Chapter Text
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A long breath of air passes through slightly chapped lips, dead eyes fixated on the tiny clock that blended all too well into the pastel peach-colored wall it was latched onto. A few eye squinting happens, then two rounds of tiptoeing, and eventually the pressing of a stomach against the white marble countertop. After quite a struggle, the miniscule hands of the clock come into clear view.
5:45.
PP lets out a frustrated gasp, dragging his torso across the bar and back to his designated stool behind the display rack. There’s about an hour left before he could call it a workday and frankly, he’s not in the mood to welcome more customers.
A shadow lurks behind him, and he flinches as tongue clicks resound against his right ear, making him roll his eyes in annoyance when they turn into audible words.
“Stop dawdling, PP.” Paris blurts out with a teasing tone, ticking him off even more.
Turning to his right, he can’t help but look at his cousin dubiously as he is already out of his work uniform and in casual but fairly stylish clothing, until his eyes land on the black guitar case hanging on Paris’ left shoulder.
“Heading for a gig?” he asks.
Paris hums a reply, rushes off to the door, all the while being careful not to hit his case against the glass covering it, and bids him goodbye with a wave. PP tries to shift his attention back to the cash register he was manning but fails, eyes peering back towards the tall glass windows where he can see Paris waiting under a shed with a huge smile on his face. The yellow bus routed for the city center arrives, and PP watches his cousin get sucked into it before slumping onto the countertop.
Their family’s bakery is surprisingly empty on a Friday, the end of his shift being reduced to observing the tiny remnants of a light shower an hour ago, flowing from the top of the shop’s large windows. The brand new playground to the far right is visible, and PP finds a sense of peace in watching children play in the galaxy-patterned jungle gym. All this is short-lived, however, as his daydreaming is interrupted by the bakery’s signature door chime.
Putting on his service smile, he turns around to welcome who he thought was a customer, only to blink in confusion when he sees nobody. Then a yelping sound from below makes him peer downwards and he meets eyes with a kid. A boy, probably between three to four years old, clad in a white sweatshirt and yellow vest, is standing awkwardly by the shop’s door.
‘What’s this kid doing here? ’ PP wonders to himself, scanning the bakery to see if he had any company but to no avail.
He then notices a blue lanyard wrapped around the boy’s neck, clinging to what seemed to be a white tag. He makes his way to the door, halting when he sees the boy flinch and take tiny steps backwards.
“It’s okay. Don’t be scared.” The boy grabs onto the hems of his vest.
“Are you lost?” The child doesn’t move away, to PP’s relief, and bobs his head. By this time, he gets close enough to notice that the boy’s tag is actually an ID. He squints his eyes, deciphering what he could from the short distance he was keeping from the child.
“Your name is… Jericho?”
The boy responds with wide, round eyes and bows to PP with his hands over his belly button, a lovely and endearing act. Approaching further, PP grabs Jericho’s tiny hand and guides him towards one of the tables across the dessert rack which, to his amusement, draws in Jericho’s eyes almost immediately.
“Do you want some cookies?” PP asks, although the little boy’s sparkling eyes gave away the answer already. “Then, let me check your ID first, okay?” Jericho seems disappointed at the response but quietly sits back down and nods.
PP kneels down to read the child’s ID. The top-most part had the words ‘Sunny Smile Daycare’ in bold letters, and he surmises it was no coincidence when he thought the child’s outfit looked familiar. Two blocks away from their bakery is a small, modest daycare center, and he knew this because one of their regulars is a little girl who would wear the same white and yellow uniform Jericho had on now.
He flips the card to its back and looks for the emergency contacts portion. Fishing for his phone, PP dials the number, waiting a few rings until he hears a high but mellow voice on the other line. The woman, introducing herself as the daycare’s director, spurs an onslaught of apologies, which PP politely dimisses. The woman asks to speak to Jericho.
“Jelly? Are you there?” the director asks and the child looks at the phone in wonder.
“Here...”
“Okay, stay with the kind man over there. Kin is on his way.” The name sparks a wide grin from the child, piquing PP’s curiosity.
The phone call ends, and PP chuckles at how Jericho’s hands were clutching the edge of his chair, feet dangling in the air and eyes still laser-focused on the display rack. PP goes behind the counters to reach for a cream-colored box, and fills it with what Jericho has been eyeing since he sat down— the chunky, chocolate chip cookies. Jericho’s face brightens up instantly when he lays his hands on the box, his tiny left hand opening it before pausing in mid-air, looking up at PP.
“My hands… are dirty.” The boy mumbles with a pout, and PP is pleasantly surprised at the witnessed behavior.
He’s about to grab the tissue dispenser from the counter when he hears the signature chime once more.
Damn, that thing’s working hard today.
He turns around to face the store door, and for a minute, the scarlet sky painted by the setting sun blinds him, his eyesight adjusting only after several seconds. He feels a presence a few inches from him, a distance he doesn’t realize until his ears catch sounds of heavy breathing. Looking up, he meets the newcomer’s face, staring straight into their clear yet piercing eyes, then the well-pointed nose resting below them, covered in beads of sweat. The visitor likely ran in a panic, as his lips were forming circles, desperately taking in the cold air of the shop.
“I’m really, really sorry. Me and the kids were walking back to the daycare from the playground when he ran away and I lost sight of him. I mean, this isn’t an excuse at all but—”
The guy starts profusely apologizing, but PP could care less about that. Instead, it was the low, tender voice that took all his attention away, making his insides warm and fuzzy. It reaches a point where PP feels so guilty for not giving the other’s apology the time of day and just simply cuts him off, albeit in the most polite way possible.
With his apology cut off, the visitor retreats back to stand straight, giving PP a full view of the person in front of him. He stood at about the same height as him, with dark brown curls of hair nested on top of his head, clear doe eyes, and deep, prominent dimples on both cheeks. The guy was in a plain, white t-shirt and denim pants, a pastel blue apron covered in Cookie Monster stickers resting neatly above the tall and sturdy frame.
After scanning the other from the head to the tip of his black sneakers, PP’s eyes travel back upwards and he freezes in his spot when he’s sent a shy, sheepish smile.
‘Fuck, he’s kinda cute,’ PP mutters to himself.
Perhaps he was so busy gawking that he didn’t notice the newcomer walk past him, pulling the child into a tight hug.
“Jelly, don’t run off like that again, please. I was very worried.”
“...Sorry, Kin.”
He watches in silence as the two get caught up in their little moment.
“I’m sorry for being rude but we have to leave now. His mother is waiting at the center.”
PP shakes his head and smiles, though he admits, his mind was already running at full speed, processing the hundreds of ways he could ask him to perhaps stay a little longer for a slice of cake.
“Thank you very much, um...” The other trails off, and PP desperately tries not to break into a grin.
“PP. My name’s PP,” he whispers softly, maybe too soft that he wasn’t heard, as the other only had an awestruck expression. That doesn’t seem to be the case thankfully as seconds later, his name passes through the other’s lips, and PP stops the urge to smack himself when his insides start churning.
“Billkin.”
The other replies and extends one of his hands. Their hands come into contact, and PP doesn’t know how long his mind got stuck in that moment until the chime rings again. Frozen, he watches helplessly as the two figures disappear into the chaos of the street.
In the week that follows, PP finds himself stunned, the sensation of Billkin’s large, smooth hands burning his own. He sketches Billkin in his imaginary canvas, heart aching slightly at the thought of him walking away as if he’s fading into the crimson sky, never to be seen again. Least that’s what PP thinks, because unless another child loses their way into the bakery again, a second encounter with Billkin is highly unlikely.
But things don’t always go as you think.
PP learns that one Monday morning, at the onset of summer, when he walks out of their house, directly in front of the bakery, and sees Billkin waiting outside of the still closed store.
Sure enough, when Billkin looks towards his direction, he’s left puzzled, baffled, and extremely embarrassed, because he was still in his pajamas, had not yet brushed his teeth, probably had crazy bed hair, and shit, Billkin is wearing that Cookie Monster apron again. And the mess he already was spirals into even more chaos when Billkin runs up to him and drops the question that sets everything in motion.
“Can you teach me how to bake?”
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PP toddles to their kitchen, three huge paper bags stuffed on top of his thin arms. He drops them carefully on top of the island counters with a loud huff and begins unpacking, lining up the contents of the bags in an organized fashion, trying to be extra careful with the carton of eggs in his hand.
Halfway through the second bag, his phone buzzes, the name flashed on the screen sending him flying out of the kitchen, into the hallway, and outside towards the foyer. The big, black, rectangular case hanging on his visitor’s back captures his attention initially, but he is quickly drawn away when the other’s deep voice resonates through the air.
“My bad. Am I too early?”
In his head, PP wanted to scold Billkin for arriving before he could set up the ingredients for today’s lesson, yet he is unable to do so, not when the other’s flashing him a smile more blinding than the blazing sun on a summer afternoon. Shaking his head, he retreats inside the house with Billkin following suit.
A month has passed since Billkin came by asking for baking lessons. If he was gonna be honest, PP wasn’t on board with it at first. He has never given any baking lesson to anyone before, a detail proven legitimate by his first lesson with Billkin three Saturdays ago. The first session had easily become an hour of PP stuttering every other minute and Billkin just gawking at him like he’s speaking an alien language. Then and there, the thought of him not being up to this task popped up too many times than he can count.
Yet, perhaps Billkin’s determination, or his patience whenever PP made clumsy mistakes, or the way he praises PP’s pastries like no one ever did before, helped PP overcome his initial ineptness at teaching and surprisingly grow to enjoy it.
“I’ll just prepare the stuff we’re gonna use,” PP mutters before heading straight for the kitchen to resume unpacking his grocery bags.
By the time he finishes the third bag, he frowns, because Billkin still has not entered the kitchen like he expected. Slightly worried, he heads to the living room, only to burst into a fit of laughter when he spots an exasperated Billkin emerging from the hallway opposite where he’s standing, eyes wide in sheer panic and sweat dripping from his forehead.
“This is already your fourth time here and you still get lost?”
PP jokes, quickly regretting it when Billkin sends him a look screaming “you’re asking for it,” and the baker screams at the top of his lungs as the other lunges forward and begins chasing him all the way to the kitchen. He takes refuge behind the island counters, a foolish decision he soon realizes because all of the ingredients sitting prettily above them are now within Billkin’s grasp.
Billkin gives him no time to come up with another plan as seconds later, PP finds his nose smeared with a handful of whipped cream and his ears at the mercy of Billkin’s laughter. Fuming, he leans over to steal the whipped cream bag and smack a decent amount on the daycare assistant’s face. The fact that the whipped cream was not thick enough to cover Billkin’s playful grin nearly drives him insane, so he adds more, equally exposing himself to Billkin’s coated fingers.
Before they knew it, they’re already running around the kitchen like cat and mouse, hands and faces covered in white, greasy cream.
I think we’ve been having too much fun these days , PP thinks to himself minutes later as he looks around and gapes at the mess they have turned their home kitchen into.
With impeccable timing, just as Billkin traps PP’s head into his arms in a tight squeeze, Paris enters the room, instantly throwing them knowing glares and a sly smirk.
“Auntie, children ransacked the kitchen again.”
Paris yells and PP almost drops to the ground just to stop Billkin from throwing a stick of butter at his cousin. Paris sticks out his tongue at them before skipping towards the front door, screaming that he’ll be at his girlfriend’s place for the night.
PP sighs, his hair becoming more of a disheveled mess as he escapes from Billkin’s grasp, sprawling on the counters in exhaustion.
“I’ll pay for the wasted cream and butter.”
Raising his head, PP sends Billkin a glare, one that made the other pull himself away from the counter in obvious fear. “How about, don’t waste anything?” PP whines in the angriest tone he could muster, but he knows he failed to intimidate the other when he only got a foolish smirk as a reply.
They start cleaning the room in silence, the daycare assistant wiping the cabinets and PP handling the countertops, before proceeding to today’s baking session: the continuation of last week’s lesson on making chocolate chip cookies. This time, however, the challenge is to stuff them with marshmallows.
Billkin, already knowing the first few steps, begins creating the batter, and it’s during times like these, when Billkin is so laser focused on something enough to not notice his own eyes going wide and his mouth hanging open, that PP finds himself just staring.
He has learned a few things about this student of his in the past month. Billkin began living in this humble city five years ago after migrating from the province. Considering how Billkin behaves like a full-fledged city boy, the revelation was a bit jarring for PP, though admittedly, five years is long enough time for one to mask their regional accent.
He also learned that the other lives alone at an apartment complex behind the daycare center a few blocks away from PP’s house, which easily became a topic of fascination for them both because prior to their first meeting, they’ve never really bumped into each other. It’s especially unforeseen for Billkin who always passes by the bakery whenever he takes the daycare kids on walks, though undoubtedly not a shocker for a homebody like PP.
That was another thing he learned: they are the complete opposites of each other.
Even just from their first few encounters, it easily became clear to PP that Billkin is a child in a man’s body. He’s hyper and full of wild, sometimes beyond chaotic, energy. Simply put, he’s a bundle of sparks. And as much as it’s draining for PP, it’d be a lie to say that this childlike persona is not at all endearing, especially when he finds himself foolishly grinning when Billkin cracks the corniest jokes or when he begs him for a slice of a freshly-baked bread loaf with pretty eyes.
Amidst Billkin’s fiery outbursts and sometimes aggravating tendencies, however, his love for his work stood out to PP the most.
Working as a daycare assistant for nearly a year, Billkin is in charge of recreational activities for the kids, such as music, arts and crafts, and playtime. Not long ago, due to one staff’s departure, baking had been added to that list. And Billkin’s perfectly aware of how subpar his baking skills are, else he wouldn’t have come creeping in front of PP’s bakery last month. He also knows it’s easier to just cross out baking out of his already long list of duties.
“But the kids were so excited about baking, I wanted to do something about it,” PP recalls the reason Billkin gave as to why he wants PP to teach him. And perhaps that is now also the reason why PP can’t find it in his heart to kick Billkin out even though he wrecks their kitchen during every baking session.
PP comes back from his train of thought to reality when Billkin pokes him with an elbow, asking what the next step will be. He takes out the pack of mini marshmallows from the end counter and starts demonstrating how to stuff the cookie doughs with them.
“You have really pretty hands. Is that a baker thing?” Billkin asks him in a sincerely curious tone, making PP snort.
“I’d say it’s a hand cream thing,” he replies, biting his lips to hide the smile that keeps wanting to come out.
They continue adding marshmallows to the molded cookie balls, carefully lining them up in a tray before putting them in the fridge to rest.
They both head to the living room, and PP spends a good amount of time explaining why it’s beneficial to refrigerate cookie dough, while Billkin flops himself onto the couch, lazily scrolling the TV settings with the remote in his hands. He opens Netflix and proceeds to search for a particular movie title, and PP remembers another peculiar trait of his student.
His obsession with Disney movies.
PP didn’t want to question Billkin about his movie preference, because they’re adults and they can watch whatever they please, especially one as harmless as a Disney movie. But the unusual thing about Billkin is his fixation on one particular movie.
‘Beauty and the Beast.’
It was always this movie that he’d search and turn on first before stopping halfway and moving on to another Disney movie. But more than this already questionable habit, it’s the daycare assistant’s demeanor while watching that catches PP off guard the most. He’d always have this subtle, pained look on his face while watching, almost nostalgic yet despairing, as if every scene triggers something in his brain that just messes with his insides.
And PP can’t do anything but just swallow the many words and questions floating in his head, afraid he’s not deserving to know about that part of his student’s life.
Midway through the movie, PP leaves his seat to take the chilled cookie dough out of the fridge and transfer them to the oven, setting the timer for 10 minutes before walking back to the living room. As he expected, a new movie is now showing on their television, Frozen , and his student is now sprawled all over their couch. They tussle for a minute until PP runs out of patience and pulls at Billkin’s hair to make him get up. The good kid in him screams in panic, that he should never do that to anyone, but Billkin’s sonorous laugh and playful revenge jabs at him calm it down.
Halfway through Elsa’s runaway journey where she sings the infamous song that probably all children have memorized, the familiar ding rings from the kitchen, and PP briskly walks over there to take out the cookies and let them cool. Minutes later, Billkin appears by the door, slipping into the kitchen to fetch two glasses. He opens the refrigerator to get a carton of milk, and PP bursts out in chuckles when Billkin reaches for the freezer to grab some ice while singing in exaggerated fashion.
Billkin continues his dramatic reenactment of Elsa as he returns to the living room, placing the milk and glasses on the marble coffee table in front of the television. Right behind him, PP appears with their freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies stuffed with marshmallows in his hand.
PP watches Billkin pause the movie and sit down next to him, now quiet and a bit nervous, before picking up a piece and putting it in his mouth, working hard to not get distracted by Billkin’s intense, anxious gaze scanning his every move.
“This… is really good,” he hums in surprise, and Billkin’s tensed face morphs into an ecstatic one.
“You think?” Billkin asks excitedly and, after PP reassures him with another nod, dives to grab himself a piece. After taking a bite, a satisfied wail escapes his lips.
“Holy shit, am I the best or what?” PP rolls his eyes at his student who is now jumping up and down like a hungry dog, but he also breaks into a proud smile.
In their past sessions, Billkin made some notable rookie mistakes, like adding salt instead of sugar, or leaving the dough baking in the oven way longer than it should’ve been. Last time, his student had put too much water plus an extra egg in the batter because he was too busy teasing PP about the gigantic flower design on his apron to check the recipe.
PP eventually learns that Billkin dislikes making the same mistakes, so he makes sure to focus on the things pointed out to him as rooms for improvement on every succeeding session. This time, Billkin concentrated so much, maybe even too much, on measuring the ingredients, but it all paid off in the end, leaving PP satisfied and strangely grateful.
And perhaps a little bit petty too, because he’s soon pulling on Billkin’s shirt, ignoring the pained yelp out of the other’s lips when he flicks his fingers over the other’s forehead, leaving a shallow red mark.
“It’s only because you have the best teacher,” PP retorts, taking the plate back from Billkin’s hand.
PP walks to the kitchen again, lips pursing when he hears footsteps trailing behind him almost immediately. After nesting the rest of the cookies under a tray cover, he flops into one of the bar stools where Billkin had already made himself comfortable, half of a cookie still in his hand. It’s only after settling down completely that he notices the strange look on Billkin’s face.
“What?” PP prodes, body moving backwards when he sees Billkin lean forward against the counter and stare at him with his bottomless gaze.
“I was thinking…” Billkin falters, the off-character hesitation, as well as the slowly decreasing distance between them, driving PP off the edge in more ways than one.
“Do you want to teach our daycare kids how to bake?”
The unusual question shocks PP initially, but this quickly turns to disbelief, and he pushes forward against the counter, closing the gap between them to deliver a smack at the back of his student’s head.
“I spent all this time teaching you so you could teach the kids, and now you’re asking me to teach them instead?!”
“No, wait! That’s not what I meant!” Billkin hurriedly yells, shielding his head with his two arms before PP could deliver another hit to his face, “I meant if you wanted to come teach them with me.”
PP furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What?”
When it’s clear that PP’s mind is too preoccupied to pursue another blow, Billkin breathes in relief and begins massaging the area that got attacked seconds ago, flashing a sad puppy look to PP who immediately looked away.
“Last week, you talked about how you haven’t been enjoying baking lately...”
PP turns around to meet Billkin’s serious gaze. There is no doubt that the other is not in a playful mood right now, and this catches PP by surprise. More shocking than that, however, is the idea that the daycare assistant remembered something he just randomly babbled about weeks ago, during their second session while feasting on Billkin’s burnt sugar cookies. Billkin had asked how he started baking. And this is a story PP has told so many times to so many people that he’s honestly bored of it, yet he indulges the other’s inquiry for the sake of building rapport.
It’s been three years since PP graduated high school, finished his baking course, and started working full time in their family’s bakery. Raised by two pastry chefs, the road to being a baker and eventually inheriting their family business was laid down for him even before birth. Whether he disliked having his future basically predetermined for him, he can’t really say. All he knows is that baking has become so significant in his life, it’s almost as natural as eating to him.
Perhaps that’s why he never attempted to try anything else. Besides anything food-related, he does not have any other particular hobbies. His life routine is as straightforward as it can get, a daily back-and-forth between his house and their family bakery. If one of his few friends wants to meet him, it’s almost always at the bakery, because it’s more convenient and his parents live off of serving people.
It also didn’t help that he’s a homebody who values his personal time and space very much. Though he still interacts with other people, his friendship circle consists of just the few friends he met in school, some long-term neighbors, or customers who frequent their shop. Dating was not out of the picture but nevertheless not permanent, especially after he got a grasp of his sexuality— taste — as his mother would say whenever their old neighbor pops by to get breakfast bagels and asks why he has no girlfriend yet.
Though this may seem like a mundane and dull life to most, PP finds relief in the idea of having a career and heirloom already cemented for him since birth, and he certainly believed that this monotonous life isn’t that bad at all.
Until his cousin Paris moved in with them in the second half of last year.
The youngest son of his father’s older brother, Paris didn’t have a good reputation among their relatives, as he had always been vocal about his passion for music. Coming from a traditionalist family of business owners, Paris’ love for the arts wasn’t likeable. Even after being accepted into highly coveted music degrees in various universities, his parents expressed hesitance to support him. Luckily, PP’s father is not the type to blindly follow family legacies, much less a person who would abandon a child, so he takes Paris under their wing. Now free from clutches of judgment, Paris juggles classes in university, guitar practices, volunteering in their bakery, and music gigs at night.
Three months ago, a girlfriend was added to that list, and PP recalls almost spitting soup on his cousin’s face when he was introduced to the girl during one gig. It’s not just disbelief over how Paris has time to date when he has a gazillion things going on but also over how someone can tolerate his cousin’s passionate and borderline rebellious spirit.
But that’s exactly what I like about him, replies the girlfriend when PP let his nosiness get the best of him and decided to put the poor girl in the hot seat. Then he turns to his cousin who was playing the guitar. He had sweat dripping from his forehead but his eyes practically yelled euphoria. The image of Paris living the best life on stage made PP understand how beautiful passion looks on a person.
That’s when the thought came to him. He has loved baking since he was young and he can see himself doing it for the rest of his life. But when was the last time he felt that much passion about what he does? Do the people that pass by their shop and eat his pastries go, “This guy really loves what he’s doing,” just like what he thinks when he sees his cousin on stage?
It was a heavy question, an uninvited whirlpool amidst his smooth sailing life.
“Maybe you just need a change of pace.”
Billkin pulls him back from his long trance, all the while managing to finish the remaining half of his cookie and maybe three more. He obviously lost count.
“What do you mean?” PP mumbles, narrowing his eyes in confusion when he sees Billkin freeze for a second before releasing a long and deep sigh, like he’s about to confess something major.
“It may not seem like it, but I had a time where I lost passion for something.”
And he actually does, and PP panics, because although they’re at a point where they can tease each other without feeling awkward, he’s never considered himself as part of Billkin’s inner circle, so the idea that Billkin is gonna share something personal and intimate to him frightens him a bit.
Billkin, on the contrary, doesn’t seem to care as he simply gets up from his seat and taps him on the shoulder, bringing them back to the living room where the television has been left on pause. He makes his way to the black rectangular box resting by the wall, the one that caught PP’s attention when he greeted his student at the front door hours ago. Billkin lays it on the coffee table gently and unzips it, revealing a black, electronic keyboard. Taking a closer look, he figured it was probably significantly old, judging by the tiny scratch marks on some of the keys, as well as the worn-out stickers on it that spelled “Kin” , his student’s nickname.
As PP is debating in his head whether Billkin was gonna play him a song or not, Billkin sits down on the floor, knees slipping under the marble table and fingers lazily hovering over the piano keys.
“I was studying music in college…” Billkin says, and PP unconsciously squirms in his seat when the daycare assistant turns to him with a nostalgic gaze that was almost heartwrenching.
“I was obsessed with it. I spent my life learning and playing all kinds of instruments, and even learned singing. My mom joked that at the rate I was learning, I could perform as a one-man orchestra.”
Despite the tiny chuckles and wide grin on Billkin’s face, his eyes are conveying a completely different emotion that continues to trigger aching pains in the baker’s heart.
“But something happened. Something so bad that it… it made me hate music.”
Much to PP’s gratitude, the gasp he lets out gets overshadowed by the loud zipping noise from Billkin’s piano case when he had closed it in a quick, harsh motion, as if reflecting how he had turned his back away from playing music.
“Music was the only thing I’ve ever known in my life, so when I couldn’t bear to make it anymore, I just felt… lost, you know? Not knowing what to do, how I was gonna live my life from then on, if I could still live a life after what happened…”
Obviously, PP has no intention to pry into what that “something” was despite his insides screaming at him, desperately wanting to know what messed-up thing happened to this man for him to lose passion over something he’s been in love with since childhood and something he considered his life.
“That’s when I met the director of the daycare. You remember her, right?”
PP tilts his head, not understanding the other’s words at first, but his mind rewinds to the phone call he had with a woman when that child Jericho wandered into their bakery.
“She was a family friend, and knew what I was going through. She offered to help me and took care of me. I felt so indebted to her that I decided to help around in the daycare. At first, I was just running errands. You know, carrying things around, buying supplies, the usual dirty work.”
Billkin pauses his monologue to ask him if he wanted a cup of cocoa and PP just bobbed his head cluelessly because he was still so lost in his head trying to digest all the information he was being fed right now. The daycare assistant comes back with a mug of hot cocoa in each hand, settling on the space beside PP on the couch.
“And one day, the music teacher of the daycare gets sick. Honestly, that man was the most sickly person ever. You’d think he’d be collapsing every time he moved.”
Apparently, Billkin realized how damp the atmosphere had become since he started telling his story, so he’s now trying to insert some jokes into his words, something PP didn’t know he needed but appreciates very much.
“The kids didn’t wanna do the next lesson without their favorite teacher playing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star for them, so I had to step in and play the piano after who-knows-how-many months. I swear, my hands were shaking the entire time, and I really thought I would throw up in the middle of it.”
Even though he’s clearly talking about a difficult experience, Billkin attempts to liven up the mood by making pretend vomit actions, pulling out a good dose of laughter from both of them.
“But when I finished it, and I heard the children clapping and asking for another song, it made me remember the good things about music. That’s how I began to work full-time and got back into playing again.”
The heavy air surrounding them thins out into silence as Billkin flashes him a face that can only be described as peaceful and full of hope, and PP is left speechless. He doesn’t know what the other had gone through, but he can sense just from the short bits he heard that it was incredibly painful, and the fact that Billkin was able to surpass that gives him a huge sense of relief.
He must have spent a significant amount of time in a daze because Billkin starts grabbing at him by the arm with a nervous look.
“Sorry, did I overshare?” the daycare assistant asks and PP shakes his head in panic.
“No, not at all, I’m just…” he trails off, because he doesn’t really know what to say. He feels sorry for Billkin that he had to experience something like this, but actually saying that doesn’t sound appealing, so he settles on reaching out one of his hands and giving Billkin a gentle pat on the head, and he turns his head away when Billkin closes his eyes and starts rubbing his head into his hand like a dog being petted.
“Anyway, that was a long winded story and may not apply to what you’re going through. But trying out a new thing, or in my case a traumatic thing, you know, sometimes they work out. And maybe it will for you.”
Hearing those words, PP’s mind is suddenly taken back to the conversation he had with his parents a month ago, when he was deciding whether to accept Billkin as a student or not, the same dilemma and doubt about his capability to teach someone clawing its way up his spine. Sure, he managed to get comfortable with teaching Billkin despite his initial overwhelming sense of self-doubt, but teaching kids is a whole new story.
“Do you think I can do it? Teaching kids?”
Billkin stares at him blankly, then shrugs. “I don’t know.”
PP almost wants to smack Billkin again because that’s not the response he needed to hear, not when he’s chugging hot cocoa and clearly at his wits end because of this cloud of doubt circling his brain. But then, Billkin scoots closer and locks gazes with him, sending him into a trance that he doesn’t even notice their knees pressing against each other.
“But I’ll be there with you.”
He doesn’t know if it’s the hot cocoa, or the sickeningly sweet, honey-coated tone Billkin used to say those words that is causing his chest to start pumping in quick intervals, but PP has no luxury of time to even figure that out, because Billkin is now wearing this anticipating look on his face, something he must have picked up from the daycare kids when they beg for sweets.
“What do you say, my best teacher?”
Whether it’s due to Billkin’s impeccable persuasion skills, or his susceptibility to influence, PP finds himself nodding in agreement, and Billkin’s face instantly beams in triumph.
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