toward Yaroslav.
Beom let out a small sigh of relief at the news, eager for this whole ordeal to be over. His muscles relaxed slightly, though he still felt a little self-conscious lying there with his legs apart like this. Faster than expected, he thought, clinging to the idea that he'd soon be able to move past this awkward chapter of his recovery.
But his relief was short-lived.
Yaroslav's voice broke through like a thunderclap, his tone calm but completely inappropriate for the moment. "So when can I have sex with him through that?" he asked bluntly, his words hanging in the air like a bombshell.
Beom's jaw dropped, and his eyes widened in pure disbelief. Did he just say what I think he said? His head whipped toward Yaroslav so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. The sheer audacity of the question left him momentarily speechless, his mind racing to catch up with the situation.
The doctor, seemingly unfazed by Yaroslav's bluntness, adjusted his glasses and responded in the same clinical tone as before. "Oh, you can, but you must be very slow with it because this might hurt."
Beom felt his entire body heat up, a mix of mortification and fury washing over him. What the actual hell is wrong with these people? His thoughts spiraled as he stared at the two men, his mind a cacophony of outrage. Why is no one acting like this is completely insane?
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he sat up abruptly, ignoring the ache in his body as he yanked his legs free from the stirrups. "Excuse me?!" he snapped, his voice sharp and laced with anger. His eyes locked on Yaroslav, who was still standing there, as calm and composed as ever, like he hadn't just crossed about a dozen boundaries.
Yaroslav's expression didn't waver. If anything, he looked mildly amused by Beom's reaction, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk. "What?" he said, his tone infuriatingly casual. "It's a legitimate question."
Beom's face flushed even hotter, his anger bubbling over. "A legitimate question?! Are you insane?! Who even asks that in front of—" He gestured wildly toward the doctor, who was now scribbling notes on a clipboard as if this was all just another day at the office.
"Calm down," Yaroslav said, his voice steady but commanding, like he was trying to rein Beom in. "I just needed to know the timeline. It's important."
"Important?!" Beom practically shouted, his voice cracking slightly from the sheer force of his indignation. "You're unbelievable, Yaroslav! I'm sitting here, recovering from surgery, and you're already planning your next—" He cut himself off, unable to even finish the sentence without feeling like his head might explode.
His mind was racing. How is he so calm about this? How can he even think about something like that right now? The sheer arrogance, the entitlement, the audacity—it was enough to make Beom's blood boil. He felt like he was caught in some kind of absurd, twisted nightmare where everyone around him had lost all sense of decency.
The doctor, oblivious to the emotional storm brewing in the room, cleared his throat and added, "Just be mindful of any signs of discomfort or pain during the process. If there's any significant bleeding or—"
"Okay, stop. That's enough," Beom interrupted, holding up a hand to silence the doctor. He couldn't take any more of this bizarre conversation. His head was spinning, his pulse pounding in his ears as he glared at Yaroslav. "You," he said, pointing a finger at him, "are absolutely the worst."
Yaroslav tilted his head slightly, his smirk growing more pronounced. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said smoothly, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant.
Beom groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Why do I even bother? he thought bitterly. It's like talking to a brick wall—a smug, arrogant brick wall.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up carefully and shooting both men one last glare. "I'm done here," he said, his tone clipped. "I don't care what either of you think is 'important' or 'legitimate.' I'm going back to bed, and I don't want to see either of you for the rest of the day."
With that, he stormed out of the room, his steps quick but careful as he tried not to aggravate his healing body. As he made his way back to his room, his thoughts churned with frustration and disbelief.
Who does he think he is? Acting like this is normal? Like it's okay? Beom fumed internally, his fists clenched at his sides. I swear, one of these days, I'm going to lose it and knock that smug look right off his face.
And yet, beneath all the anger and indignation, there was a small, traitorous part of him that couldn't shake the image of Yaroslav's calm, confident expression—the way he always seemed so sure of himself, even when he was completely out of line. It was infuriating, yes, but also... distracting in a way that Beom wasn't ready to admit.