Chapter Text
Pio’s phone buzzed for the third time, and his attention finally gave in. He snatched it from where it lay on top of his piano and, just as he’d expected, saw another call from Jeongyo. He let it ring.
He wasn’t going to pick up this time either. Anger and despair simmered beneath his skin. This had been the best day he’d had in a while, but it hadn’t taken long for everything to sour. And somehow, Jeongyo was responsible for it—even if only indirectly.
Right now, Jeongyo was the last person he wanted to talk to.
When the call finally disconnected, Pio decided to shut his phone down. But then another notification appeared on top of the screen and he froze.
I’m outside your home. Come down for a minute.
Pio stared at the message, his brows drawing together.
What was this about? He wondered. It was almost midnight. There was nothing left that could possibly be important enough to discuss at this hour. So why was Jeongyo here?
The question gnawed at him, and before he could stop it, his mind supplied the worst possibility: Jeongyo was in trouble.
Pio shot to his feet on instinct. He made it barely a step before stopping. His mother’s words crept back into his mind, sinking into him like poison through his veins.
Today’s star was Choi Jeongyo, the audience didn’t care about you!
Choi Jeongyo’s name will spread all over social media tonight and you’ll just sit there allowing him to steal first place from you again.
For a moment, he stood there, caught between resentment and worry. Then, almost reluctantly, he realised how idiotic it would be to let his bitterness keep him from checking whether Jeongyo was actually okay.
He shoved the voices aside and made his way downstairs. A moment later, he was through the front gate, looking around frantically.
He spotted him a few seconds later, standing in the shadows behind a pole. He squinted his eyes slightly disbelieving.
Pio walked over quickly, his eyes scanning Jeongyo from head to toe for any sign of injury. But when his gaze finally settled on his face, his expression faltered.
Jeongyo was grinning at him. His gums and teeth were fully on display in an almost ridiculously wide smile.
Pio stared.
Nothing was wrong with him. Relief came first, followed almost immediately by irritation at himself for having panicked so easily.
“Why are you here?” The words came out flat. He watched the brightness in Jeongyo’s eyes dim a little.
Some part of Pio wished he could care about that hurt. But his own heart was aching too badly for him to make room for anyone else’s. Right now, Jeongyo’s presence felt less like comfort and more like salt rubbed into an open wound.
“I just…” Jeongyo bit down on his lip. Suddenly, he seemed smaller, shrinking into himself beneath Pio’s gaze. There was an uncertainty in his expression that hadn’t been there moments ago.
Then, as though he’d finally gathered enough courage to say it, he blurted, “We didn’t celebrate our first big win together.”
Pio opened his mouth to refuse the celebration when his heart felt like it was burning but the sparkle that shone in Jeongyo's eyes cut him off. He pressed his lips together and a sigh escaped him as he lowered his gaze to the concrete beneath their feet.
His mother’s words were still lodged somewhere inside his head, controlling his thoughts like a drug. It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell which thoughts were his own, let alone act on them. But he couldn’t snap at Jeongyo, could he?
"I told you we'll do it some other day." He says slowly, in a measured voice.
"It would have turned out a little useless after a point." Jeongyo blabbles in a grumpy tone, sounding like an old man preaching about life. "You have to celebrate a win in the moment."
When Pio rolled his eyes in exasperation, Jeongyo huffed at him and pulled a can of beer from his pocket and held it up like a trophy, a wide grin spreading across his face. “I got us beer."
Pio narrowed his eyes at the can before looking back at Jeongyo. “A single can?” he asked, one brow raised.
“That’s all I had money for,” Jeongyo grumbled, his lips pushing into a pout.
Pio sighed, shaking his head as he walked past him. Jeongyo’s head snapped in his direction.
“Huh?”
He stood there for a second before hurrying after Pio. A few metres down the road, Pio led them into a community garden tucked away in the neighbourhood, almost completely concealed behind tall walls and overgrown bushes. The soft glow of the lampposts, combined with the fountain in the centre, cast everything in a warm, muted light. It was oddly romantic.
Jeongyo immediately scolded himself for thinking that. This was just a celebratory drink. One he had practically forced Pio into having with him. It didn't mean anything to Pio. Not nearly as much as it did to him.
Pio walked over to one of the benches and sat down without a word. Jeongyo lingered beside him awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself.
When Pio noticed that he still hadn’t sat down, he gave him a sidelong glance. Jeongyo responded with an intentionally wide smile before scurrying over and finally taking the seat beside him. They left a careful gap between their bodies, each of them sitting in silence beneath the chilly night air.
The can hissed when Jeongyo opened it. He held it out toward Pio, offering him the first sip. Pio took it almost absentmindedly and lifted it toward his mouth.
“Wait, wait, wait.”
Jeongyo’s sudden panic made him stop. Pio lowered the can and looked at him with knitted brows.
“What?”
“You have to make a toast.” Jeongyo gave him a sheepish smile. Pio stared at him.
“It’s that serious to you?”
“You should always celebrate your wins.” Jeongyo’s smile softened. “You never know what will happen tomorrow.”
Pio fell quiet. He had spent so much of his life winning that he had never really stopped to celebrate any of it. The most he could remember was the occasional, single sentence of praise from his mother. Words that had long since lost whatever meaning they might once have held. It had always been one competition after another. One achievement followed by another. There was never any time to stop
Maybe because for him, the only thing that could ever have counted as an achievement was acknowledgement frm his grandfather—and that was the one thing he had never received. Maybe that was why no victory, no matter how hard-earned, had ever felt worth celebrating.
But Jeongyo was different. He was carefree. He didn't treat the piano the way he did. He didn't clutch at it like sand, squeezing so tightly that it slipped through his fingers anyway. He cupped it with care, held it gently, and maybe that was why music loved him back. Maybe that was why it moved so effortlessly between his fingers, as though it had always belonged there.
"Are you not going to make one?"
His thoughts are cut short when Jeongyo drifts into his periphery, tilting his head as he tries to catch his eye.
"You can make it. Since you were the showstopper tonight."
Even to his own ears, the words sound unmistakably passive-aggressive. He holds the can out to Jeongyo and looks away almost immediately. For a moment, there wass silence. He wonders if Jeongyo could see through the bitterness, if he can hear everything he's deliberately left unsaid. But Jeongyo only cleared his throat and held up the can.
“To Pio,” Jeongyo began, holding the can between them. “My most precious friend, who always gives me the confidence and inspiration to play piano.”
Pio’s eyes flickered toward him.
“If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve shit my pants and ruined everything today.” Jeongyo laughed under his breath. “This victory is for you. Because of you.”
Pio stared at him.
Jeongyo took a sip. The moment the beer slid down his throat, his face crumpled. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as though he’d just swallowed something terrible, before breaking into a grin that showed off his gummy smile.
Pio watched him for a long moment. Then his gaze dropped to the can. His thoughts began spiralling before he could stop them. His mother’s words echoed relentlessly in his head, curdling something deep inside him. His stomach twisted with nausea.
He imagined taking a sip. Maybe the bitterness would be too much. Maybe it would twist his stomach into knots and force him to vomit up everything that had been poisoning him all evening.
He looked away from the can.
“I don’t like beer.” The words came out flat. He regretted them almost immediately. It was a flimsy lie, and he knew it.
“You…” Jeongyo laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “Wow. Are you serious?”
“I mean…” Pio scrambled for a way to soften the lie. “I just don't feel good. My stomach’s been bothering me, and alcohol probably isn’t the best way to celebrate tonight.”
He felt a small rush of relief when Jeongyo seemed to accept the explanation.
“Man…” Jeongyo drawled, his lips pulling into a disappointed pout.
Pio had noticed that about him, Jeongyo pouted a lot. And, for some reason, it always seemed to catch Pio’s attention.
Distraction might have been a better word for it. But he would never acknowledge that. Staring at another boy’s lips wasn't exactly proper, was it?
“If I’d known, I would’ve brought cake for you.”
“You couldn’t even afford another can of beer, and you’re talking about cake?”
“Hey, don’t be mean.” Jeongyo's pout deepened, accompanied by drawn brows.
Pio felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He tried to suppress the smile, but a small smirk escaped anyway.
“What kind of cake do you like, by the way?”
“Why?”
“Do you really have a question for everything?” Jeongyo's lips curled in disapproval. Pio looked at him skeptically, as though assessing a bomb that could go off at any moment.
Subjected to it, Jeongyo sighed and shook his head in defeat. “I’m asking for when we win our next competition together.”
Win.
Competition.
Together.
The words echoed strangely in Pio’s mind. A question rose almost immediately.
Was it really a competition if it was won together?
Could a victory belong to two people?
Could they really win together?
Pio was so used to fighting everyone around him that he had forgotten what it felt like to share something without turning it into a contest. Even his victories had never truly belonged to him. They had been little tokens of acknowledgement, meant to prove something to his mother and, through her, to his grandfather.
At some point, that need for their validation had quietly become his own. And now he didn't know how to separate achievement from approval.
“Pio?”
Pio blinked. He hadn't realised Jeongyo was still talking.
“Huh?”
“I said, which flavour do you prefer?”
“Belgian chocolate.”
Jeongyo’s eyes widened. “I just had chocolate coming over here.” his mouth frowned like he had made a terrible mistake.
“And you had no money for another beer.” Pio brings it back, tone deliberately flat.
“Hey, why are you still stuck on that?” Jeongyo protested with a pout. “I couldn't buy two chocolates with it anyway, so—”
“So you bought one chocolate and one beer,” Pio cut in. “Ate the chocolate and left the bitter beer for me.”
“Wow. You nag more than I expected.” Jeongyo jabbed him lightly in the ribs before flashing him another wide grin.
Pio looked at the smile with quiet skepticism, as though he still wasn't entirely sure whether it was safe to let himself get used to it.
He didn't reply because, annoyingly, there was a little truth to Jeongyo's observation, he knew that already.
"It's just that I enjoy sweet things better than bitter," he says, looking away from Jeongyo.
Jeongyo hums in understanding, nodding with exaggerated deliberation. A thoughtful pause stretches between them, and Pio finds himself wondering what calculations are running behind those dark eyes. He doesn't have long to dwell on it because Jeongyo speaks first.
"In that case," Jeongyo says, softer than before, "I'll still make you taste sweet."
Pio turns, confused, and catches something hesitant flickering across Jeongyo's face—there and gone, their eyes meeting only briefly before Jeongyo looks away, as if fleeing his own words. It only makes him more confused.
"How?"
The question tilts out of him in genuine curiosity, head tilting to match. Jeongyo bites his lip, blinking slowly, gathering courage like threads between his fingers. When their eyes finally lock again, the shift is physical—a blow to the chest that thickens the air and slows time itself.
Jeongyo's gaze drops to Pio's lips.
The shiver that races down Pio's spine is electric, waking every nerve, sharpening every sense, leaving him awakened, a little more alive, a little more aware. He swallows.
When Jeongyo's eyes flicks back to meet his eyes, it's not just a gaze anymore. It feels like an open invitation. The uncertainty so beautifully visible in his soft round eyes that Pio wants to wipe it off of him just because there is nothing in the world that Jeongyo shouldn't be blatantly open about.
That look pulls him in like a gravity and his own gaze drifts downward, helpless, watching as Jeongyo wets his lips.
As though being stuck in syrup became too much for Jeongyo, he leaned in swiftly and sure, closing the distance for a kiss. The press of the lips is firm and momentary. Just a few seconds and it's gone as quickly and unexpectedly as it had come, leaving Pio wanting more. But Pio doesn't chase back as Jeongyo pulls away. He remains frozen, statue-still, reality and illusion blurring at the edges.
Did that really happen?
Did Jeongyo really kiss him or did he just dreamt about it?
He needs to be sure. Because if he’s imagined all of this, if he’s mistaken every little sign for something that was never there, then one wrong move could make him look like a pervert.
He studies Jeongyo with knit brows, searching, but the other won't meet his eyes. His breath comes shallow, lips pressed thin, staring at the space between them until he finally looks up—peering through his lashes, small and scared.
"Was it sweet enough?" He asks with uncertainty laced in his voice.
"Not at all." Pio says in a daze.
The whisper congests in his throat, strange even to his own ears. Jeongyo's shoulders slump, sadness eclipsing the light in his eyes. And Pio realizes too late how his words must sounds and regrets. Because the kiss was sweet, addictively so, feeling like a drug he needed more of, in that very moment. But rather than explain, he finds himself moving, closing the distance Jeongyo opened, bridging the gap with action where words have failed.
Before the light could escape his hold, he grasps at it desperately. He cradles Jeongyo's face in one hand and leans in to capture his lips properly this time.
It takes only a blink of consideration before Jeongyo catches on, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Pio shifts closer as Jeongyo's hand finds the back of his head, pulling him in. Their lips move in perfect sync—just as their fingers always align across piano keys, never needing more than a measure to find each other's rhythm before becoming one.
"Why don't you open up," Pio breathes against his mouth, "so I can taste the sweetness."
Jeongyo makes a sound low in his throat at the request alone. He opens readily, welcoming the intrusion of Pio's tongue into wet heat.
Pio licks into him, greedy, trying to extract every trace of flavor. When their tongues meet, Pio sighs, his breath ghosting across Jeongyo's cheek, while Jeongyo groans and tightens his grip on Pio's hair, pulling him deeper.
The sharp ache at his roots is like something rooting him to reality and clearing his haze. He realizes how quickly this has spiraled—how deep, how out of control—when Jeongyo surges closer, lapping back with a ferocity that terrifies him.
Pio retreats slightly, but Jeongyo resists, capturing his tongue between lips and sucking. The sensation goes straight to his head, then south, leaving his insides molten. The sound that escapes him—a moan he cannot reclaim—becomes his final straw.
He freezes. So does Jeongyo. Lips still pressed together but body tensing in each other's hold.
He takes the chance to pull back and stand, swift and unsteady. His breath comes uneven; his legs feel like jelly. Head swimming, body taut. Jeongyo rises slowly from his seat, but Pio cannot meet his gaze.
Not after what he said. Not after what he did. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground, as if the moment might dissolve if he refuses to look it in the eye.
"Pio-yah," Jeongyo starts, small, barely above a whisper.
"Don't." The word cuts sharp, not from anger, but from the certainty that he will break if he stays a moment longer.
He can't.
"This was just for the celebration. Nothing more." The words force themselves out, thick and foreign. "We don't talk about it again. This means nothing, okay?"
He waits. Silence grates against his patience, but he cannot look up—too afraid of what he might find in Jeongyo's expression.
When the quiet stretches too long, Pio turns and walks away, refusing to glance back, not knowing if his terms are acceptable to Jeongyu or not, not caring.
The kiss was mutual. But Pio decides its end alone.
Selfish bastard, he thinks of himself. As you always were.
He takes heavy steps toward home, praying this won't cost him Jeongyo's friendship, unable to imagine a horizon without him beside it. He hopes they can bypass the awkwardness, prays he hasn't ruined everything—because he doesn't know why this happened, or what might happen if he allowed himself to dwell on it deeper.
He retreats to safer territory. Nips it in the bud.
Just as his mother wanted him to.