The laughter of old men and the giggles of young women fill the hallway as Seungcheol and Mingyu follow their father. Leading them is a woman with a bright red hanbok, or at least a dress that resembles one, except the top piece is missing, exposing the woman's cleavage. The hair on her head is set in an elaborate design, as if it is a special hat - one that is too big for her head. Seungcheol always wondered how she managed to keep her balance with that on her head. But he isn’t unfamiliar with the kisaeng. His father has brought him and Mingyu to the kisaeng house a few times before.

“A nobleman must visit often.” His father had said when Seungcheol first refused to go to such a place, “This is where you will be socializing with other noblemen.” And now here he is, sitting in a room full of men with a kisaeng on either side of him, feeding him fruits and serving liquor.

“Try this tangerine, my lord.” the girl next to Seungcheol picks up the peeled fruit and brings it to his mouth, “It came from Jeju Island yesterday.”

Seungcheol opens his mouth, his attention diverted by the string instrument that the head kisaeng, Yuri, is playing. It is the only part of the experience that he enjoys - the music. He had begged his father to let him learn the instrument when he was young, when there was still some passion left in his soul. Now it is all gone, a thing of the past.

“Ah, my finger,” the girl's cry brings Seungcheol back to his senses.

“I am so sorry about that,” Seungcheol bows his head lightly, as a nobleman should. The girl smiles but Seungcheol can tell that she hates him.

The girl leans towards him, her voice sultry, “I guess you really want a taste of me, my lord.”

Seungcheol sighs and shrugs off the girl. His father attempts a glare with his drunken eyes. “Where do you think you're going?”

“To get some fresh air.”

“Sit back down,” his father’s voice is calm yet stern. “A gentleman does not embarrass his lady like that. Just look at how your younger brother is treating his lady.”

Seungcheol looks at Mingyu, clinking his cup of alcohol with the girl next to him. Mingyu glances up and grins mischievously before sipping his cup. Seungcheol rolls his eyes as he bows and before his father can say anything else, Seungcheol is out the door.

***

The courtyard is empty and Seungcheol hopes for it to stay that way. He walks to the bench-like stone next to the fermentation pots. He examines it and brushes off as much dirt as the moonlight allows him to see. If he gets his clothes dirty, his father would probably give one of his lengthy lectures on the importance of a nobleman’s clothing.

“It is what sets you apart from the peasants. A nobleman is nothing without his silk garments.”

Seungcheol brushes his hand against the royal-blue embodied silk hanbok. He hates how it feels, how smooth it is, perfect, just how his father wants him.

He sighs as he crouches down to sit, only to stop halfway at the sight of a man. He wears a plain, beige shirt that reaches to his knees and dark, loose pants that stop at his feet. His raven-black hair falls to his shoulders, a white piece of cloth tied to his forehead at an attempt to keep the hair out of his face. He looks no older than Seungcheol, in his early 20s.

Seungcheol stares in awe when the man unloads the stack of wood he has been carrying on his back. He stretches out his back and arms, letting out a few yawns in the process. When he turns to his right and locks eyes with Seungcheol, he almost falls backwards.

“Are you okay?” Seungcheol stands up.

“Y-yes, my lord,” The man frantically fixes his clothes and hair before giving a 90 degree bow. “Please forgive my rude behaviour. I did not see-”

“Seungcheol,”

The man slowly goes back to his natural posture, his nose scrunched up slightly.

“Pardon?”

“It is my name, Choi Seungcheol,” he brings his hand forward, but the smile on Seungcheol’s face fades when the man takes a step back.

The man looks up and Seungcheol can see his features so clearly now, how his tall nose contrasts his sharp eyes, and the tiny mole under his left eye.

“I-”

“What is the matter? Do I scare you?” Seungcheol purses his lips together into a straight line, “Are you afraid of me?”

The man looks down again and slowly shakes his head, “I- I am not allowed to speak to guests…”

His voice is smooth and also very soft, like velvet. Seungcheol imagines him singing to the tunes Seungcheol would play on an instrument, if he could play one.

“Hmm… then, do not think of me as a guest.” He smiles, but the man doesn’t look up. Seungcheol reaches for the man’s chin and lifts it gently. The man looks stunned as he stares back at Seungcheol. “Sorry, I could not see your face.” He releases the man’s chin.

There is silence. Seungcheol watches the man fiddle with his thumbs as he looks down and then back at Seungcheol’s face from time to time. It makes Seungcheol's stomach twist in knots. It’s strange, but he likes it.

Seungcheol takes another step closer to him and this time, the man freezes.

“Hey, you there!” A loud, monstrous voice comes from behind across the courtyard, where a middle-aged woman stands with a long, thick stick in her hand. “I told you to bring the wood, not to chit-chat with the guest.”

The man turns around and frantically picks up the wood before quickly bowing to Seungcheol and running towards the woman. Seungcheol wants to run after him, to say something, anything. But he doesn’t.

When Seungcheol closes his eyes, all he sees is that face, staring back at him. A nameless face, a delicate face, a beautiful face. He wishes he had grabbed onto the man and asked him for his name at least. And now it is bothering him. That night, he falls asleep reciting the names he had given this stranger.

Haesung, Taeil, Wooyoung, Jongsuk…?

***

He knows he shouldn’t, but there he is, standing in front of the kisaeng house, staring at the door. Seungcheol told his father that he was going out to buy some ink for calligraphy, but the truth is that he had dumped out all the ink he had behind a tree. He needed the excuse to avoid a three-hour lecture on why a nobleman should not visit the kisaeng house in the middle of the day.

The kisaeng house is just as lively during the daytime as it is at night. Seungcheol walks into the courtyard, now filled with young women in bright coloured dresses and lipstains, each more provocative than the other. They greet him with a smile and bow, asking him questions about why he’s there so early in the day. He doesn’t answer them. Instead, he looks around, searching each corner of the courtyard. There are a few male servants working next to the pots where Seungcheol sat last time he visited this place. None of them, however, have the same raven hair or the exquisite features. Maybe it was the moonlight or Seungcheol’s memory that exaggerated the description, but nonetheless, he isn’t there.

Seungcheol walks the halls of the house. Looking at the doors makes him a little sick because he knows what exactly is going on behind them. He shakes his head and takes a left turn at the corner.

He stops as soon as he sees the kisaeng from that night, walking towards him.

Great.

“My lord, is that you?” Her footsteps get louder as she approachs him.

Seungcheol turns around, picks up his pace and walks directly to the giant wooden gate that marks the exit.

***

The silence is his room, followed by the sound of cicadas crying during the summer night drives Seungcheol insane. He closes his book, the one he has been trying to finish for the past few weeks, but it was boring him to death. Reading isn’t his thing. Being a scholar and nobleman is a luxury he thinks he could do without. For once, he wants to try on normal clothing, or go out and cho