Chapter 10: Go home and put them on

When Cian pointed at the drink, both Eoin and the barman were stunned.

"You’re the first customer tonight to order milk," the barman teased as he prepared it. "Did you bring your fella aboard just for a glass of milk?"

Eoin was startled. "No"

He was Cian’s contracted partner, not exactly a boyfriend.

Cian, though, said, "His stomach can’t take drink. It makes him sick."

The barman had worked on the boat for years and had seen every kind of guest. His eyes flicked between Eoin and Cian. He noted Cian’s expensive clothes, the designer labels and the jewelled watch, and Eoin’s plain outfit, and he understood most of the situation. He smiled. "Not a boyfriend yet, but who knows?"

Cian chuckled. "He’s shy. Go easy on him."

The milk was ready in seconds, with nothing to prepare. Cian took it and passed it to Eoin. Warm steam rose, rich with the smell of milk. Eoin held it through the cardboard sleeve and felt the warmth spread through his body.

He looked down and murmured, "Thanks."

"No bother," Cian said, glancing towards the river. "My yacht’s here. Time to board."

Half an hour later, Eoin sat in the young master’s private yacht, holding his takeaway hot milk. The plush sofa sank beneath his weight.

Through the yacht’s window he could see another vessel slowly drawing away, the one they had just left. It glowed with neon, its garish reflection shimmering on the water. By contrast his own yacht was clean and cosy, its warm lights guiding it smoothly along. The distant quay was faintly visible, and they’d dock in ten minutes at most.

Eoin felt a little dazed.

He had left that boat effortlessly, and at no cost.

At their first meeting Cian had brought up a safe word, saying that if Eoin couldn’t bear something and spoke it, everything would stop.

Eoin had taken it for a bad joke. He doubted a single word could control Cian, and he didn’t believe the arrogant young Fitzgerald cared about his feelings. It was a power play, like a cat toying with a mouse, offering cheap hope only to snatch it back and enjoying the struggles of those beneath him for sport.

But the blanket on the rainy day, the lollipop during his sugar crash, and the few days of contact since had shown that Cian was far from the tyrant of rumour. He hadn’t manipulated him, and slowly Eoin’s guard had eased. So on that isolated boat, in that smoky booth, he had spoken the word, like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline.

In the few seconds when Cian looked at him in surprise and then went quiet, Eoin had thought his struggle must look pitiful and ridiculous.

Like a fish on the chopping block trying to stop the hand that held the knife.

But it had actually worked.

Cian had brought him along to show off to his friends, to make a statement. Yet after he said the word, Cian had taken him away without even asking why.

The safe word had actually worked.

The yacht smelled of cedar and sandalwood with a trace of turf smoke, and the river rocked it gently, calling to mind a forest after rain, or an old stone monastery in the Wicklow hills where travellers slept in tents by the fire and listened to autumn rain.

Eoin sank into the soft sofa and grew drowsy.

It was a rather new experience. Around Cian he had always been on edge, braced for trouble. Even on that first night in the hotel bed, he had only dozed, never slept deeply.

But now, with the abyss no longer bottomless and the stop button in his hand, he relaxed.

He looked up. Cian sat opposite him. The young master was sprawled on the sofa with no sense of posture at all, long legs crossed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, noble and lazy, like a boneless great cat.

Calm as he looked on the surface, though, Cian’s mind was about to explode.

System: "Aaaaaaah, Host!"

"Host, what are you doing, Host!!!!"

"Tonight is a crucial plot point, and you’ve still got so many lines left to say. Oh no!"

"It’s ruined! It’s ruined! It’s completely ruined!!!!"

"At this rate you’re going to fail. You’re doomed!"

A vein pulsed in Cian’s forehead. "Can you calm down a bit?"

The system was furious, like the heroine of some melodramatic old soap opera. "How can I calm down? How am I supposed to calm down?!"

Cian felt a strange mix of emotions. He hadn’t even got anywhere with the protagonist yet, and here he was trading melodramatic lines with an electronic life form. He pressed his forehead. "No, think about it. Isn’t this part of my character?"

The system said, "Huh? What do you mean, ’character’?"

Cian explained patiently. "Eoin just said the safe word. In these kinds of games, what does the safe word mean?"

The system said, "?"

It hesitated. "A boundary that mustn’t be crossed?"

Cian said, "Eoin said the safe word, and I’m an exceptionally ’professional’ type. So according to ’professional’ practice, what should I do?"

The system said nothing.

"Stop the game immediately, take the submissive out of the scene, and if they’re still on edge, comfort them."

Cian said, "I stopped the game immediately, took Eoin out of the scene, and bought him hot milk to comfort him. Isn’t that exactly what a professional would do?"

The system said, "?"

Did this even count as professional conduct?

It felt tangled and didn’t argue back straight away. It only said, "But I still have to dock your points."

It listed Cian’s faults. "You skipped a lot of lines, and while the protagonist felt embarrassed and humiliated, it wasn’t intense enough. It didn’t reach the threshold, and"

Cian was shocked. "There’s a threshold for this? Wasn’t that good enough?"

The system was righteous. "We’re a serious system! We have strict grading criteria!"

Cian said, "Fine. What else? Go on."

The system said, "Your physical contact didn’t come close to the standard."

The original text had detailed descriptions of physical contact, but tonight Cian had only held a wrist. That was nowhere near enough.

Cian knew he was in the wrong and waved a hand, letting it deduct whatever it saw fit. The previous two rounds had both scored over sixty, so on average it wasn’t a big problem.

After the argument between Cian and the system, a long horn sounded, the yacht rocked slightly, the crew tied the ropes, and they docked.

Cian stepped ashore and found his Bentley. He’d been drinking and couldn’t drive, so he called for a driver. When the driver arrived, Cian tossed him the keys and opened the back door.

The original Cian had a high alcohol tolerance, built up from partying with his mates on the scene. Cian’s own tolerance was average. He’d mixed champagne and red wine and was already a little drunk, half lying on the cushion with his eyes closed, dozing.

The driver took the front seat and the passenger seat stayed empty. Eoin hesitated a moment, then got into the back with Cian.

Cian lifted his eyelids, half drunk, like a lazy great cat. He looked at Eoin, thought about the unfinished plot, and suddenly tapped the system. "System, that physical contact requirement. It can happen any time tonight, can’t it?"

The system was still sulking and answered in a monotone. "Yes. You were supposed to stay on the boat all night and disembark early tomorrow morning. Any time is fine."

Cian chuckled softly. "That’s no problem."

The back seat of the luxury Bentley was roomy, and Cian and Eoin each kept to themselves. But Cian raised a hand, pretending to rub his forehead against a headache, and sighed lightly.

The driver, hearing the movement in the back, quickly asked, "Are you all right, Mr. Fitzgerald?"

Cian said, "Mm, I’m fine, just a bit woozy from the drink."

Eoin, who had been sitting quietly, glanced over at the sound, looked at Cian for a moment, then quickly looked away.

The driver, eager to help, hurriedly said, "There’s a chemist up ahead. Shall I pick up something for your head?"

Cian said, "No need. I’ll just rest for a bit."

The driver said, "The back seat reclines. Would you like me to adjust it for you?"

Before he’d finished, Cian dropped onto the person beside him, resting his head on his thigh and lying down just like that.

Eoin flinched and tried to shove him off, but Cian wouldn’t let him, muttering as he rubbed his forehead, "This wine’s really done my head in."

He was half drunk and whining about his headache, his voice oddly gentle. Eoin paused, his fingers hovering just above Cian’s forehead, and finally pursed his lips and lowered his hand.

Cian remembered the unspoken lines, half opened his eyes, and complained, "Mr. Brennan, what’s the matter? Is this leg off limits?"

Eoin looked down at him without a word.

The line came from the original text, spoken by the original Cian at a banquet. The novel described Eoin’s icy expression, how he gave the young master no kind look, made an excuse about the toilet, and pushed him off his leg.

In the novel, of course, the young master couldn’t swallow the insult. He hauled Eoin up by the collar and slammed his head against the wall, leaving him dazed. Not content with that, he then throttled Eoin and drove a knee into his stomach, making him vomit on the spot and curl up in pain. He was dragged and flung onto a chair, and in front of everyone the young master began tearing off his clothes.

Cian still remembered the description of that scene, how Eoin’s hair was pulled to force his head down, his neck and back forming a beautiful curve, his smooth, jade like skin exposed and covered in goosebumps, making a person want to pinch and play with it.

Normally Cian would have had no reaction to such a description, but now he was drunk, with his head on Eoin’s thigh and his gaze wandering over Eoin’s collarbone and neck, and he found a certain charm in it. He felt a flicker of desire.

After all, Mr. Brennan was truly good looking, with sharp, cold features, dignified and serene, like a piece of priceless porcelain in a museum case.

To have such beauty within reach would surely be one of life’s great pleasures.

What a sin, what a sin, Cian thought. How could he be like the pervert of the original text, lusting after the protagonist? He quickly reined in his thoughts and went on delivering his lines.

"Mr. Brennan, according to our agreement, it’s not just your leg. Every inch of your skin belongs to me."

According to the plot, Eoin should struggle violently, but Cian waited a while and the other man didn’t move.

Cian: "?"

He carried on acting, narrowing his eyes slightly as the script required, his expression dangerous. "Mr. Brennan, don’t forget who it was that secured your Nana’s place on the trial"

In the novel this line was a trump card. Every time the young master said it, Eoin complied. This time was no exception. According to the script, Eoin would instantly stiffen, then go limp like a soulless puppet, staring blankly into the distance.

But before Cian could finish, Eoin suddenly sighed.

He closed his thighs, supporting Cian’s head firmly on the fleshiest part, then turned his head stiffly to look out the window and said flatly, "If you want to lie down, then lie down."

Cian said, "Huh?"

It caught him completely off guard.

His head was fogged with drink and not quite clear. What the hell? Since when can I just lie down whenever I like?

He frowned and waited a while, but Eoin, the aloof good student, actually let the young master use him as a pillow, his long straight legs set obediently in place, not moving an inch.

Cian said nothing.

To be fair, if Eoin had struggled desperately and put up fierce resistance, Cian could have sunk fully into the role of the bully and finished the scene properly. But with Eoin letting him lean like this, Cian felt awkward instead. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

The legs he rested on were long and straight with just the right amount of muscle, neither too thin nor too thick, and very comfortable to lie on.

Eoin had no good clothes, only worn and frayed ones, loose and baggy, doing his legs no justice. But even just imagining it, Cian could tell how good those legs would look in a suit.

He reined in his wandering thoughts. "Eoin, I bought you clothes. Why aren’t you wearing them?"

He tried very hard to get into the bully role. "Go home and put them on. I want to see."

Eoin glanced down at him and said nothing.

Cian pressed on. "Remember, I can use your legs as a pillow any time, anywhere."

That was an original line too.

Eoin looked at him again, still silent.

Cian said nothing.

His head was really pounding now, and he felt dizzy and sensed something was off. He ignored Eoin and weakly called to the driver, "Driver, let’s get home fast. I’m wrecked."