We’ve freed each other and we laid claim.

“We’ve been to the top, we’ve been to the bottom,

We’ve known everything and forgotten,

You’ve kicked me around, you’ve wrapped me in cotton,

You’ve carried our load, and you’ve shot ‘em,

Oh yes, the butterflies are still there.”

—Sia, Butterflies. 

---

His fingers hover above the piano keys. Yoon Eun-ho inhales a deep breath. Keeps his eyes closed, while mustering all the notes imprinted in his brain. One, two and three.  

Slow, as though the beat stirs from slump, takes its first breath of air and his fingers dances around the keys, calm. Languid. And within him, emotions stretches its legs. Bracing the calm before the storm.

It shifts to a dark beat, into the despair, with few light notes of bright ray sun, on a bleak icy evening. With a few tangs that jumps to his ears, above the soft rhythm.

Deeper, louder bass. Sombre spreads to his entire being, despair festering, and leaks to every pore of his body. An emptiness sits on the edge of his finger pads. It wouldn’t leave, even as he sinks deeper into losing his mind – and soul - to the muscle memory.  

The soft tinges so fleeting, swallowed by the deeper, richer bass. Rinse, lather and repeat. It hits all right notes, pitches and tempo. And yet he finds it lacking.

The melody descends, into a desolate thrill that stirs misery into action, to flee his being. The beat slows down, to a lulling tranquil rhythm. Before it rises up, withering music ascents from the deep depths of despondency. It drops again, to that steady of playful tone with a hint of resignation. Peace engulfs him as he carries the final note.

Only brief peace. Not the peace he seeks before his hands lay on the black and white keys.

And he lightly releases his fingers from the keys.  

Even breaths echo within the room. He’s not alone. He opens his eyes, leisure in his movement to turn around. The end of his lips quirking upwards.

Straight silky hair resembles the bleakest of nights where stars hide and the moon’s nowhere to be seen. Pale pink lips – he remembers of a time where bright red lined those sensuous lips – pursed in thought. Doe-like eyes that narrows at him. Short pants that stops above her thighs. Weathered baseball tee clings to her athletic body.   

Leaning against the door frame, Yoo Da-mi’s lips twisting into a frown. “You’re almost there,” is all she says. Offer no more.

“That’s not constructive criticism,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

She sighs. “You’re perfect, technical wise. But there’s something that I can’t elaborate.”

“Try me.”

She taps her chin, eyes gazing up to the ceiling, “Empty. That’s the only word I can think of.”

He chuckles. “If you’re not here to provide me with construe criticism, then what?” Eun-ho ponders, runs his fingers through his unkempt hair.

“I thought I should drop by—” Da-mi twists the end of her lips upwards, “—just to check on you. You may be a prodigy in piano, but someone has to tell it like it is to you,” she reassures, knowingly.

“So you’ve heard that I got a solo for next month’s performance.”

She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t need to. A faint smile, a slight tilt of her head – says it all.

He comes to his feet, heads for her spot. Her back against the door frame. He presses a hand against the wall, next to her face. His nose catches a whiff of orange shampoo she often uses. A tinge of body mist lingers in the air. One that always breeds covetousness within his heart.

He wets his upper lip, whispers into the shell of her ear, “Will you come next month? You already missed three shows,” he punctuates with an emphasis. He arches a brow, lips bearing a smirk.

“Maybe,” she whistles. Lifts her eyes dark brown now underneath the dim light of his study, at him. There’s a mischievous twinkle in those eyes, reflecting his own image. God, he would do anything to taste—his musing cut short.

“Why must I be there?” Da-mi lets the question hang in the air, ducks beneath his outstretched arm. Escapes from his study into his living room. She navigates her way on the mahogany floorboard. Barefoot. With ease.

He follows her, settles himself on his leather couch. Props his feet on the coffee table, folds his arms behind his head. In front of him, she goes through his cabinet. Produces a pan, a spatula, two plates and two eggs.

“It’s high time for you to get someone to watch your performance,” she explains. One pale hand cracks the eggs expertly, against the marbled countertop. She cuts a slice of butter into the pan and heats the pan.

“Why can’t you do it? You’re my harshest and best critic,” he springs adulation and insults altogether.

She doesn’t turn around to spare him a glance. But he could already imagine her long brows knit above her forehead. “You know I’m a little swamped with my work at conservatory,” she counters.

“Get someone else,” she voices, “maybe a girlfriend.” She motions at him to come closer. Scoops the sizzling omelette and halves the omelette onto separate plates.

“All the girls in the orchestra are taken,” he grumbles, jerks the plate closer to him.

“That’s what you always say. Why don’t you try dating a fan then? Or anyone?” Da-mi sticks a forkful of omelette into .

“What?” he croaks, with his mouth full. His eyes widens, one eye twitches at her mentioning the D-word. He doesn’t even need to waste a breath to answer, instead he parrots the question back at her.

“There are a few.”

His blood throbbing, the veins on his neck pops against his pale skin. He chews his lips slow. His mind jumping ahead to multiple men, all filed in a line, waiting for her decision. None of them could measure up to her standards. It’s been that way for so long. Eun-ho knows it. His heart races few beats. His knuckles, white. From gripping his fork too hard.

“Not all of them are dating material,” she sighs. A pleased grin snakes its way to his face.   

“There’s this one guy who keeps on leaving me gifts at my office, like a cat leaving—” Her phone chimes, interrupting their conversation. She quickly picks her phone up, a finger raised to tell him to shut up. Her lips mouth the airless words, ‘I need to pick up this call. It’s work.’

When her phone call ends, she returns to the dining room. He rinses his plate at the sink. “I can’t wait for you. Rehearsal’s in an hour,” he says, filling a glass of water and settles it by her side.

“Come closer,” she commands, and he obeys. She fixes his collar for him. As she always does.  

“Make yourself at home,” he says, out of habit. She snickers. And Eun-ho closes the door behind him. 

---

He plays a few notes. A simple piece to start today’s practice. His fingers move in a rapid fire, over the white and black keys.

“Tcherepnin, isn’t it?” quips a breathy voice, pride oozes with each word spoken. First chair violinist Lee Ji-ah, always eager having the first word into his practice.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, a smile grazes his lips. It’s until he completes this piece, draws his hands back and props his elbows against the side arm, he sets his sight on his audience of four. And he nods.

“So, which is it?” queries the newest addition to the team, oboist Lee Ji-eun. Her doe-like dark eyes barely blink. slacking open.

Ahn So-hee, the violist, chimes in, “It’s Bagatelles, for sure.”

“No. 6?” Jo Se-eun, timpani player, helpfully supplies. The guessing game ends, with his silence.

Eun-ho smiles, “No. 5, actually.”

“I heard there’s a gig looking for an ensemble to play next weekend,” Ji-ah bats her eyelashes at him, “piano trio. You and I are fit. All we need is a cellist. Dae-gil can join. We’re complete for the gig.”

“That won’t do,” he replies, keeps his smile easy and friendly.

So-hee snickers. Ji-eun covers , he could easily imagine a smirk hiding beneath that hand. Se-eun’s oblivious to the implication in Ji-ah’s words.

“Why not?” Ji-ah huffs.

“The man’s not available, Ji-ah. That’s clear.”

“You’re dating?” So-hee squeaks, in surprise.

He shakes his head, amused. “Yes, I am.”

“Who?” they ask simultaneously. Then look at each other with utter embarrassment.

“My piano, of course,” he grins. They break into shrill laughter, which ends abruptly. The familiar click of loafers echoes within the narrow hallway connecting the auditorium to the lobby. The orchestra maestro’s deep voice travels ahead of his appearance.

They – men and women, young and old - fall back into three lines. Separated by their instruments. Hands behind their backs.

In strolls a man with his face known only one expression; stoicism. And yet there’s something different about him today. His lips twitching between two emotions that Eun-ho bets on being; giddy and annoyance. He marches up to his conductor’s podium.

Kang Gun-woo scans them, with a severe scrutinising glare. “Before we start, let’s us say a quick prayer to the orchestra gods for this fortuitous day,” his bass-like voice reverberates. A stark contrast to the bright sweatpants he puts on.

They exchange weird looks among themselves. But pretend to offer some prayers anyway. When the maestro demands offerings to the orchestra gods, it’s their duty to fulfil them with ominous chanting.

“Today, we are blessed with good fortune,” the maestro announces, “the talented Eo Soo-sun will be joining us for a limited one night showcase next month, please welcome her.”

She joins him at the podium. Her hair, dyed brown in a bob cut. On her face, bangs and Tyler Oakley’s glasses obscure most of her features. But his upper lip curls into a knowing grin anyhow. She’s decked in semi-casual look of loose Giordano blouse, baggy and ripped denim jeans and a choker. An ensemble that Yoo Da-mi would never be caught dead with. But Eo Soo-sun can live with.

They break out into thundering claps. The claps halt, abrupt as Maestro Kang raises up one hand.

She thanks them for the opportunity to play with the best philharmonic orchestra of the year. Nasally, of course. It doesn’t surprise anyone that Maestro Kang requests – though the word ‘request’ might be too generous – a display of her talents.

Her eyes shifts from one instrument to another. Unable to settle on a singular instrument. She’d probably could outperformed each and every one of them in their instruments. Even Eun-ho himself. The prodigy of the musical genius Yoon In-gun.

“Try the piano,” Eun-ho suggests.

“Ah, yes. The piano will do,” Soo-sun agrees. She paces towards the piano at the far end of the stage. All eyes on her.

She executes Adagio’s Sonata, No. 3 Opus 2 in C major. The same piece Eun-ho remembers performing for an audience of one. In the comfort of his study. Unlike his, hers is flawless. His body shudders on the chills alone.

When she’s done, Soo-sun bows to her awed audience. Profusely humble, for the opportunity. Oh what a show, indeed.

“Excellent,” Maestro Kang breaks the silence. He sets his hardened gaze at them. “Now that she shown what true genius is like, it’s time we return the favour with what hard-work can bring us.”

They flock to their instruments and begin playing. Unified, as of an orchestra group of their name and calibre, to produce the best music she’s to witness. He hopes she’s not disappointed. 

---

He blows a thin coat of dust over the pot’s lid. Then inhales the dusty air by accident. Eun-ho hacks a cough. He furiously rubs a white rag cloth over the lid, to clean the dust.

All the while, Da-mi perches over the stool. Her glasses sliding down her nose. And she chuckles.

“We could always have take-out,” she quips, returning her gaze to her Macbook air.

“No, you’re a guest,” he snaps, slamming the lid against the boiling pot, “and we’re going to get a home-cooked meal.”

“As you wish.”

He shrugs. And sighs loudly. “It’s almost done. Carbonara lasagne.”

“With capsicum?”

He nods. Points a finger at the cabinet behind him. She jumps out from the stool to her feet. Gathers the plates, utensils and sets the table for them two.

It’s no candle-light dinner. Not by a huge margin. But he likes to think with the candles he found underneath the kitchen sink and those ludicrously-priced paintings hung on his wall, his kitchen-dining could pass off as the interior of a modern European café.

Never mind the fact that Da-mi longs for greasy dinners, fluorescent lights, and frightening mascots lurking at the corners of the restaurants. He would give an arm to grant that. Just not here. Not in Seoul. Where loitering eyes waiting to seize their weakness and release scandals.

So, no. They don’t leave his apartment. He wears white tee, khaki pants and with bunny slippers. She favours her baseball jersey, extremely short shorts, and barefoot.

They’re sitting across from each other. They eat. Until her plate’s all clean. Capsicum included. His too. He drowns his wine glass empty.

She crosses her long legs, one hand twirling the wine-glass. She sniffs the wine’s scent. “Don’t you have soju in the fridge?”

“Didn’t have the time to restock.” He steeples his fingers together, “What’s wrong now? Stressed by your work at the conservatory?”

“The board forced me to take a two-month vacation. To use up my backlog vacation,” she answers, and sips.

“Oh, is that so?”

“Uh huh,” she answers. “They claimed I’m too workaholic. The board doesn’t want to pay up the overtime.”

“Sounds exactly like the board would do,” he pauses, tastes the wooden spatula, “Instead of playing some orchestra in Europe. You chose mine.”

“Well, yeah. You said it yourself that we hardly see each other, unless it’s that monthly gathering at the hotel. And I came here to offer that criticism you desperately craves for.”

“You make it sound like you rather have me in Europe.”

He sighs. “I didn’t say that. You put those words into my mouth.”

“It is implied.”

Da-mi pushes her chair backwards, stands up. She dumps her plate and glass into the sink. Her feet brings her to his study. He does the same. Then walks to his study.

She’s seated at the piano’s bench. Fingers splayed over the keys, resting on it. “So, the maestro just emailed us the set list.”

“What is it? Piano trio? How many?”

“Just two. Beethoven’s. D-major trio Op. 70, ‘Ghost’ and E-flat major trio Op. 70, ‘Archduke’,” she clarifies. Reaching into her briefcase, next to the piano, Da-mi plucks out her binder of music sheets. Yellowing paper, with scribbles all over its margins. She sets the music sheets on the music rack hinge.

He groans. “Damn. I haven’t played those two in ages. Who’s our cellist?”

“Baek Dae-gil,” she pauses, then turns around to sneak a glimpse, “Is he good?”

“He’s first chair cellist,” he answers, cheeky grin sits on his lips, “but not good as you.”

He slides next to her, his legs bumping into hers. Skin kissing skin, icicles-like, sends hairs on his legs standing straight. He makes no effort to pull his leg away.

He goes over the music sheet once. The paper, flimsy in between his fingers, he scans it once. “Remember, it was his favourite exercise to have us play piano trio pieces, randomly assigning us different musical instruments,” he mutters, a smirk tugging his lips. “One minute, I’m on piano, the next I’m the cellist.”

A melodic laugh escapes from , “Yes, he did.” She murmurs, “You didn’t play the piano parts for both.”

“There’s a first for everything,” he grins. He takes another minute to get his bearing straight. Brings the musical notes to the core of his brain. Closes his eyes. Exhales.

Eun-ho flexes his fingers twice. Off his hands go, flying across the keys of piano. As if he’s merely typing words, word by word, in lightning speed. Then the beats drops to slow rhythm. He’s about half-way done with the piece, when the realisation sinks in. The piano part, he doesn’t recall, resembling anything that he’s playing.

He peeks an eye open. Da-mi’s grin widens, she chews her under lip slowly.

“When were you going to tell me?” Eun-ho scornfully replies, “That I was playing the violin part.”

“I knew you would come around,” she teases, “eventually.”

“Who played the piano part? I don’t remember, was it Eun-ha?”

Da-mi nods. “Yes, she played piano for both. I was the cellist.”

“And me, the violinist,” he finishes.

“But you’re lucky that the few last months, we were heavy on Beethoven and the piano trio, to be exact.”

“Lead the way, then.”

Her fingers, slim and long, rest on the piano keys. She’s pressed her body close to his. Her lavender body wash fills his nostrils. Warmth radiating from where their skin touches, unlike her icy feet. “Put your hand on top of mine, every finger down to the pinkie,” Da-mi instructs.

She doesn’t count. Not loudly. Instead makes soundless air, as she mouths, ‘One, two and three’ –instinct denotes the moment she moves her fingers. He allows his own hands to be led by her. Allowing her to take control. Whereas he never allows anyone to touch him as he’s in control of the piano.

When they hit that final note, he looks at her. Only a brow arches up at her. Then tries once more. To play the part he messed up earlier on. 

“I’ve done this method so many times,” she continues, “it’s proven to work.”

He snaps his gaze at her, jerking his hands away. His forehead creases, with a frown twisting on his lips. If she’s surprised by his reaction, she doesn’t show it.

“How many students?” Eun-ho asks, two pitches higher than his usual. Too quickly for his taste, as well.

She purses her lips, shoving her face closer to his. His eyes travel to her lips. He wets his upper lip. Gulping his saliva down, his eyes blink. Rapid and so are his heartbeats. If he just lean a little lower. And he could taste the cherry lip balm she reapplied minutes ago.  

“13,” she retorts. His eyes hardens, his jaw tightens. “One boy and twelve girls.”

Her eyes flicker to his lips too. The end of her lips quirking upwards. A knowing smile that doesn’t quite reach up to her eyes. And she inclines her face and body far from him. Breaks their charged moment, with a glance tossed at the study’s room.

“I’ll fix us some supper,” is all she says. Nothing more. And her hips sashays. Until it fades from his vision, and he shifts his eyes to the music sheet. He sighs. And memorise his parts. 

(It’s always her choice to pull away). 

---

“Where is he?” Maestro Kang bellows, dapping his handkerchief over his forehead. His eyes bear that maniacal glint he often get before every show. Anyone within five feet flinch at his outburst. The air thick with tension. That one could choke on it.

Maestro Kang’s face reddens, a shade that evokes the comparison to a tomato. Oddly, one outburst so far. Not the usual three. “Where’s Baek Dae-gil?” he snaps, with fury in his eyes. No one dares to reply him. Nonetheless, they know the answer all the same. Dae-gil’s stuck in traffic.

“We’re about to start the piano trio in fifteen minutes,” Maestro Kang hisses, emphasises on the word ‘piano trio’, glancing at Eo Soo-sun’s direction. The older man flashes a strained smile, to Da-mi’s indifference.

“If I get my hands on that boy,” Maestro Kang spits, choking the empty air with two hands.

Soo-sun scrutinises her violin, her face bear none of the manic panic seeping into each of them. Instead, she clucks her tongue at the violin.

“I expected you to take care of the Snow better,” she says, lifting her gaze at him.

He shrugs. With Maestro Kang attracting every attention, curious eyes are not on Soo-sun. And he’s free to talk to her, as Da-mi. He stops himself from running a hand through his hair, the end of his lips curve upwards—barely.

“Your violin caring skills need more work,” she whispers. He doesn’t turn to her in response. Keeps his eyes on the ceiling, “My specialty is the piano.”

“Five!” Maestro Kang throws his hands up in the air, then slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand. Repeatedly. That two heavy-set men, a middle-aged oboist and a greying-haired contrabass player, has to restrain him. From poking his eyes out.

“We’re ing doomed,” Maestro Kang wails into his hands, his calm demeanour melted to give away for the nervous-wrecked conductor he is.

“Dae-gil’s still about ten minutes away,” So-hee offers. Which adds nothing to ease Maestro Kang’s contorted grimace.

It’s never a problem if the piano trio was a piano—wait. They need more time. Dae-gil’s nearby. They don’t have the time to wait for him. But if there’s a duet precedes their piano trio performance. He rushes up to the coordinator, whispers his suggestion.

Soo-sun places her violin back into her case. Walks up to him, queries in low, harsh whisper, “What do you have in mind?”

“Do you trust me?”

She scoffs. With a smile that says otherwise. It’s the only response he needs.

“There have been a slight change. We’ll start with W. A. Mozart – KV381 (123a), with Yoon Eun-ho and Eo Soo-sun.”

“Just like old times, eh?”

“Just like old times,” he parrots back, offer an arm. She hooks her arm around his. Their steps fall in unison, as they climb to the stage. Her burgundy dress sweeping the floor, matches his maroon vest tucked beneath his black tuxedo.

Soo-sun sits first. He slides next to her. Just like they practiced underneath the stern eyes of Yoon In-gun, with his wavy hair still black—not the salt and pepper he’s known to have now, they begin to play.

They haven’t touch this piece in years. It’s their song. But tonight, they perform for an audience. The public. Among the vast musical repertoire they built over the years, this particular music piece is one they don’t perform beyond the walls in which their sole company is each other.

The first musical note rings across the auditorium. The second. And the third. Eun-ho no longer finds himself facing an audience of hundreds, but pitch black engulfs his senses, coating him with a vague sense of familiarity. He’s still playing the piano. He still feels the warmth radiating from Soo-sun.

Nonetheless, flashes of blurry images haunt him with each piano key his fingers press.

Pictures of grand palace of a fallen civilisation, of antiquated speech only historical dramas used, of Hanja that Eun-ho couldn’t read but knows the meaning of each and letter. A face replaces the shifting images.

Not just a face. A body too. Hanbok adorns her body, layers of regal colours bring out the dark brown eyes of hers. A smile, dimple, and dangerous. Sits on red lips that he remembers – once upon a time – him devouring hungrily. It’s not the face of his piano partner.  

In spite that, he knows her. This mysterious woman. Like the back of his hand. She’s grace and elegance. She’s danger and cunning. She’s all of that, and so much more.

But all the same, his heart beats swift, as though he races a thousand horses as her fingertips grazes a thin line marked on his face.

But—Eun-ho bears no scars. His body’s blank as a fresh white paper. Never there is a time where scars – jagged, puckered, and twisted flesh - were part of his skin. This is not his skin. This is—

His train of thoughts comes to a grinding halt. The images fade. Loses their colours. It feels nothing more than a distance memory. Of a different life. He muses. Then he doesn’t. And he wonders if he’s the only one experiences this turbulence.  

It’s when his fingers stop, and the thundering adulation reverberates within the auditorium that he’s aware of his surroundings. Eun-ho looks up from the piano keys. Casts a sweeping gaze. At Soo-sun. At audience. He’s Yoon Eun-ho.

He stands. Bows down to the audience. Beside him, Soo-sun does the same.

When they return to the backstage, Dae-gil furiously wipes the tears off his face, spilling apologies. Eun-ho smiles. Maybe Soo-sun could get Maestro Kang to reconsider. Makes a mental note to himself—only if Dae-gil proves himself during their piano trio. 

---

Maestro Kang no longer supports that murderous glint in his eyes. Good news for Dae-gil and the rest of them. Not so much for his nails. The night moves smoothly, without any hitches. Once Dae-gil joins them for the piano trio performance.

Eun-ho worries a second, for Dae-gil’s nerves get the best of him. It happens during the rehearsal every week. Dae-gil keeps his anxiety in check, and Soo-sun spares the cellist a reassured smile once or twice during their short interlude.   

Soo-sun gets her own time to shine, in which she completely owns Bartok Solo Violin Sonata.

(Eun-ho never doubts her. Despite her claims of being a rusty violinist.)

His solo closes the night. With Chopin-Godowsky, Etude No. 1. Again, he repeats the final bow. Alone. Then, together with the rest of Philharmonic Orchestra. The red curtain drops low. They stalk off to different directions, totting their instrument cases along.

There are talks of late-night celebration. Maesto Kang’s treat. Eun-ho shakes his head. Declines the offer. “I will join you for the next,” he murmurs, his lips curls into a friendly smile. Quite frankly, tonight’s draining enough. With him pulling the piano parts in ‘Ghost’ and ‘Archduke’, to the ears of many, it would sound gorgeous. But he has heard a better rendition.

He waits. Waves at the leaving crowd. It’s only five of them left. That’s when he slips past them, enters the room with Eo Soo-sun’s name pasted on the door.

The room’s barely lit. A single halogen light bulb hanging in the middle of the room. The rectangle vanity mirror has side lights enough for a person to apply red lipstick before ruining the rest of the make-up ensemble. Casting shadows over the other part of the room.

And yet, his eyes catch the outlines of her shoulders, exposed. He closes the distance between him and the vanity mirror, clicks the switch off. The room’s eaten by the shadows.

A teasing smirk tugging the end of his lips.

He paces around the room. Peers close to the cracked paint on the brick walls. “You could ask for a better room, not this dump.”

She doesn’t spare him a look. She stares into her reflection. “It’s secluded,” she answers, tersely. Taking her Oakley’s glasses, she pinches the bridge of her nose.

The thing about this room, it’s bare—furniture of an old couch. And the Snow fitted nicely in its case, sits on top of a wooden coffee table. Not what you expect for a renowned and multi-talented musician like her would choose to make her base for the last month.

But he’s not one to question her usually impeccably good taste.

Folding his arms, he tears his sight from the walls to her. He rolls out a word, two letters. “So?”

“It was amazing,” his ears are accustomed of hearing. But not her. Soo-sun arches a brow. Just ever so slightly. That arched brow. Conveys a thousand silent words he cherished deeply.

She clears , glances at her fingernails. “Not the best.”

Three words, she serves to him, wrapped with the gift wrapper composed of insults. Underneath that insult, lies her true intention; her genuine compliment.

“He would be so disappointed if he ever hear you play the piano parts for those two pieces,” she sneers.

“Justified, he never let me play the piano parts even when I wanted to,” he counters, flicks the light switch off.

Complete still darkness. A sigh escapes from her lips. “Stop with the childish games, you’re too old for this,” she says, into the dark room.

“Maybe I want to be a child tonight,” he retort, childish. Petulant. He takes one step forward. Each step, deliberate and slow. His nose guides him to the scent lavender perfume Soo-sun’s fond of.

Eun-ho stands behind her. His hands rest on her shoulders. Lifting his hands up, until his fingertips graze fine hairs. With practiced movement, the wig he removes. Sets it down on the vanity table. While his other free hand unpins her hair, the hair clips he slips them into his tux’s pocket.

Da-mi’s long wavy back falls onto her shoulders. Messy. He needs no light to remember her face. He a finger across her cheek. Her hand curls on his wrist. Presses a soft kiss on the inside of his wrist.

“This is not the time,” she whispers, “Or the place.”

He knows she rises to her feet. She moves to stand in front of him. Where there’s no chair to bar them from each other. That they’re inches away from each other.

“Just this once,” he pleads, “I won’t ask again.”

It’s dark. His eyes see nothing. But deep within him, he knows. She chews her lower lip, her head to a side. A frown sits on her forehead. A resigned sigh tumbles out from .

Her lips, strawberry-flavoured, brush against his. Light and teasing, the kiss is not. It’s hot, deep and passionate. Knocks the wind out from his lungs. She kisses him, like it’s the last kiss she’ll ever get. He kisses her, over and over, as if he’s a slave to addiction that is her.

Strobe lights dance across their exposed skins. Red and orange. Pulsating to the beat of his heart. Blue and purple, peeking out from her dress, glide pass her neck up to her cheeks.

Together, they’re lit like a play of stage lights. Blazing and dazzling to the rhythm of their hearts. Their kiss stretches, and he doesn’t keep the track of the time. She breaks the kiss.

Immediately the lights of amber orange and violet blue die. And the room is dark. Black again.

“That’s the last,” she says, a smirk snakes its way to her face. “No more.”

“Duly noted,” he nods. Eun-ho upturns his hand, offers his palm to her. “Ready to go home?”

“Let’s go,” Da-mi takes his hand, “A month of stuffy air is enough for me.”

---

They arrive at Eun-ho’s apartment, a little over two in the morning. She tosses her heels at the shoe rack, in the foyer. She hangs his tuxedo at the coat hanger. Eun-ho slips into his comfy bunny slippers. His vest and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“The show ended like three hours ago,” pipes a voice in the unlit living room, “What took you guys so long?”

Eun-ho’s hand flies to his mouth. A scream dies in his throat. Da-mi gasps in horror. Her grip on his arm, iron and crushing. Between them, they’re not screamers (unless they’re in bed). Eun-ho flips the switch on.

“When did you get here?” Eun-ho stammers. Once his heart drops back to its normal beats, “You all are the same,” he whines, “never call ahead.”

Yoon Eun-ha stifles a yawn. Stretches her long limbs. She’s sprawled over his couch. “Your place is closer than dad’s,” she answers, rubs her eyes twice.   

“You went to the show?” Da-mi plops herself on the armchair, facing Eun-ha.

Eun-ha shakes her head, “I had a busy schedule today. Couldn’t fit in your symphony,” and then directs her gaze at Da-mi, “You didn’t tell me that you’re joining him,” her tone, half-wounded, half-teasing.

“It was a spur of the moment,” Da-mi admits, then chuckles. “I just didn’t have the energy to fly to Germany on short notice.”

“If I knew earlier, I would have changed my schedule,” Eun-ha grumbles, “that way, it will a reunion of The Three Musketeers.”

“No one remembers The Three Musketeers anymore,” Eun-ho rebukes. Peals of laughter break in the room, and Eun-ho find himself smiling at the thought.

“Yeah, we were kids,” Eun-ha agrees.

“Plus, I was still performing under my real name,” Da-mi supplies.

“But I bet you, if I was there, my fans are obviously not going to miss the chance. And you know they’re enthusiastic bunch. So,” Eun-ha trails off. Another of laughter echoes against the walls.

Eun-ho heads quickly to his fridge and scoops three soju bottles, before hurrying back. He passes the soju bottles to Eun-ha and Da-mi. He settles back his spot on the floor, leaning against the armchair’s side.

They drink. They reminisce. It’s close to three-thirty. The soju bottles are empty, left on the coffee table. Eun-ha sits up, points a finger at Eun-ho, “Dad’s throwing a lunch party to celebrate the students’ performance for the Pope. He wants you to be there.”

Eun-ho groans.

“You can’t miss it this time,” Eun-ha reminds him. She shifts her gaze to Da-mi, “You too, Da-mi. Madam Lee misses you.”

Da-mi scratches her neck, “Mum personally said that?”

Eun-ha curtly nods, “You two are always missing from Sunday dinners. She’s beginning to suspect that Eun-ho has a girlfriend that he won’t divulge about. As for you, Madam Lee assures you that she will stop dad from playing a match-maker for you.”

Da-mi chortles. “Mum told Mister Yoon that?”

“Uh-huh, and it’s getting lonely without you two during dinners,” Eun-ha complains, adds before anyone has the chance to get a word in, “Seung-wan and Eun-haeng are high school kids with their own lives.”

“About Eun-chul?” Eun-ho asks.

“Or Sang-wook?” Da-mi questions.

“Eun-chul’s at Japan, he’s on loan to the university that the conservatory collaborating with. Sang-wook’s in China for the same purpose.”

They sigh simultaneously. “Okay, we’ll come.”

Eun-ha’s lips quirk upwards, almost splitting her face. “Great, I’m going to text them now.”

“And I need to sleep.”

“Me too.”

“You two are damn lucky that I just bought a double’s bed for the guest room,” Eun-ho murmurs, underneath his breath, as he waves them goodnight and retires to his own room.