Maybe Say It

“Pio…” His name was barely a whisper. So faint that Kang Pio almost missed it beneath the restless howling of the wind. He immediately leaned closer, tightening his hold on the trembling hand resting in his own. “I'm here.” Choi Jeongyo lay beneath the pale blankets, his face almost colorless in the flickering candlelight. A thin sheen of perspiration clung to his forehead, and every breath seemed to require more strength than the last. Pio watched the faint rise and fall of his chest. Once. Twice. He found himself waiting for the third. Beyond the paper windows, the wind howled through the courtyard, rattling the wooden frames as though winter itself were demanding entrance. “Don't close your eyes,” Pio whispered. His thumb moved gently across Jeongyo's knuckles. “Look at me.” Jeongyo struggled to keep his eyes open. Then, with what little strength remained, he tried to smile. “You're… being noisy again.” Under any other circumstances, Pio would have argued. He would have reminded Jeongyo that he was the one who always complained about the smallest things. Instead, he forced himself to answer. “Then complain about it tomorrow.” Pio's voice broke. “Complain all you want. I'll listen.” Jeongyo's fingers moved faintly against his palm. The movement was so slight that Pio nearly mistook it for his own trembling. For a moment, Jeongyo's gaze drifted toward the corner of the room. There, beneath a folded cloth, rested the gayageum he could no longer play. Its strings had remained untouched for days. “Pio…” “Yes?” “Do you remember… our unfinished song?” Pio swallowed. “Of course.” “The second melody…” Jeongyo paused. His breathing grew uneven, and Pio instinctively leaned forward, waiting through the silence until Jeongyo found enough strength to continue. “You always played it too quickly.” A broken laugh escaped Pio. Even now. Even like this. Jeongyo still remembered something so terribly ordinary. “Then correct me tomorrow.” He tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth trembled. “I'll play it as slowly as you want.” Jeongyo looked at him. His eyes were wet. For several heartbeats, neither spoke. Pio could hear the faint crackling of the candle beside them. And Jeongyo's breathing. He had never imagined that a sound so familiar could become something he feared losing. “Promise me something.” Pio shook his head. “Not now.” He knew that tone. The quiet seriousness beneath Jeongyo's weakened voice. He did not want to hear what might follow. “Please.” The room seemed to grow unbearably quiet. Pio tightened his grip, as though the warmth of his own hands could somehow keep Jeongyo beside him. Jeongyo's voice trembled. “Whatever happens… don't let our song end here.” For a moment, Pio could only stare at him. Then he bent his head over their joined hands. “Then stay and finish it with me.” His voice was barely steady. “Jeongyo… please.” Jeongyo did not answer. Pio waited. He watched Jeongyo's face, searching for the smallest movement, the faintest sign that he had heard him. Somewhere outside, the first bell of dawn began to ring. And for the first time in his life, Kang Pio was afraid of hearing another note. #JeongpioAU #Jeongpio #FourHandsTwoSonatas