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Minghao is annoyed.
He has devoted his entire lunch period this afternoon to volunteering to help paint sets for the school talent show in the auditorium. Why they’re having a talent show so close to the end of the school year (the tail end of May, for God’s sake) is beyond him. He’s trying to listen to his Lana Del Rey playlist in fucking peace while he ignores the other volunteers, thank you very much. But, because the universe apparently hates Minghao, some asshole is playing their own music across the hall just loudly enough that Minghao can’t drown it out with Lana without hurting his eardrums.
The first bit of it is tolerable, but the girls on the other end of the stage have been talking progressively louder over the course of lunch. Minghao sets down his paintbrush at the twenty minute mark. He is intent on telling somebody to quiet the hell down, and it’s not going to be in front of Mrs. Moreeno.
Across the hall is band kid territory, he soon discovers. He also discovers that the music is not coming from a speaker, but a little practice room with a small window.
There’s a long haired guy sitting at the piano, facing away from the door, precise hands moving up and down the ivories. His hands even switch places with each other every once in a while and by the time the song is over, Minghao realizes he isn’t even annoyed anymore and that he’s been standing here for a while.
It starts again, the same song, and he listens to the end. It’s beautiful. Some kind of classical piece he doesn’t recognize, because that’s never been his thing. It has a chorus that he likes though. One he wants to hear again.
The boy takes his binder off of the stand and begins flipping through it. Minghao needs to hear the song again. With his earbuds abandoned in his pocket long ago, Minghao knocks on the window.
It gets the boy’s attention. He checks his watch before turning around confusedly. His perplexed frown deepens when he takes in Minghao’s face, realizing that he’s been interrupted by a stranger. He looks down at his watch again, then back up at Minghao, blinks twice, and waves shortly.
Minghao is a terrible person. He’s just interrupted this poor guy in the middle of his art, and for what? To learn the name of a song?
“It’s open!” the boy announces so Minghao can hear it through the door.
Minghao turns the knob and he has to shove his weight against the door to get it open. It makes a loud, disgusting creak that makes him cringe. The boy doesn’t react.
The room is quite cozy. Upright piano situated against the wall facing the door, which almost distracts from the little shelf on the right, topped off with three old trophies and one district band festival certificate.
“Is lunch over early today?” the boy asks.
“No, um. Sorry, hi.”
“Hello.”
Minghao swallows. The boy is harder to talk to face to face. The face of course being way prettier than Minghao expected it to be. “Yeah, um, I’m so sorry to bother you. I was just painting set pieces backstage and I overheard you playing th-”
“Oh, it’s okay!” The boy waves his hands and turns back around to grab the binder. “I was about to go anyway-”
The poor kid was obviously planning on staying for the rest of lunch and Minghao has made him want to run away.
“No! I thought it was nice.” Minghao smiles, hoping it looks genuine and not pitiful. “You’re really talented.”
“Oh.” The boy smiles awkwardly and his shoulders raise just a little. “Thank you.”
“What’s that song called?”
“Um-” the boy looks down at the binder. “Pink Lake.”
A fitting name.
“Is that Beethoven or something?” Minghao asks so he can look it up later.
The boy makes an embarrassed noise that sounds kind of like laughing. “I wrote it.”
“Oh. That’s insane, actually.”
“Thanks.”
“Would you mind if I stayed in here to listen?” Minghao asks. “It’s really pretty.”
The boy goes red up to his ears. He gestures to the chair sitting in the corner of the room. Probably there in case people need to practice together. Convenient. He sets his binder back up on the ledge and opens up to a page marked with a thumb tab.
The beautiful tune begins again. Minghao often likes to close his eyes to enjoy music fully, but watching the boy fly up and down the piano like a professional is entrancing. His eyes are glued to him until the bell rings.
“I have to go get my stuff from the auditorium,” Minghao says, jumping out of his seat and making a break for the door. It squeaks as he’s saying, “Thank you for letting me listen!”
“I have a recital soon,” the boy blurts out.
Minghao stops. “What?”
“I have a recital on June eighth for my piano class.” The boy is red in the face again. He looks a little bit terrified, like he’s afraid he’s just embarrassed himself. “If- I don’t know- if you wanted to come listen.”
Minghao smiles at him. “I’ll be there.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
“Why don’t you eat lunch?” Minghao asks a week later. He doesn’t feel bad interrupting because the boy is only playing scales, which he doesn’t have much actual interest in. It’s a boring part of being a pianist and no one really enjoys it except people who like to punish themselves for fun, Minghao has been told.
It’s the first week of June. Which, most importantly, means that Junhui’s recital is in only a few days, but also that Minghao has the excuse to wear his tiny rainbow pin on the lapel of his jacket. He really hopes Junhui notices it. It’s not weird.
He’s in here pretty much every day during lunch now to listen to the piano boy play. They talk too - Minghao has learned that the pretty boy’s name is Junhui.
Junhui shrugs and doesn’t skip a note in the scale. “I eat at home, I don’t get hungry until later, the cafeteria food sucks , I like playing more. The usual stuff, I guess.”
The usual stuff. As if this is a thing people just do. Though, Minghao is relieved to hear that Junhui does in fact eat outside of school.
The band director has become skeptical of their hanging out, since Minghao is not in a single music class at this school, nor has he ever been, and the two of them have never spoken. She’s able to hear the piano from her office through the entire period, so she hasn’t said anything about it.
“Don’t you have friends in your lunch period though?”
Junhui shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the keys. “I don’t talk to a lot of people. It stresses me out.”
“It does?”
“I’m always scared of embarrassing myself if I talk too much.”
Minghao chortles. “You do like talking.”
“Well, I like talking to you.”
A familiar, warm feeling is back in Minghao’s chest. Pink Lake. The same one he gets when Junhui plays for him. When Junhui plays at all.
“As in, the regular amount?” Minghao asks. It feels like a setup as soon as he says it, because what is Junhui supposed to say to that?
Junhui falters his way up the scale he’s playing, but he pulls it back together on the way down, audibly inhaling. “Yeah. You’re nice.”
“Other people aren’t nice to you?”
“I don’t know.” Junhui flattens his lips into a straight line. “Social cues are hard.”
Minghao tilts his head. “I don’t see how that’s a problem.”
Junhui looks at him. Soft, soft eyes. “That’s because you’re nice.”
Pink. All through Minghao’s body, there is a pink lake flowing. It’s warm.
“Sometimes when I say things people act like I’m stupid or insane or something because whatever I said sounded weird, or I said it at a bad time. Or they just laugh at me. They do that sometimes.”
Junhui’s looking at the ground now. Probably in embarrassment. He doesn’t even look sad about it, like he’s just accepted the social rejection as part of life. He’s probably got a tight circle of music friends though. Minghao is willing to bet on it. He’s heard stories upon stories of the kind of close knit bonds you get out of performing arts.
“Social cues are stupid anyway,” Minghao says. Does Junhui say weird things and make jokes that don’t land? Yes, often, and Minghao likes him just the odd way he is. “I think you’d be less fun if you talked the way everyone else does.”
Junhui smiles at him. Pink, all through Minghao’s veins. Pink on Junhui’s cheeks.
“So if your friends were in this lunch period, you’d eat with them?”
A dry chuckle falls out of Junhui’s mouth. He’s looking at the keys again. “I don’t have friends.”
That hits Minghao like a truck. Lovely, kind, soft spoken Junhui has no friends.
“You have me,” Minghao tells him.
“Yeah.” Junhui grins, eyes still locked on the keys. “I do. That’s why I’m here.”
Junhui’s recital is today. Minghao is stressing. He even tells his mom about it.
All she’s known for the past two weeks is that Minghao is going to the school piano recital to support a friend, and needs her to drive him.
Then he insisted that he’ll need to get flowers for Junhui, and he enlisted her help because moms are good at this sort of thing.
“Do you know what his favorite color is?” she asked.
Minghao could do nothing but sigh and frown. “No.”
When he’d googled it, the internet told him to get roses or carnations, which is too much and probably stupid.
“You should pick something that speaks to you,” his mother told him.
He settled on daisies, which are now on his dresser as he gets himself ready. They’re simple and pretty and just basic enough that Minghao can play this off as being totally platonic in the off-chance that he’s read this entire thing wrong and Junhui is either straight or just Not Into Him Like That.
Minghao should not be stressing over his outfit but he is. Doing his hair is too much, right? Slacks are also too much, so he goes for black skinny jeans, tucks a polo shirt into them, grabs his flowers and gets the hell out of his room before he can overthink his looks any further.
“Are you ready to go?” his mother asks amusedly.
“Yes,” Minghao tells her, bolting to the door and just barely catching the sound of his father’s voice shouting, “Nine!” as if Minghao is taking a girl out on a hot date and not going to watch nerds play the piano for an hour.
“You look very handsome,” his mom comments as they’re pulling out of the driveway.
“Thanks.”
“Are we dressing to impress today?”
Minghao’s cheeks feel warm. Truthfully, he didn’t really expect her to say much about it beforehand, and he had a plan for what to tell her after the fact if the flowers had gone over well or crashed and burned. Minghao does not have an escape plan for this one. “I- yeah.”
“Is this really about your friend?” she asks.
Now, Minghao is double confused.
“Huh?”
“Is there a girl who plays piano that you’ll be seeing tonight?”
Oh. He really does not have an escape plan for this one. He also, unfortunately, has the kind of mother who can smell a lie like it’s smoke.
“Well, I mean, I’m sure there will be girls playing the piano, but he- the flowers are for a boy.” Minghao really thought his mom already received the message about him being a fan of boys after ‘I’m getting flowers to give to my friend who is also a boy.’ It hits him in the face that she always thought this was about a girl and that Junhui was just an excuse. He is so royally fucked.
“I see,” is all she says for a moment. It’s evident now that neither of them planned on having this conversation in the car.
Minghao doesn’t look over at the driver’s side. He doesn’t dare. He crosses his fingers that she doesn’t turn the car around and take him home right now.
“So we’re dressing to impress Junhui then.”
Pink. Pink in Minghao’s heart and in his hands.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Well, you look lovely. I’m sure he’ll think so too.”
Minghao feels a little like crying. “Thank you.”
She hears it in his voice, he’s sure. A mother just knows. Her eyes are gentle as she says, “My Minghao, you know I love you more than anything?”
“Yeah, I- I know, mama.” His voice is so close to breaking. “I love you too.”
When he works up the nerve to wipe his eyes and finally look at her, she’s got a content smile on her face as she watches the road. Minghao’s heart feels pink.
Minghao arrives five minutes early, which is just enough time to find a good seat, get settled, and compose himself. He’s not even the one performing, he’s got no right to be this nervous.
Then the auditorium lights are dimming and the principal appears to say a few words. Interesting. Minghao never would’ve guessed that this guy gave a fuck about the arts. The piano teacher comes to the stand and gives her own spiel about dedication before introducing the first pianist.
A freshman is up first, playing a halfway decent rendition of Happy Birthday. After a few more performances, Minghao has figured out that the director has ordered them by skill, which he thinks is pretty fair.
As expected, even though he’s only a junior, Junhui is last. Star of the show, as he should be. He plays something beautiful that Minghao hasn’t heard before. Not only does the music sound nearly impossible to play, he looks gorgeous as he does it. He’s so poised up there. Minghao is sure there’s a very proud piano teacher somewhere out there because of that.
Part of the piece sounds incredibly confusing even as an audience member. It sounds uncertain and jumbled but precise at the same time. Then it transitions back into the beautiful cadence it started with. There’s a phrase that keeps repeating and it brings Minghao nearly to tears a couple of times. He imagines dancing to it in a ballroom, surrounded by golds and whites and silvers. Junhui is there too, obviously.
Too soon, the song is over and Junhui is taking his bow. His untied hair flops down as he lowers his head, and he has to smooth it over when he’s back up right.
Minghao claps as loudly as he possibly can until Junhui retreats backstage. The piano teacher comes back out to thank everyone for coming to their show. Minghao just waits for the lights to come back on so it’s socially acceptable for him to get out of his seat and speed walk to the door so he can find Junhui in the hallway.
It doesn’t take very long to find him once the performers start filing out from the music hallway, being that Junhui stands at a whopping six feet tall and towers over most of his peers. His eyes find Minghao’s first, then he’s jogging over with a big smile on his face.
“You came!” Junhui cheers, swooping in to hug Minghao, like it’s a regular thing for them to do.
Pink in Minghao’s face and his lungs.
“Of course I did.” Minghao pulls away first before he forgets what he’s here for. He’s about to offer his bouquet out to Junhui when he loses his breath for a second at how attractive Junhui looks in concert black. It’s ridiculous actually, to be both insanely talented and look like that while he’s doing it.
“Sorry,” Junhui says, cringing, “I’m kind of sweaty. It is so hot backstage, and the lights make it even worse.”
Right. Hot. For sure.
Before Minghao can say anything stupid, he extends the bouquet. “These are for you.”
The look on Junhui’s face is sunshine and rainbows. “You.. thank you so much.”
Pink. Pink on both of their faces, in Minghao’s heart, from his head to his toes.
“I love daisies.”
“I was hoping you would. That was great, by the way. You’re incredib-”
“Jun!” a small voice is shouting. Then there’s a child launching itself at Junhui’s lower body, but it doesn’t throw him off. Junhui ruffles the little boy’s hair and starts squinting around the crowd.
“Hi, friend,” Junhui says, directed to the boy, but he’s still urgently scanning the hall. “Are mom and dad around?”
The boy nods at the same second Junhui’s eyes jump wide open. “Yeah, they’re-”
Junhui shoves the flowers back into Minghao’s hands and takes a step back.
“You were wonderful,” a woman says, coming out of nowhere and pulling Junhui down for a hug. There’s a man too, but he’s just standing there silently.
“Thank you,” Junhui says, patting the woman on the back until she pulls away and smacks a wet kiss onto his cheek. “Mama,” he whines.
“Oh, I know, I know, I’m embarrassing you in front of-” the woman turns to Minghao, smiling warmly. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Junhui’s father is giving no such energy, staring at Minghao blankly.
“This is my friend, Minghao,” Junhui jumps in. “We have calculus together.”
Oh, Minghao thinks, Junhui prepared for this. Something in Minghao’s stomach hurts, that Junhui has to lie like this, in front of his little brother, all because of a boy coming to see him play piano. Something like rage. A dark color. In his chest.
Minghao, alleged calc fan, doesn’t correct him.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Wen,” Minghao says. She shakes his hand while Junhui’s dad stands there like a statue. His eyes flick between the daisies and Minghao’s face several times more than Minghao is comfortable with.
“Good show, as always, Junhui,” the man finally says. He isn’t a particularly large man.
Junhui is several inches taller than him, but he nods timidly as he says “Thank you.”
Junhui is afraid of him.
Mrs. Wen is toying with the shiny locks of hair at Junhui’s shoulders. “We’ll have to get you a cut soon. You know girls are into the short hair thing these days.”
“Mama,” Junhui says frantically.
Yes, Minghao decides, the feeling is rage. It lingers there until Junhui’s family are done talking and give Junhui their goodbyes. It lingers for a bit longer. There is red in Minghao’s chest.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Junhui says the second they’re out the door. He looks more ashamed than Minghao has ever seen. It’s been a few minutes since the recital ended and the crowd is growing thinner. “I didn’t- I’m sorry for handing the flowers back, and- and lying, I just-”
“It’s okay.” Minghao gets a hold of Junhui’s shoulder, an I’m right here. He doesn’t want Junhui to have to say it. He doesn’t want to hear it. “I understand. It isn’t your fault.”
Junhui’s face is hard to decipher. “Minghao?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to go get dinner with me?”
The red in Minghao’s chest fades to pink so easily. He smiles. “Right now?”
“Yes, I’m buying.”
“I would love to.”
Junhui grabs his hand and drags Minghao to the doors. By the time they’re outside they’ve got their fingers laced together where Junhui is swinging them back and forth.
“Is there a specific time I need to get you home by?” Junhui asks as he’s strapping the bouquet of daisies into the backseat of his car.
Minghao hears his dad’s voice screaming “Nine p.m.!” at him as he was on his way out the door. He can always pretend he didn’t hear it.
“I’ll ask my mom.”
On June eighth, Minghao wakes up cold. The bed is empty, but the music coming from down the hall is warm. Junhui is up.
It’s not often that Junhui wakes up before him, or that Minghao wakes up to the sound of the baby grand piano that sits in their living room. Not that he’s complaining.
Junhui isn’t playing aggressively either, like he often does “for funsies.” It’s a gentle sound. It floats.
Minghao rises slowly. He takes his time. He knows the music will last even as he’s in no rush. He knows Junhui will keep playing until someone stops him. He rolls carelessly out of bed and finds his footing in enough time.
No need to rush. He feels pink today.
Junhui is pink: beautiful and warm, as Minghao closes in and wraps his arms around his neck from behind the bench. As he takes in the sight of Junhui’s hands gliding up and down the keys with even more precision than he had as a teenager.
There’s a vase of daisies sitting on the coffee table that makes Minghao stop breathing for almost three entire seconds. It should stop surprising him that Junhui acts like a lovesick fool every second of their life.
“I haven’t heard this one in a minute,” Minghao says, head resting on top of Junhui’s as he sways them. Junhui likes to save it for special occasions, or just every once in a while. Pink Lake has always been Minghao’s favorite, and Junhui is determined to keep it sacred.
“It’s about you,” Junhui says when it’s over.
Minghao rolls his eyes. “You wrote it before you met me.”
“It was precognitive,” Junhui says, which gets a laugh out of Minghao, then, “Every love song ever is about you.”
Minghao’s heart feels so very pink. He’s drowning in it.
What else is he supposed to do but get down on the bench and kiss Junhui about it? Junhui’s lips are pink and soft. Like his music, like his soul. Junhui, who is nobody’s to be controlled anymore, who can do whatever he wants as the adult he is, chooses to be pink. His hair is short now, of his own volition. Not because of a mother who wants him to attract girls, but because he likes it that way now.
“Pink Lake is a love song?” Minghao asks after a moment. He really always just thought it was about a pink lake. Cherry blossom and strawberry milk imagery, all of that.
“Of course it is. It’s about you.” Junhui says it like Minghao is joking. Like it’s the gospel truth to everybody that every love song is a Minghao song, and vice versa.
“I love you so much,” Minghao says as he bumps his forehead against Junhui’s.
Junhui kisses him gently, shortly. Pink. “I love you more.”
“Do not start this with me.”
“Okay, okay.” Junhui brushes their noses together. “Happy anniversary.”
“Happy anniversary, Junnie.”