Work Text:
The children sang the last part of the choir piece exactly as Jeongyo had instructed them to.
He kept his eyes on them as they reached the final notes, listening carefully to each section until the last voice faded into silence.
"Skvělá práce, děti." [Good job, everyone.]
He was proud of them, proud of how much better they had become. Of course, some of them were better than others. Some could follow the melody almost perfectly, while others still struggled with their timing or occasionally forgot when they were supposed to come in. But that didn't matter.
What mattered was that they had improved.
Compared to the first time they had practised together, the difference was enormous.
"Ještě trošku a budete moct vystoupit na koncertě." [With a little more practice, you'll be good enough to perform at the concert.]
That immediately earned him a few excited smiles.
Jeongyo knew that some of them were especially eager to perform because they wanted to show off to their parents. They had already asked him several times when they would finally be allowed onstage.
"Tak, alty teď chvilku počkají a já prosím soprány." [Alright, the altos can take a short break, and I'll have the sopranos now.]
There was no response.
Jeongyo waited.
Usually, at least one child would immediately move into position, while another would complain about wanting a break too.
But this time, nothing happened.
Jeongyo was confused.
Then he noticed that the children weren't paying attention to him anymore.
That wasn't exactly unusual. He knew that children could lose focus after practising for a while, especially when they were tired. But this was different.
They weren't whispering to each other or playing around.
They were staring at something.
Or rather, someone.
Someone standing behind him.
Jeongyo slowly turned around Aad froze.
For several seconds, he couldn't breathe.
There was someone standing in the hall.
Someone Jeongyo had never expected to see again.
Pio.
The light coming through the windows caught his face, illuminating features Jeongyo remembered far too well. Pio was smiling at him, that familiar smile pulling one corner of his mouth slightly higher than the other.
Jeongyo felt his own lips curve upward before he could stop himself.
For one impossible moment, nothing else existed.
Pio was smiling at him.
And Jeongyo was smiling back.
Pio had found him, again.
Suddenly, they were seventeen again.
There was no Prague. No separation. No pain. No years between them.
They were seventeen, smiling at each other as though simply seeing the other person was enough to make everything right with the world.
For one long moment, Jeongyo allowed himself to stay there.
Then reality returned.
They weren't seventeen anymore.
Too much had happened since then.
Jeongyo hadn't expected to ever see Pio again.
Why would he?
Pio didn't belong to him. He had never belonged to him.
And after all the pain Jeongyo had put him through, perhaps it was better that way.
His smile weakened slightly as his gaze travelled over Pio.
There was a bag hanging over Pio's shoulder. He looked as though he had travelled rather than simply walked in from somewhere nearby.
Then Jeongyo noticed something else.
There was another person against Pio's body.
At first, his mind couldn't quite understand what he was looking at. Most of the small figure was hidden beneath Pio's coat, strapped securely against his chest.
Then the little figure moved.
Jeongyo's breath caught.
That wasn't another bag.
That was—A child.
A living, breathing child.
A baby.
No, not quite a baby.
A toddler.
Jeongyo stared. Pio's eyes were shining now, tears gathering in them, but somehow he was still smiling.
"Pane učiteli, můžeme už jít?" [Teacher, can we go now?]
Jeongyo startled at Eliška's voice.
For a moment, he had completely forgotten that his students were still there. He turned toward them almost mechanically.
"Ano, můžete." [Yes, you can.]
That was apparently all the permission they needed.
The children quickly gathered their things, several of them looking between their teacher and the strange man standing with obvious curiosity. One by one, they disappeared from the room until the last child closed the door behind them.
And then there were only three of them.
Jeongyo.
Pio.
And the child strapped against Pio's chest. Jeongyo could feel tears burning behind his eyes.
The child looked about two years old.
His mind was racing, desperately trying to understand why Pio was here, why he had come all this way, and who the child was.
"Jeongyo."
Pio was the one who finally broke the silence.
His voice hadn't changed.
Or perhaps it had, but Jeongyo still recognised it instantly.
Pio's smile grew.
"I found you."
That nearly broke him.
Jeongyo could feel his vision beginning to blur.
"Pio..."
He didn't know what else to say. What was he supposed to say? Why are you here? How did you find me? Why did you come? Who is the child?
Are you happy, did you miss me, do you hate me?
Jeongyo had learned something during the years they had spent apart.
Doubting the person closest to him—the person he loved more than anyone else—had been wrong.
He had hurt Pio because of it.
And now Pio was standing in front of him again.
Jeongyo must have already started crying because Pio's expression softened and he walked closer.
Jeongyo didn't move, he couldn't.
Pio stopped directly in front of him and lifted one hand.
His palm settled softly against Jeongyo's right cheek.
Warm.
Real.
Pio was really here.
Tears were building in Pio's eyes too, yet that smile remained.
"Jeongyo," Pio whispered, "meet your son."
For a second, Jeongyo didn't understand the words.
His son.
His—Oh.
Oh, damn it.
He was crying.
Actually crying.
Not merely a few tears escaping his eyes. Jeongyo was crying like a child, his shoulders trembling as he stared between Pio and the little figure pressed against his chest.
"P-Pio..."
God, he was pathetic.
Pio gave a small, tearful laugh.
Carefully, he pulled his coat aside so that Jeongyo could properly see the toddler strapped against him.
The movement disturbed the sleeping child.
A tiny face scrunched up.
The toddler blinked several times before slowly opening his eyes.
He looked confused.
Then pouty, very pouty.
Jeongyo almost laughed through his tears.
The journey must have been exhausting for him. A child that young probably wasn't used to travelling such a long distance, especially somewhere completely unfamiliar.
But Jeongyo barely had time to think about that.
Because then the toddler looked directly at him.
Jeongyo stopped breathing.
Those eyes.
He knew those eyes.
Brownish eyes.
His eyes.
If his mother were standing here right now, she would probably take one look at the child and immediately tell him how much they resembled each other.
Jeongyo's gaze moved over the toddler's face again. There were pieces of Pio there too.
The dark black hair was unmistakably Pio's.
But there were pieces of Jeongyo as well.
A mixture.
A combination of the two of them.
Their child.
Their actual child.
Jeongyo cried even harder.
Pio immediately wrapped one arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer while still supporting the toddler against his chest.
"His name is Yeonwoo," Pio told him softly.
As if hearing his name was the final insult after being awakened from a perfectly good nap, Yeonwoo's face crumpled.
A second later, he began crying too.
Jeongyo stared at him in horror.
That only made him cry harder.
"Oh no. No, no, don't cry—"
Which was a ridiculous thing for Jeongyo to say considering he was sobbing himself.
Pio looked between the two of them.
His love of life—or whatever Jeongyo was to him now—was crying.
His son was crying.
And somehow Pio had to deal with both.
"Great," Pio muttered, although there was unmistakable affection in his voice.
He tried to calm Yeonwoo first, rubbing his back and whispering softly to him. At the same time, he kept one arm around Jeongyo as though afraid Jeongyo might fall apart completely if he let go.
It took a while.
Somehow, Pio managed it.
Eventually, both father and son stopped crying.
Mostly.
Jeongyo was still sniffling embarrassingly, and Yeonwoo occasionally made a tiny unhappy sound as he settled back against Pio.
Both of them earned several kisses from Pio for their trouble.
Jeongyo couldn't stop looking at the child.
Their son.
Yeonwoo.
Dark black hair like Pio.
Brownish eyes like Jeongyo.
A mixture of both of them despite everything that had happened.
Despite the pain, despite the years, despite everything that had torn them apart.
There was an actual child between them.
A little human being who existed because of them.
"I'm so sorry," Jeongyo whispered.
Pio looked at him.
Jeongyo lowered his eyes. He was sorry for everything.
For hurting Pio, for doubting him, for putting him through humiliation and pain when Pio had done nothing wrong, for wanting more from him and then convincing himself that wanting Pio was selfish.
For leaving because he had believed that disappearing from Pio's life was somehow the kinder choice.
Because he hadn't wanted to hurt Pio anymore.
Because he hadn't wanted to become the reason Pio stopped playing the piano.
Because he had believed Pio would be better without him.
And all that time, that time—Pio had been carrying their child.
"What are you sorry for?"
Jeongyo looked up. There was a familiar mischievous glint in Pio's eyes now.
Pio pointed toward Yeonwoo.
"I'd say you did a good job."
Jeongyo stared at him.
Then his face went red.
"Pio!"
Pio laughed.
Yeonwoo looked between them, clearly confused by whatever strange conversation the adults were having, but at least he wasn't crying anymore.
Jeongyo wiped his face with the back of his hand, although it did very little to hide the evidence of his breakdown.
Pio's expression softened again.
Then he stepped closer.
"A warning," Pio said.
Jeongyo looked at him.
"I'm not leaving."
Before Jeongyo could answer, Pio leaned forward and brushed a kiss across his lips.
It was soft.
Brief.
Almost cautious.
Yet it was enough to make Jeongyo feel like a sinner all over again.
His hands moved before his mind could stop them, wrapping around Pio carefully, mindful of Yeonwoo between them.
Pio had kissed him first.
So Jeongyo kissed him again.
This time, it wasn't merely a brush of lips.
Years of longing, regret, guilt, and love crashed together in that single moment.
Pio's hand slipped behind Jeongyo's neck. Jeongyo held him tighter.
For the first time in years, Pio was in his arms again.
And this time, Pio had told him he wasn't leaving.
It probably took them nearly a minute to finally pull apart.
And even then, it wasn't because either of them particularly wanted to stop.
A small, increasingly annoyed noise came from between them.
Jeongyo froze.
Pio looked down.
Yeonwoo was staring at them.
His expression made his opinion very clear, his parents were paying far too much attention to each other and nowhere near enough attention to him.
Another complaining noise escaped him.
Pio laughed.
"Someone's jealous."
Jeongyo stared at his son.
His son, he still couldn't quite believe those words belonged to him.
Tentatively, Jeongyo reached toward him.
Yeonwoo watched the approaching hand suspiciously.
Jeongyo stopped before touching him, suddenly afraid.
What if Yeonwoo didn't like him?
What if he cried again?
What if—
Pio noticed his hesitation.
"It's okay," he whispered.
Jeongyo looked at him.
Pio smiled.
"He doesn't know you yet."
Yet, such a small word.
But Jeongyo understood what Pio was giving him with it.
Time.
A future.
The chance to become someone Yeonwoo would know.
Slowly, Jeongyo let one finger touch Yeonwoo's tiny hand.
The toddler stared at it for a second, then his fingers curled around Jeongyo's finger.
Jeongyo's eyes immediately filled with tears again.
Pio groaned.
"Oh, no. Don't start again."
Jeongyo laughed through his tears.
He couldn't help it. Maybe he really had been a saint in his past life. There was no other explanation for how someone like him could deserve Pio.
How he could deserve Pio finding him after everything.
How he could deserve Pio coming all this way just to stand in front of him again.
And most of all, how he could possibly deserve the adorable little boy holding tightly onto his finger.
Their son.
Yeonwoo.