Les Choristes

It was around 21:00 when they arrived. One sat on the couch of the backroom, completely isolated from the bustles of people trying to get to their seats. He sat soundly reading the score for everyone’s parts while his partner had lain onto his lap, cheek pressed to his thigh and softly breathing with steady snores. He gently pats his hair, as he always did.

“Monsieur Nam?”

He turns slowly, trying not to bother the male on his lap and glares at the intruder, a lone bell boy working in the concert hall. Looking timid and small, he sighed, calming his eyes which the other always told him made people scared of him. When the other has a horridly worse glower. 

“Yes?” he whispers, placing his palm over his partner’s head when he felt him rustle. “I told you lot I wanted no interruptions.”

“I understand, Monsieur, but there is a call about your mother,” the bell boy holds up a phone.

He blinks, looking back to his partner, who was already regarding him with bleary eyes. The other rises, his lap getting a cold waft to them after the warmth left. Nodding to the phone, he smiles; kissing the other’s cheek before heading to take the call.

*

Days later they are attending a funeral, for his mother. There are many people there to say their forgiveness and sorrow to him, but he doesn’t care. There is only one man standing beside him, at a distance so others have room to say their sorry and bow to him, back in their blood country of Korea.

He looks to the grave, his single calla lily and a normal lily stood in a tall thin glass vase above all the rest of the white roses people left.

Slurs of “I’m so sorry”, “She was a great woman” and “My greatest prayers” in both Korean and French, then other languages passed by him. Yet he just nodded. She was an old lady, beautiful and sweet. He had done what any son would have; bought her a house and lavished her with the blessings of food and only the best. She chose to live in Korea again. He had no qualms.

Walking back beside him, his partner reached to softly brush the back of his hand against him own. Cracking a small smile, even as the surroundings weren’t very fitting, he weaved his fingers to interlock with the other. Flashing a quick full smile to him and looking back to the grave.

“I liked her,” the other whispered with that voice, the voice that put them both together. “She always supported you, no matter how much of a douche you were.”

“Saying such things at a funeral,” he chuckles softly, gripping the hand tighter. “That’s exactly how she would have wanted it.”

“I owe her my utmost thanks,” his partner surprisingly fondly smiles at the grave as well, his eyes having that distant view clouding the irises again.

“Why so?” he muses, the people around them leaving quietly.

His small eyes sparkle, turning back to be in line with his own, “She was the one who put you there, who gave you life, who gave me a chance to meet you.”

“Aren’t I the one supposed to be nasty with cliché lines?”

“Not today, and you rub off on me.”

“As you do for me.”

They share a laugh.

*

He plays with the other’s hair as he falls asleep again. The soft dark honey strands of hair in between his fingers and puffs of breaths hitting his face. Smiling at the fast asleep face, he reaches to pull the covers over their bare bodies to fully bring warmth to them. The other gets cold fast and the patter of rain hitting the window was another thing to come by.

A doorbell echoes into the home, his mother’s home. Well, it’s technically his and will now forever be his unless he chooses to sell it. It is then covered by the sound of their fireplace, flickering, and the rain that tumbles down the windows relentlessly. Grunting, he slips out from the covers and grabs some lone briefs to cover his bottoms. Turning around for a fluffy cotton robe as he sees his partner moving his hand with furrowed brows trying to find him and his warmth again. He smiles, leaning over to kiss his temple and briskly walk away when he sees bleary eyes.

His steps were muffled by the puffy slippers on his feet. Going down the spiral staircase with ease and sliding to the doors. Opening it, he is met by a familiar face, strikingly familiar.

“Nam!” the man before him smiles. “Do you remember me?”

“You,” he breaths, holding the door still and the man closes his umbrella. “You’re—!”

“Sungjong!” the man outside his house smiles. “Nam Woohyun, it’s me Sungjong!”

“Lee Sungjong,” he beams. “My god, how long has it been? Twenty years?”

“A decade, six years, five months and a couple days or so but who’s counting,” Sungjong makes up while shaking the droplets off his umbrella. Smiling, “I think about sixteen years, Woohyun. Oh, sorry, Monsieur Nam.”

“Please, cut the formalities,” he says, bringing him into the house and taking the umbrella away. “You can just throw your coat over there, shoes go under the rack.”

“Thank you. And please be decent with some clothes.”

Woohyun leads him to the living room, where another maid had already set up a fire and the table was lined with a velvet red table cloth and two clean wine glasses. Plus a shirt and some shorts for Woohyun. A bottle of fine white wine resting beside it and the large love seats, plush with pillows and cushions, positioned near and slightly towards each other.

“Whoa,” Sungjong steps in beside him, “Those are some rich seats.”

“That’s what I can afford to spoil these days,” Woohyun chuckles, motioning to the seat beside him as he tore off the robe and slipped into the provided clothes. “Do you prefer white or red?”

Sungjong whistles lightly at his body with joke. “Red actually,” he sits, feeling slightly bad that he is still damp and makes the plush seat a little wet as well. Droplets scarcely falling from the ends of his hair, “And Sunggyu-hyung?”

“Upstairs,” Woohyun shrugs, calling over the maid to change the bottle, which she had in hand ready. He smiles at her, thankful and tells her to go back to her quarters. “He’s a bit tired.”

“Oh, I think I know why he’s tired,” Sungjong smirks knowingly, settling into the seat.

“Then I don’t need to elaborate,” he responds, still smiling. Popping the cork off and having a glass handed to the other.

“Such big words,” Sungjong takes the glass, watching the conductor pours wine into it. The ruby liquid curling along the shape and settling to the bottom.

“I can say them now,” Woohyun pours for himself after, clinking the glasses together as they took a sip. “Of course.”

“Yes of course,” Sungjong rolls his eyes, looking towards the fire. “But no matter how much you and Gyu-hyung have become some world class—“

“We’re just popular,” he interrupts.

Sungjong shot him a look, bring the glass to his lips but not drinking, “Okay, popular conductors and top vocals out there; I’ll still see you as the disheartened kid who just never interacted with any of us. And the scampering mouse Gyu-hyung was.”

Woohyun snorts, but his smile turns fond and nods, “Yes, I’m glad you still keep that image of us. The constant respect we receive these days is a bit daunting.”

“And you call that daunting,” Sungjong rolls his eyes. “Remember Prefect Kyuhyun?”

“Cho Kyuhyun?” Woohyun clarifies more to himself than the other, putting down his glass. “I don’t think I can ever forget Prefect Kyuhyun.”

“And Mr. Yesung?”

“The frivolous piano player?” Woohyun chuckles at the memory. “Of course.”

Sungjong’s eyes flicker along with the fireplace, his lips calm and his breath relaxed. Woohyun doesn’t notice the change, but the young other became at ease, fulfilling his last wish. “Good because I have a present for you.”

Woohyun expectantly watches as Sungjong reaches into his bag and pulls out a thick journal, “When I left with Kyuhyun, he gave me this in the end. All throughout our walkings, volunteers, help and routes; he’s always kept an eye out for all seven of us. Even as I was beside him, he met with Yesung frequently, in the most arbitrary of places; talking about you six.” Sungjong snorts, but the smile on his face never fades. So different than the expressions he had 16 years ago. “They always had a fond time looking at your works, all of you. But I think you and Gyu-hyung were something else. Look,” he opens the book and it’s full of that prefects’ writings. “Remember? Fond de l'Étang.”

The conductor smiles with nostalgia, taking the journal and already on the first page he’s captured with memories. Memories on how the seven of them met, how they all parted and how they all found their voices because of these two very prefect. The prefect he hated, but all the while gave him his entire career. The other whom guided them together and formed a seven clan unity.

“Bottom of the Pond,” Woohyun mutters.

Sungjong nods, and maybe the night just rolls on by with them, later joined by Sunggyu, who gently smiled as he came down the stairs and caught eyes with Sungjong.

Memories of a lost orphan drop off, a place where they tricked and were punished, captured in walls and forgotten by beating principles and callous teachers. Until Prefect Kyuhyun and Frivolous Yesung had entered.

They created a chorus.

And had the seven of them all find life once more. 

this is based off a French film called "Les Choristes" and it's probably the only french film I know and love. 

It's about a music teacher who had really no luck in his compositions, becomes a prefect in this orphanage and deals with disrespectful and unruly kids in a corrupt system. 
He makes his class sing instead, making a chorus. In the end, he's fired but the class learns to like him as he actually cared. 
One, the youngest Pepino, joins him after he gets fired because his parents are gone (dead or something) and later returns to the boy who had the best voice (now the conductor) and gives him the prefect's journal about his time in the place Fond de l'Étang

Watch it, love it. Idk it's very good. i recommend highly. 
but i never felt the urge to put it into woogyu terms after writing this much i dont wanna ruin the film with my nonsense probably