"The Insufferable Art of Mockery and Care"
Chung Myung pushed the door open with his usual lack of subtlety, the creak loud in the otherwise still night. He was never one to tip-toe. The empty wine flask in his hand swung lazily, tapping against the doorframe as he leaned in. He had a reason—if anyone asked, of course.
“Ran out of booze,” he’d mutter, a shrug, a grin, and nothing else. Convincing enough.
He stepped inside, unbothered by the mess Tang Bō had left behind—papers scattered, clothes draped haphazardly over furniture, and more belongings than anyone could reasonably need. It was chaos, but Chung Myung moved through it like he owned the place. No hesitation, no missteps.
He’d memorized the room without trying, not that he’d ever admit it. Seven and a half steps to the left for bed. Five forward, eight to the right for the desk. The room was seventeen steps wide, nineteen long. He even knew which drawer held Bō’s fraying green ribbons, which shelf housed his medicinal concoctions, and where his pipes and brushes were buried under the clutter.
Anyway, He turned left, and walked five, six... Seven and a half steps.
Because sneaking in required reconnaissance. Obviously. He wasn’t here for sentimental nonsense. It was absolutely necessary. He was sneaking in after all. He's here to steal, not asking please. And now that he's in it, making sure Bō hadn’t managed to do something stupid in his sleep, like stop breathing.
So, checking on Bō was absolutely necessary.
It was the sight that rooted Chung Myung to the spot. The faint rise and fall of his chest. The journal was still in Bō’s arms, resting loosely over him, the embroidered silk cover catching the faint glow, wrapped in his hand. Bō’s features, usually twisted into something between annoyance and sarcasm, were softened in sleep. He looked… peaceful. Younger, even. The edges of his sharp personality smoothed out, leaving him looking like a forsaken sheep.
Chung Myung’s lips curled upwards. “Clingy leech,” he muttered under his breath.
Quietly, the empty wine flask finds a temporary home on the nearby table. His steps were deliberate but not cautious— He crouched by the bed, his gaze flicking between the journal and Bō’s face. For a moment, he considered prying the book free, but the way Bō’s fingers curled around it stopped him. Instead, he rested his elbow on the edge of the mattress, his chin propped on his hand, watching with an expression that would’ve been unreadable to anyone else.
The faint lines of exhaustion around Bō’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Nor did the way his brow furrowed briefly, as though even in sleep, something weighed on him. Chung Myung frowned, his fingers twitching slightly, the urge to nudge him awake almost overwhelming.
Instead, he sighed, rising to his feet. “Dumb egg...” he muttered.
Bō should have stirred by now. The fact that he hadn’t—still sunk so deeply into sleep—only underscored how long it must have been since he last rested properly. Days, probably. Maybe longer.
As if to prove a point, he plopped onto the mattress beside Bō without ceremony, the bed dipping under his weight. Bō shifted slightly in his sleep, murmuring something indecipherable as his fingers curled tighter around the diary. Chung Myung felt his chest tighten, a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name. He leaned back, hands folded behind his head, and stared at the ceiling, pretending the quality of the mattress justified his choice to stay.
Chung Myung didn't bother grabbing the new flask he’d supposedly come for. Instead, his eyes wandered back to Bō, the steady rhythm of his breathing filling the silence.
“Idiot,” he whispered. Reaching out, he brushed an invisible speck of dust from Bō’s sleeve, the gesture light, fleeting.
He glanced at the diary again, still resting against Bō’s chest, and smirked. There it was, the dark tint in his fingertips that comes and goes, the grim mark of his poison growing stronger within him. Those fingers curled around his diary with a protective grip like a child to his favorite toy.
The sight made the flicker of mischief in Chung Myung’s chest flare to life. He had an idea.
Without overthinking it—because think only made thinks worse, Chung Myung shifted slightly, Carefully, almost too carefully for someone as reckless as him, he shifted closer. His fingers brushed the edge of the journal, light as a feather, testing the waters. Bō stirred, letting out a faint sigh that made Chung Myung pause. For a moment, he considered let ut be, but his resolve won out.
Now, here's the trick; in any other situation the wise decision would be to hide one's presence. But this was Tang Bō. And Tang Bō wasn’t the sort of person you fooled with subtlety. The Dark Saint is not easy to fool, no.
Chung Myung smirked, his decision made. Instead of masking his presence, he did the opposite. His qi flared faintly, just enough to be noticed. It wasn’t aggressive, wasn’t loud—just a ripple through the air, the kind that could coax Bō in his unconscious state without startling him. Subtlety was overrated. The trick, with someone like Bō, wasn’t to disappear—it was to announce yourself. Just enough.
And, of course, only someone like Chung Myung could pull it off.
That's enough to calm the dumb leech down.
Slowly, deliberately, he tugged the diary free from Tang Bō’s slackened grip, careful not to disturb the man’s restless sleep. The moment it was in his hands, he stood quickly, as if lingering too long might make him reconsider. He strode over to the desk with purposeful steps, setting the journal down before pulling open the drawer where he knew Bō kept his brushes. His hand found the smallest one, no thicker than a hairpin, alongside a box of ink sticks and the ink stone nestled beneath them.
That’s when he realized the problem. He’d need water.
The closest thing he had was Bō’s stash of liquor. Without hesitation, he made his way to the cabinet, plucking a flask of baijiu from its shelf. On his way back to the desk, he uncorked it and took a sip, the burn trailing down his throat. Another sip followed—just to be thorough, of course—before he tilted the flask over the ink stone, letting a few drops fall.
He turned back to the desk, opening the little box of ink bars. His fingers hovered over the selection for a moment before plucking out the smallest stick of black ink. Classic. Simple. The perfect choice. He began grinding it against the stone in slow, rhythmic circles, watching the liquid darken with every pass. The scent of baijiu and ink had begun to mingle, sharp and distinct. Chung Myung paused, glancing over his shoulder at Bō. Still asleep, as far as he could tell. The moonlight spilling through the window painted Bō’s features in silver, his face as serene as it ever got.
For all his strange habits, Bō had an annoyingly sharp nose. He’d notice the scent of baijiu in the ink the moment he cracked open the journal again. Hell, he’d probably know it was him just by the brushstroke.
The thought was both amusing and mildly irritating.
Chung Myung dipped the brush into the ink, the bristles soaking up the dark liquid. He opened the journal to a random page, the faint crinkle of paper loud in the quiet room, and brought the tip of the brush to the surface.
He frowned, staring at the blank page as if it had insulted him.
The words just wouldn’t come.
“Well, great,” he muttered under his breath, the brush hovering over the page. He could practically hear the old Sect Leader’s voice chiding him: Think before you act, boy.
He took another sip, leaning back slightly in the chair. The idea of putting the journal back crossed his mind, but it felt too much like giving up.
And giving up wasn’t in Chung Myung’s nature.
But still… damn it, what was he even trying to write?
How did Bō manage to write like a condemned monk? What was he supposed to write? His innermost thoughts? Ramblings? What kind of ramblings. It is so dumb. Why can't he keep his thoughts for himself? Freak.
Chung Myung wished he could get his hands on one of the older diaries for inspiration. But, of course, they were nowhere to be seen. What Bō-ya did with them after filling them up was a mystery Chung Myung had never cared to solve. Burned, hidden, or maybe shoved into some overly ornate box only someone as pretentious as Bō-ya would own. It didn’t matter. The point was, he had nothing.
Nothing but Tang Bō’s ridiculously oversized library. That pompous rat had been hoarding books like some self-styled scholar, as if reading a mountain of dusty tomes would make him look smarter—or more likable.
“Erudite my ass,” Chung Myung muttered, his eyes darting to the shelves stuffed with scrolls and bound volumes.
His gaze shifted back to Bō, still sprawled on the bed, his face so peaceful it was almost insulting. Chung Myung could sneak closer, take a blade, and stab him cleanly in his sleep. A little too cleanly, honestly. The idea made him scowl. Where was the fun in that? Bō-ya should know better than to drop his guard around anyone, no matter how bone-tired he was. Not that Chung Myung would harm him. Oh no. That would be too… considerate. If he ever planned to kill Bō, he’d make sure it was in a proper fight. No shortcuts, no cheap shots. He shook his head, his expression one of mock disappointment. “Hopeless,” he muttered.
If Bō didn’t waste so much time scribbling in these dumb journals, maybe—just maybe—he could stand a chance against him. But no, instead of honing his skills, he was always jotting down silly notes and drawing even sillier sketches. Writing Chung Myung’s name over and over, no less, like some lovesick maiden. Not that Chung Myung cared, of course. But still, what a waste of time. The fool could’ve spent all that energy sparring, or at least learning how to dodge properly. Instead, he kept compiling a completely unreliable record of their so-called “adventures.” As if they were worth preserving. As if Chung Myung needed some scraps of paper to remember.
No, what Bō-ya needed was to step up his game.
He adjusted his grip on the brush, dipped it into the baijiu-infused ink, and scrawled a few deliberate strokes across the open page.
«Bō-ya, if you’re reading this, stop wasting time. Go outside, fight someone, or at least find a new flask of wine. You're no fun when you’re sulking».
He let out a quiet puff of air, and a self-satisfied smile. Good enough. He liked the idea of Bō stumbling across them someday, when Chung Myung wasn’t around to explain or justify himself. Let him stew in it, glaring at the empty air as if Chung Myung’s ghost had come back to pester him. But this needed a bit more. His smirk widened as his eyes drifted back to Bō’s so-called “personal archive.”
With a sigh, Chung Myung set the brush down on the ink stone and wandered over to the so-called library.
Chung Myung squinted into the dim light, the moon casting just enough glow to make out the spines of Tang Bō's meticulously arranged—of course they were—library. The man really was insufferable. Manuals on medicine, botany, foreign techniques, and even some untranslated gibberish. His fingers brushed over basic clan texts, obscure external techniques, alongside dreary nonsense. The next section wasn’t much better, some dusty copy of the Tao Te Ching, the Analects, and the Book of Changes. Ugh. He nearly gagged.
Then, something caught his eye. A small, worn volume that stood out slightly—probably something Tang Bō revisited often. Chung Myung grabbed it and tilted it toward the moonlight, only for his lip to curl in disgust at the title.
'That damned monkey!'. His voice was low, venomous.
He glared at the book, then at Bō, then back at the book. That damned monkey. Chung Myung could almost hear the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, mocking him from the pages. He resisted the urge to shred it to pieces. “Wouldn’t be a loss,” he muttered. Tang Bō had probably memorized the whole thing anyway, the pretentious bastard.
He grunted again. He sincerely doubted that darn 'great sage, equal to heaven' would have much patience to write in a diary either! No, he probably wouldn't go to the trouble of— of making such an elaborate prank. He will show him, he'll show Bō-ya too—. Chung Myung could do far better.
Yes. He put it back and moved forward, his fingers grazed the spines of the books, —careful to not stumble in his mess— tountil his eyes landed on another book, one he saw him reading not that long ago «The Plum in the Golden Vase» .
“Now that sounds promising,” he said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He flipped it open to a random page, eyes scanning the lines.
The book slammed shut, and Chung Myung clenched it tightly as if it might explode in his hands. His face burned. He resisted the overwhelming urge to hurl it at Bō’s sleeping form.
“To think you read this—in front of me!—with a straight face!” he hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at Bō’s unconscious figure. “You absolute lunatic.”
Bō shifted slightly in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and Chung Myung froze. But the bastard didn’t wake. Of course, he didn’t. Sleeping like a log, as if mocking him even in his dreams.
Tang Bō was certainly a test to his patience —one of those that marks a man for life, one of those that seems like a joke at the expense of one's sanity—. But if there was one man who could pass the test, it was none other than Chung Myung.
So he shoved the book back onto the shelf, only to grab another at random: «The Carnal Prayer Mat».
He didn’t even bother opening it. He tossed it aside like it had personally insulted him.
“This is a waste of time,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He could feel the heat still lingering in his cheeks, and he hated it. Giving up was sounding more appealing by the second—at least there were no witnesses to whatever ridiculous color his face had turned.
Still, he glanced back at Bō, who remained blissfully unaware of his turmoil, and scowled. “You’re lucky you’re asleep, Bō-ya,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you were awake, I’d—”
He cut himself off, letting the threat hang in the air. Not that he had any intention of following through. Not tonight.
He picked another one—a scroll this time. Poetry, of all things. A snort escaped him. Of course, Bō would have poetry tucked away like some melancholy scholar. Pretentious rat. But fine. This would do.
He walked back to the chair, his movements deliberate, almost ceremonious, as if he were a notary preparing to sign an important document. Or, more fittingly, an underpaid copyist grudgingly accepting his lot. He dipped the brush with careful precision and unrolled the scroll, skimming the lines for something halfway decent.
His eyes landed on a verse:
Beautiful memories drift afar
The corners of his lips curled as a thought struck him—a mischievous, undeniably petty thought. Bō loved his books, his words, his perfect little archive. What better way to make his mark?
«This diary is yours» Chung Myung muttered under his breath, the grin spreading, «but this page is mine. And you can’t do anything about it.»
With a quick flourish, he scrawled beneath the borrowed verse:
Disastrous memories cackle at night.
He chuckled, low and quiet, the sound vibrating in his chest. The absurdity of it wasn’t lost on him—leaving little jabs like this, as though Bō would ever admit to needing them, let alone appreciating them. Still, the idea of his words lingering in Bō’s thoughts like an unwelcome echo was too tempting to resist.
“Serves him right," he muttered, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk. “He’s too used to silence when I’m not here.”
he noticed Bō had shifted slightly in his sleep, one hand now resting on the empty space where the diary had been. For a fleeting moment, Chung Myung’s amusement faltered. Despite the sharp edges of his personality, Bō looked—fragile, almost. Vulnerable in a way that made something tighten in Chung Myung’s chest.
But only for a moment. He shook his head, grumbling, “Don’t get soft, idiot,” and flipped a few pages
It took him longer than he’d have liked—those blasted poems with their blasted rules—but he managed another entry. Satisfied, he leaned back in the chair and tapped the brush against the ink stone.
He could already picture Bō’s reaction when he found the additions. The exasperation, the muttering, the inevitable glare. If nothing else, it would keep that bastard thinking about him, even when he wasn’t around.
And wasn’t that the whole point?
Chung Myung leaned back in the chair, rewarding himself with a long, well-earned pull from the flask. The liquor burned pleasantly, spreading warmth through his chest and limbs, dulling the faint stirrings of something softer he refused to name. It was the booze, of course. Only the booze. That’s why he was acting all mushy, he told himself firmly.
Grabbing a rag from the floor—a piece of fabric so far removed from soap and water it probably had its own ecosystem—he wiped the excess ink from the brush, and cleaned the mix of ink and booze from the stone—It seemed like a waste, but he was conscious of not drinking it—. Satisfied, he tossed the rag back into the chaos surrounding him and shoved the scrolls and supplies into their respective places with the carelessness of someone who’d never had to clean up after himself.
He waited just long enough for the ink to dry, fanning the pages with his hand and giving them a final light blow for good measure.
Finally, he picked up the diary again, his grip firm as he made his way back to where Bō still lay sound asleep. So blissfully unaware, as if nothing Chung Myung did could possibly be perceived as a threat. The fool. The man would be wise enough to keep a weapon under his pillow—or at least one eye open— ready to charge against anyone bold enough to walk into his chambers. But not him, Bō-ya had to go and trust him, of all people.
"Sucker," he muttered under his breath, crouching next to the mattress. "I’m the last person you should trust.”
He crawled onto the mattress, tucking it gently against Bō’s chest. To his amusement, Bō instinctively curled around it, holding it close like some cherished talisman. Chung Myung smirked.
"You look stupid," he muttered, his voice low enough not to disturb the sleeping figure.
He propped himself up on one elbow, gazing at the faint rise and fall of Bō’s chest. He didn’t have a reason to linger—not really. His work here was done. And yet, he didn’t move.
Before he could overthink it, he let himself fall back, his head hitting the pillow with a soft thump. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, but Bō didn’t stir. Chung Myung closed his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smirk.
Falling asleep here wasn’t part of the plan, he told himself. But plans were overrated anyway.
Chung Myung stretched out on the bed beside Tang Bō, his movements slow and deliberate, careful not to disturb him. He told himself, yet again, it was the mattress—no matter how much Bō insisted it was the same guest room mattress, this one was different. It had to be. A mattress this comfortable could lull anyone into complacency, and that was his excuse. A better mattress, good wine, and absolutely nothing else.
“Clingy leech,” he muttered, glancing at Bō.
There he was, lying so still, the diary tucked securely under his arm like it held the secrets to the universe. He looked peaceful in a way that felt out of character, his usually sharp edges softened by sleep. It was almost unnerving—almost.
With that, Chung Myung let his eyes close, the quiet comfort of the moment wrapping around him like a blanket. Falling asleep there wasn’t part of the plan, he told himself. Just a consequence of good wine, a comfortable bed. Just the bed. Just the wine. Either way, Chung Myung wasn’t going anywhere.
A grin tugged at his lips, smug and self-satisfied, but beneath it lingered something softer. Something quieter. Satisfaction, perhaps, or a fleeting contentment he didn’t want to examine too closely.
Chung Myung cracked one eye open, mischief sparking in his gaze as he glanced at Bō again. The poor fool had no idea what was coming. With the precision of someone plotting a flawless ambush, he shifted slightly, his arm sliding just enough to create a space between himself and the headboard. Subtle, casual—nothing overt. Just enough to make the perfect little nook should Bō unconsciously roll towards him.
He let out an exaggerated sigh, his voice low and just audible enough to brush against the edges of Bō’s sleep. "What a soft mattress… no wonder he hogs it.”
The diary nestled against Bō’s chest wobbled as he stirred faintly, a drowsy grumble slipping from his lips. His hand twitched, brushing the fabric of Chung Myung’s robe before retreating back to the safety of sleep. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Chung Myung’s grin widened, his teeth flashing like a predator ready to pounce. Perfect.
He reclined further, angling his body just right to create a gentle slope. If Bō rolled even a little, he’d have nowhere to go but closer. Maybe his head would end up resting against Chung Myung’s shoulder. Maybe. The idea was tantalizing in its absurdity. The Dark Saint, so fearsome, clinging to him in his sleep like a child clutching a security blanket.
The thought alone nearly made him laugh
"What a sight that’ll be in the morning," Chung Myung thought, already imagining the flushed look of horror on Bō’s face when he realized what had happened. The mess he'll be! Hilarious.
Chung Myung tilted his head to the side in mock innocence. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Just sleeping. If Bō wanted to inch closer, that was entirely on him. Still, he couldn’t resist one last nudge.
“Bō-ya~,” he murmured, his voice a low hum of amusement, the sing-song cadence teasing even in the quiet. “If you’re going to cling to me, at least make it comfortable. My shoulder’s not bad, you know.”
The words were quiet, barely audible, but the suggestion hung in the air like a trap waiting to spring. Bō shifted again, his brow furrowing as if he were resisting some unseen force. But then, slowly, inevitably, his body leaned into the space Chung Myung had so thoughtfully provided.
There it was. A small victory in the war of mischief. Bō’s head came to rest lightly against Chung Myung’s shoulder, his breath warm and steady against the fabric of the robe. One arm, half-curled from sleep, slid across Chung Myung’s chest, draping there with a casualness that spoke of trust or oblivion— as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Chung Myung froze, savoring the moment, the corners of his lips pulling into a grin so wide it hurt. “Hah,” he whispered to himself, triumph laced in the quiet exhale. “Gotcha.”
The warmth radiating from Bō was almost disarming, and for a brief moment, Chung Myung felt... soft. It was an unusual sensation, this stillness, this quiet vulnerability. He didn’t push it away, but neither did he dwell on it. This wasn’t sentimentality, he told himself firmly. No, this was all about the morning. The mortified glare, the flustered excuses, the inevitable sniping. That was the goal. That was the prize.
But as the minutes stretched and the steady rhythm of Bō’s breathing filled the room, something shifted. Chung Myung, despite himself, found his own body relaxing, his chin dipping lightly to rest against the crown of Bō’s head. The smirk softened into something less sharp, less knowing. A strange sense of comfort crept in, one he didn’t name and certainly didn’t question
“This’ll be hilarious in the morning,” he mumbled again, though the thought was distant now, blurred by the pull of sleep. The quiet of the room wrapped around them like a blanket, lulling him into a calm he didn’t expect. His eyes fluttered closed, and without meaning to, Chung Myung allowed himself to sink into the moment, his breathing syncing with Bō’s. Chung Myung drifted into a dreamless sleep, his world narrowed to the warmth of the man beside him.
“Clingy leech”, he mumbled one last time.
