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“I quit.”
Kyungjun’s words come with something akin to a smile, but the broken rasp in his voice shows Junhee what he truly wants to know.
He hates Kyungjun, it’s something that everybody knows. He hates his smirk, his violent tendencies, his antagonising, the way his fingers press into the keys just a bit too violently, all of it. He hates Kyungjun so badly, and yet he’s the only one who writes music that Kyungjun will play.
So, he stays. Everybody who would bitch and cry if Junhee stopped writing for Kyungjun would just be bothersome, and having Kyungjun wrapped around his finger is amusing, he supposes.
Kyungjun isn’t allowed to quit.
“…huh?”
“I’m done playing,” Kyungjun repeats, voice uncharacteristically gentle, “you can write for someone else — you’re free.”
That last line would be mocking if not said so pathetically. Junhee wants to scoff, to shove, to kick and yell and tell Kyungjun that he can’t fucking torture Junhee for years and then just give up. It should be up to Junhee when it’s over — and it’s nowhere near over, not for Junhee.
“What’s this? A prank?”
“No,” Kyungjun huffs, “I’m done, for good.”
“Why? Kyungjun, you know you’re good at this,” Junhee insists, tugging him by the shoulder as he tries to leave, “nobody - nobody likes my music except you.”
Kyungjun swallows, jerking his body out of Junhee’s grip. “You’ll find someone, I’m sure.”
A pause.
“I don’t want to find someone,” he responds softly, “I like how you play it.”
Junhee won’t tell anyone, not even Yoonseo, but when Kyungjun leaves, he cries. He sits at the piano and cries, ripping the pages of his music and throwing them into the trashcan once he violently bunches them into balls.
A week passes. Junhee doesn’t write. He stares at an unfinished composition in his notebook, some bullshit he threw together when Kyungjun pissed him off and asked for something different than usual.
It’s not good. Terrible, even. Junhee wonders if Kyungjun left because he can’t write. All the praise that Junhee’s gotten as a child has amounted to nothing because if this fucking protege leaves him after years, he’s not sure if there’s a point; the praise was meaningless and anyone can do what he does. It was just a matter of having a passion so young, it was never about his skills.
Junhee spends a week in his home. Yoonseo comes over a few times, wipes his tears and gives him a shoulder to rest on. Combs through his hair and tells him it’ll be okay. Cooks him dinner and fills his water bottle.
“Junhee,” she begins wearily, “will you finally tell me what this is about?”
The boy hums, sniffling and poking at the food on his plate. Yoonseo nudges the platter and gazes at him.
“It’s your favorite, come on.”
Junhee tries a bite, lazily chewing and swallowing. Every motion feels like a chore.
“Kyungjun quit,” he mumbles.
Yoonseo furrows her brows. “Did he? Are you sad that you’re out of a job? I thought he never paid you.”
“It wasn’t a job,” he defends quietly, “I just don’t know why he quit… he blocked my number.”
“Huh?” Yoonseo peers at her friend, watching his lip quiver. “Why is this a loss? You always told me you hated him and wished you could write for somebody else.”
A pause.
“Hell, I’ll start learning piano and you can write for me if it gets you out of this slump.”
He shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be the same.”
“…ah,” she nods, “so, it’s like-”
“No! No,” Junhee sighs, “I just feel pathetic.”
“It’s not pathetic,” she promises, “give me his number, I’ll text him.”
Junhee thinks it over before ultimately deciding against it.
“I don’t want to harass him.”
Another week passes without writing. Junhee is willing to admit that he misses Kyungjun; he misses the loud remarks about what he likes and dislikes in a tune, his hollering, his slightly off-pitch singing when Junhee hums a song.
He misses his eyes, the dark brown. How they’d stare at anything except Junhee when they spoke. How his lips would quirk up so genuinely but only with the writer; everyone else got a facade.
Maybe Junhee doesn’t hate Kyungjun. It disgusts him to admit that.
Three more days pass. Junhee picks up a pen and promptly puts it back down. It’s more progress than he’s made in a while.
A knock at his door startles him. Maybe he should get it, but he doesn’t want to. A salesman, he’s sure, since Yoonseo doesn’t knock anymore.
The knock repeats rougher. Junhee jolts at the force, finally standing up and clutching his phone tight in case he has to call somebody. He wonders who it could be — a violent criminal? Jeongwon with bad news? The police?
He opens the door and peers through the crack.
“Hi,” Kyungjun begins, eyes shifting as per usual.
“How’d you get here?”
The taller boy swallows anxiously. “I walked-”
Junhee furrows his brows and takes in Kyungjun’s appearance — the rain, a downpour, drenches him completely. He must be telling the truth.
“How’d you get my address, is what I meant.”
“Oh,” Kyungjun bites his bottom lip, “I asked Yoonseo.”
A sigh, then Junhee tugs Kyungjun inside the house. He drips from the storm onto the tile floor, shivering slightly.
“Do you want to shower?”
Kyungjun shakes his head. “I want to talk to you.”
“Your teeth are chattering,” he argues, “you won’t be doing any talking like that.”
So, Kyungjun reluctantly agrees to a shower. Junhee tells him to use whatever products he wants, brings him a towel, and finds him a change of clothes.
Junhee paces his kitchen until Kyungjun comes back twenty minutes later, in the basketball shorts that Junhee handed out but no shirt.
“It was too small on my arms,” he explains, “I didn’t want to ruin it for you.”
Junhee pouts, trying desperately not to stare. “The rain has slowed down,” he notes, “if you don’t want to walk, I’ll call a cab for you.”
“What? No-”
“How will you get home, Kyungjun?”
“I’ll figure that out later,” he huffs, nostrils flaring slightly in anger, “I came here to talk; I’m not fucking leaving until I say what I want.”
Junhee crosses his arms. “I won’t listen,” he tells him, “I spent damn near three weeks ruminating because you made me feel like shit. I stopped writing because of you and your shitty lack of explanation on why you quit. You block my number and then you show up here? I’ll call the police if you don’t leave.”
“Junhee-”
“No,” he places a finger up, “you’re an asshole, you always have been! I shouldn’t have gotten attached, I should’ve kept hating you. It’s easier and more convenient and absolutely what you deserve, you know?”
“Fuck you,” Kyungjun spits, “you have no idea why I quit.”
He cocks a brow. “Fine. Tell me, Kyungjun. I can’t think of a good enough reason to ruin everything you have.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” the taller boy scoffs, “I couldn’t stand being near you, that’s why. Because you’re the only one for me and I can’t fucking stand it.”
Junhee burns up at the phrasing. “There are other writers,” he pushes, “you can afford them, surely. I’m not the best you’ll get.”
“You are so stupid.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t give a shit about the music, Junhee,” he shouts, “it’s you! You as a person! Do you know how dirty I feel when I get to see you?”
The smaller boy stays quiet, eyes wide and glossy.
“I am so goddamn in love with you, Junhee. I hate piano — I’ve hated it since I was fifteen, but it kept me close to you, so I kept playing-”
He chokes up, words spilling out distorted and his voice cracking.
“I shouldn’t. I know it’s cruel for me to even tell you but you’re an asshole and won’t listen to any bullshit I spout so I guess I have to just fucking tell you how awful I am.”
Kyungjun takes a deep breath, fists clenched at his sides as if he’s going to throw a punch. As if he needs to punish Junhee for being an object of devotion.
But Junhee pulls him forward by wrapping his arms around his neck and kisses him instead. It’s rough, a declaration built up from the weeks of missing Kyungjun while hating him for what he’s done.
Kyungjun’s hands grip Junhee’s waist, squeezing slightly as he moans into the kiss.
“You’re an idiot, Kyungjun,” he mutters against his lips, “always making things difficult.”
One of Kyungjun’s hands hesitantly trails down, and it’s the first time that Junhee’s seen him allowing his anxiety to persevere instead of anger.
“We should go find you a shirt, though,” he continues, finally pulling away, “or else we won’t be able to talk at all tonight.”
Kyungjun nods dumbly.
Then, he steals one last kiss before allowing Junhee to lead him to his room. It feels foreign, but maybe he can get used to it.
He really wants to.