Chapter Text
Growing up in a high-achieving household, Jeonghan had strived to be the best even before he could tell what was his left and right. Often praised for finishing his apple puree quicker than his cousins, he found joy in the claps and coos surrounding him after hitting every milestone in a toddler's life before anyone else in his circle of fellow three-year-old playmates. He was his mother's pride, almost always bragging about being able to recite the multiplication table albeit in gibberish, his father showing his perfectly white teeth to his friends because even as a kid, Jeonghan couldn't let any child modeling toothpaste brands one-up him, brushing his teeth dutifully and on time, flossing while his mother made sure his gums didn't bleed.
Jeonghan had been serious about being the best, and having an older sister who was just as competitive only fueled his desire to always be number one on anything and everything; she had a two-year jumpstart on him, so of course, she'd be smarter and could run faster. But even with the disadvantage of being younger, Jeonghan worked hard to beat her and her records. When he was six, he took the title of Best Gingerbread House Builder from her, and when he was ten, he beat her on a sack race in their family's annual reunion, grinning at his sister, who smiled back, ruffling his hair before handing him a small trophy they bought at a dollar store.
Their amiable rivalry continued until they were both young adults, and sure, Jeonghan was the one that ended up studying in a more prestigious university, landed a job at a more known company, and earned more money, but it was his sister, he later admitted, who beat him and ultimately won in life by finding a man that loved her, and for building a home and giving birth to the most beautiful baby boy anyone had ever seen. Still, the two of them challenged one another on who could bake the best cookies and who could watch more drama episodes on a Friday night to keep their rivalry alive.
Jeonghan thought they would be like that forever, challenging one another until they were old and wrinkly, but life, as beautiful as it was, was temporary and could be taken away at any time. One evening during a storm, his sister and her husband died due to a car crash, joining their mother and father up in heaven and leaving him to pick up the broken pieces of his heart and care for his four-year-old nephew, who never understood why his mom and dad never returned from their trip to the grocery store.
Four years had passed since the tragedy happened, and four years had passed since he stopped trying to be the best at anything. What was the point, he kept asking himself, when the only rival that mattered to him wasn't even there to see him do better? So it was a wonder to him why he, upon finding out from a friend that his nephew had started calling a teacher' dad,' had arranged a meeting with the said teacher in the middle of the week, going out of his way to find out what Mr. Choi had that he didn't.
Perhaps it wasn't his competitive streak; maybe it was something less or something more, he didn't know. But what he knew was that the information plagued his mind, made his mood sour more than it should. He was aware that it could've been a mistake; he had done it before when he was a kid, too, accidentally called a teacher 'mom,' so it truly was unsettling that it bothered him so much.
"He's a good teacher, really patient. Milo had him last year. He couldn't shut up about how cool and nice he is," his friend Seokmin said, unknowingly making him more eager to meet the teacher and see what the fuss was all about, "You really should start attending PTA meetings. Mr. Choi is really helpful. He talks to the parents and tells them how to better help their children in school."
Maybe, he thought, if his talk with the teacher ended on a good note, he'd try to attend the meetings and not just ask for the minutes through e-mail.
Glancing at the passenger seat, Jeonghan shook his head, sighing at the sight of his nephew twiddling his thumbs and chewing on his lips like he did something wrong, obviously nervous about him going to school and talking to his favorite teacher.
"He's not in trouble, Chan," he assured, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove, the sound of the usual hubbub of the city muffling the thoughts at the back of his mind, silencing the voices in his head that told him someone out there was taking care of his nephew better than him, some unknown insecurity making his heart ache. "I just want to talk to him."
"Don't be mean to him, okay? He's my best friend," his nephew mumbled in his usual quiet voice, the worry in his tone palpable; the teacher must really be special, he thought, waving away his question of when he had been mean before in lieu of explaining to him that that was another reason why he wanted to get to know him, too. "Really? Can the three of us go to the mall, then? I told him he should take me, but he said I must bring my guardian with me if we go out."
"It depends," he breathed out, craning his neck to look for an open space in the school's parking lot, thanking God under his breath for spotting one immediately, "If I like him, we can go out. But if not, then no, we won't."
"You'll like him," Chan enthused, already unbuckling his seatbelt and scrambling on his seat to fetch his bag from the backseat even before he could check if he had done, once again, a poor parking job; it was one of his weakness. Grumbling under his breath about practicing more, Jeonghan tried his best not to dwell on the thought that his nephew didn't want to spend any more time with him as he busied himself by dumping his car keys and wallet in his bag.
"Bye, Uncle Ha-"
"Hey," he exhaled, catching his nephew by the elbow and gently pulling him back to his seat, "Why haven't you asked me to take you to the mall if you really want to go?"
"Because I know you'll say no," Chan shrugged, and then he was off, jumping out of the car with a silent farewell even before he could point out that he only said no the first time he asked because he had a presentation he had to finish. Shaking his head, he didn't allow himself to ponder on his nephew's answer for too long, aware that it won't help his already worsening mood.
It wasn't competitiveness, he figured as he walked the halls of the school, dodging kids running to their classes. It wasn't anything less, too, but something more. It upset him that his nephew hadn't called him dad, or otherwise accidental. Jeonghan had no plans of replacing his late father, God bless his soul, but if there was someone who his nephew would call dad, it should've been him, the person that raised him since he was a toddler, the person who put a halt in his career to take care of him.
Jeonghan had the right to be livid about the situation, he was sure Mr. Choi would understand, but the frustration bubbling in his stomach had gone and simmered down to nothing the second the teacher opened the door to an empty classroom and welcomed him inside with a gummy smile, politely greeting him and extending an arm out for a gentle handshake.
"Mr. Yoon, it's great to finally meet you," Mr. Choi said, his smile bright and his eyes forming into crescents; Jeonghan would be a damn liar if he said that the teacher didn't look cute, staring at the other man, who guided him to the front of the room, "I'd offer you a cup of tea but Chan said you prefer coffee? I'm afraid I was informed late, so I haven't prepared anything. Maybe water?"
“Informed?” he quipped, raising an eyebrow at the teacher, who turned around with a grin, waving his hand in some sort of gesture for him to sit. Jeonghan did as he was told, cautiously taking a seat on the lone chair arranged to face the desk in front, slightly nervous but highly curious as to what the other man meant.
“Chan came here a little earlier than you did,” Seungcheol explained as he set the glass before him; Jeonghan thanked him, sipping a tiny bit while the other man settled down on his spot behind the desk. “He told me you like coffee, and I should give you a cup to make you less mean? He also told me to tell you that he wants a puppy for his birthday, and yes, he broke a plate last week, and he was sorry.”
Jeonghan blinked, tearing his eyes away from the teacher whose attention was on the bright yellow memo pad in his hand. Heat dusting his cheeks, he chewed on his lips as he tried to make sense of why Chan couldn’t just tell those to himself, a part of him wondering if he had done something to scare the child away or make him feel like he wouldn’t listen; he had been busy at work the past few months but had he neglected Chan? No, he didn’t think so.
“He really does think you’re his dad, huh?” he blurted out, his sharp tone making even him cringe; perhaps that was what Chan meant about him being mean, but really, what he said was just out of pure fascination and slight, admitting it to himself, jealousy. “I’ve been asking what he wants for his birthday for weeks, but he never answers.”
“Mr. Yoon, you must know that he only accidentally called me dad. It happened thrice, but that’s beside the point,” Mr. Choi shook his head, the tips of his ears tinted a violent shade of red, hands folded on top of his desk; Jeonghan found a spark of joy at how sheepish he looked. “Children do that all the time, call their teachers mom and dad, but I assure you that I’ve already talked to Chan and told him to never call me dad again as I’m not his father, nor his guardian.”
“What did he say?” he queried, genuinely curious because Chan had never been one to throw a tantrum when denied of something he wanted, often just turning quieter than he already was.
“He said he understood what I was saying,” the teacher answered, beaming as Jeonghan noticed the fondness dripping from his sentiment; a sense of pride bloomed somewhere in his chest, making a mental note to acknowledge his nephew’s politeness later that day, maybe buy him a toy or something nicer. “He’s matured, you know? For his age. So trust me when I say he won’t call me dad ever again.”
Breathing shallowly, Jeonghan clenched and unclenched his hands on his lap, looking around the classroom filled with artwork and crafts, walls decorated with charts of the alphabets and multiplication tables drenched in the brightest of colors; the smell of chalk and crayons were heavy in the air, and on one corner of the room, he noticed a basket of lemon cakes Chan always made him buy in the store. He didn’t know whether to cry or smile at that sight.
“Chan gives me one every day,” he heard the teacher say, his chest tight with envy as he tried to recall when Chan had given him anything, eyes blurring when he came up with none; his nephew was a child, he knew that just as much but it would’ve been nice, he thought, to receive something from him, too. “He found out they’re my favorite, and he brings me one in exchange for a stamp on his hand or a sticker for his journal.”
“How do you do it?” he whispered, flustered at his sudden vulnerability. In his four years of raising Chan, he had never once asked his friends for help. Jeonghan prided himself on the patience to do research and watch educational videos on how to take care of a child, on how to be a good parent but deep inside, he struggled, occasionally questioning his abilities because he could feel the wall between him and his nephew that he didn’t know how to tear down. “I’ve been taking care of Chan since he was four. I think I’ve done my best to take care of him. I’m just wondering how you do it?”
“Chan had never called me dad. Not even once, not even by accident,” he continued, swallowing hard as he started feeling a lump forming in his throat, vision blurry as he told the teacher, who was listening intently, about how he could feel his shortcomings being a guardian, oddly comfortable bearing his soul to the stranger before him; maybe that was it, how the other man didn’t know him personally that was why he felt okay sharing his feelings, or perhaps it was the way Mr. Choi’s eyes softened in his sentiments, his gentle disposition welcoming, like he was telling him that the classroom was a safe space for his struggles and emotions. “So, how did you do it? Make him see you as a friend, make him want to go to the mall with you, give you lemon cakes?”
“Just be there for him, Mr. Yoon,” Mr. Choi answered, not missing a beat, his tone gentle and soft like he was talking to one of the children in his class, not quite condescending but still had him shrinking a tiny bit, the flesh underneath his skin burning slightly; with shame? With guilt? Or with both? “That’s the best advice I can give you right now, be more present in his life.”
The teacher was on his feet even before Jeonghan could protest and tell him that he had been nothing but be as present as he could, flipping through the thick folder that the other man handed him, of Chan’s test papers and certificates, of his nephew’s own artworks and essays, listening to Mr. Choi tell him all about Chan’s achievements, about how many times he had gone to the stage to claim an award and receive a medal.
“Chan told me to tell you these, by the way,” Mr. Choi grinned, propping his hip on the table and crossing his arms onto his chest, wringing out a chuckle from him despite the ache growing on his chest; a huge part of him wondering, once again, why his nephew couldn’t brag about his school achievements himself, the voice inside his head growing louder and louder, only ever growing silent when the teacher spoke again. “The faculty is well-acquainted with you by now, and that’s not really a problem; we like listening to our kids talk about their families, but it seems like Chan talks to the teachers more than he does with his classmates.
“I never asked him why,” the teacher mumbled, telling him that it didn’t feel like it was his place to meddle, “But I made suggestions, you know? Told him to hang out with his classmates and ask if some of them like lemon cakes.”
“You’re his best friend, Mr. Choi,” he muttered, the sharpness in his voice wholly gone. Jeonghan understood then why even Seokmin and his husband Jisoo liked the teacher so much, why their child Milo kept babbling about him; Mr. Choi was a kindhearted person, his sincerity like a warm blanket thrown over his shoulder. The envy he felt had gone and was replaced with admiration, “He would tell you anything if you asked.”
“But as his guardian, would you approve of that?” Mr. Choi asked, sighing as he looked around his room, eyes sparkling under the bright lightbulbs above. Amidst the chaos in Jeonghan’s mind, he appreciated that the other man considered the impact of his actions on the relationship of his students and their families. “As much as I would like to ask him, I couldn’t because I don’t want him to rely on me too much when he has a family better equipped to be there for him when he needs it the most.”
“So should I just ask him?” he exhaled, growing more helpless as more seconds passed, shaking his head when the teacher asked if he didn’t know about Chan’s social situation in the school, didn’t feel judged for not being aware, momentarily comforted by the assuring smile that the other man gave, “How do I become more present?”
“Do you talk to him about your day, Mr. Yoon?” Mr. Choi asked, tilting his head to the side, a contemplative look falling on his features when he shook his head, and said that he rarely talked to him about it. “Try talking about your day at work, the good and the bad. Wait for him to open up little by little. That was how his homeroom teacher got him to recite to class, you know? Miss Mijoo kept answering her own questions wrong and showed her class that it’s okay to make mistakes.”
Jumping slightly at the sound of the school bell ringing, Jeonghan nodded and hastily stood up, checking his wristwatch and cursing under his breath; he was going to be late for work, but he didn’t really seem too frustrated about that, deeming the talk with Mr. Choi more important at that moment.
“Do you mind if we exchanged numbers?” he timidly asked, chuckling nervously at the sight of the other man’s cheeks growing pink; for when he had any questions, he explained, leaving out the part that he absolutely found him cute, too, so it would be great if they could be friends, “Only if it’s okay, I just want to do this right for Chan.”
“Of course,” Mr. Choi said, taking his phone from his hand and typing in his number with a bright beam, “I’m sure you’ll do well, Mr. Yoon, but you’re free to call me anytime.”