Today’s the last day. Junmyeon already knows—had been counting down the lessons before the competition—but it still doesn’t make him any more prepared. At least, he thinks, if he says it now, he’ll have nothing to lose. There won’t be any awkwardness between them because they won’t have to see each other anymore.

If anything, it’ll mean that he’ll be able to get the weight off of his shoulders.

He almost forgets about it as the lesson progresses. Somehow, Jongdae manages to find mistakes in everything he plays. It’s disheartening to say the least, because he only has a few days before the competition, and he’d been expecting to be able to run through the piece smoothly. He’s really not prepared—not prepared for the performance, not prepared for his confession, not prepared to not see Jongdae again.

He still has a lesson with his private teacher before the performance, at least, but for whatever reason, he’d been hoping to impress Jongdae this one time. At the very least, he wanted to leave with some dignity.

Junmyeon focuses so much on not messing up that he doesn’t notice time passing. Soon, the hour is up and Jongdae is closing the lid of the piano with a reassuring smile.

“It was good,” he says, but the words sound empty to Junmyeon’s ears. How can something be good despite all the errors that are obviously there? “Hey, I’m serious,” he says, nudging Junmyeon in the arm. It’s a light, casual touch, and Jongdae doesn’t scoot away afterwards. “So don’t worry. When you go up there next week, just do your best. That’s all that matters.”

Except it’s not, not really. Junmyeon has been in competitions before, and he’s won a few prizes here and there, but he’d never gone to the competitions actually expecting to win something. This time, though, he’d spent hours working on this piece, and he wants to win, to prove that those hours, these lessons with Jongdae, had been worth something in the end.

He doesn’t say it aloud, though. Instead, he swallows and nods. “I know.”

Then Jongdae’s getting up, his warmth receding too quickly. “When you go up there, play with confidence,” he says, voice fading as he walks towards the kitchen. He returns with a cup in one hand, and he stands in the doorway looking at Junmyeon. “Everyone who joins these competitions can play, but what really matters is how well you execute it in the end.”

Maybe that’s what Junmyeon hates most about music. You can’t just get it right once; you have to get it right over and over until you don’t get it wrong. Because no matter how many times you get it right, there’s still a chance that, when you go up on the big stage, you’ll mess up. That’s what people will remember you by, not the many times that you get it right in private.

And maybe—confessions are like that, too. You have one chance to not mess up. At least there isn’t the prospect of having to do it over and over again, since it’s hard to even build up the courage to say it aloud.

This is the last time, Junmyeon reminds himself, as he hands money over to Jongdae. “Hey, Jongdae?” he says, as Jongdae folds the bills neatly into his wallet.

Jongdae looks up and smiles warmly. “What’s up?”

Junmyeon swallows, holds on a little tighter to the books in his hand. “Thank you for teaching me these past months.” Jongdae’s smile widens, and he looks like he’s going to say something, but Junmyeon forces himself to continue. He can feel his hands shaking because he’s forgetting the words he rehearsed, now that he’s face to face with Jongdae. He can already imagine Jongdae’s smile crumbling—into what he doesn’t know yet, and he doesn’t really want to know. But he forces himself to continue, words stumbling over each other as he speaks them aloud: “And I’m sorry because, sometime over these months, I’ve come to like you. Romantically,” he adds. He pauses, eyes flickering to fix on a spot on the wall. “I don’t know… I just wanted to tell you,” he finishes.

The momentary courage seems to leave in a rush, and the silence that follows is overwhelming. Junmyeon starts to move away, put on his shoes and leave the apartment, but Jongdae stops him with a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Jongdae says, and Junmyeon finally looks up to meet his gaze. The smile, as he’d predicted, is gone from Jongdae’s face, but there aren’t any negative expressions, either. In fact, there’s nothing there—just an irritatingly calm blankness, like an erased slate. “But you’re too young. And right now, we’re still teacher and student—”

“I know,” Junmyeon says abruptly, moving his arm so that Jongdae’s hand slides off. “I’ll see you,” he says, once he’s gotten his shoes on. He bows politely and walks out of the door before Jongdae can get it for him.

It’s not the first time Junmyeon has ever confessed, but the rejection still weighs heavily on him nonetheless. He blinks rapidly as he walks outside, taking a few deep breaths to calm his mind. At least that’s over with, he tells himself.

Instead of sitting around remembering Jongdae’s playing, his light touches, his laugh, Junmyeon dedicates the next few days to practicing as often as he can. Sometimes, it helps; focusing on the keys, the way his fingers move distracts him from anything else. But other times, when he messes up, he can hear Jongdae’s voice guiding him on what to do, feel Jongdae’s hands on his as Jongdae showed him how to position his fingers.

There isn’t enough time, though. Junmyeon forces himself to push those memories away, focus on what he’s working on, and too soon, he’s outside the judging room, his sheet music in one hand. There are other contestants around him, and his parents are with him, offering encouraging smiles.

He waves to his parents as he walks into the waiting room. There are only a few others sitting in the chairs, waiting to be called. Before he can sit down, however, someone grabs his wrist and he’s being spun around.

Junmyeon uses his free hand to steady himself against one of the chairs before his eyes flicker up. “Jongdae?” he says, instantly recognizing the person standing before him.

Jongdae doesn’t let go of Junmyeon’s hand as he steps closer to place a quick peck on Junmyeon’s lips. “For good luck,” he says, smiling as he steps back.

Jongdae has him trapped against the chair with nowhere to go, so Junmyeon sits down. He’s keenly aware of the people around them as he asks, “What are you doing here?” The angle is awkward, from here, and he has to strain his neck to look Jongdae in the eye.

Jongdae seems to notice as well, since he lets go of Junmyeon’s wrist and takes a seat in the chair next to him. “You ran away before I had a chance to explain.”

“You did explain,” Junmyeon says shortly. He doesn’t want to have this conversation here; there are too many people who are probably eavesdropping, and he’s supposed to be worried about performing before the judges, not about what Jongdae is about to say.

“No, listen.” Jongdae sighs, the same sound that he makes when he’s explained something to Junmyeon multiple times and Junmyeon still doesn’t get it. “I said no because we were still teacher and student back then.”

“I know,” Junmyeon says, his fingers playing absently with the papers in his lap. Two of the contestants in the waiting room get called out, and a few more filter into the room. It won’t be long before he’s called up, too.

“It’s not because I don’t like you back.” Jongdae pauses a moment for that to sink in. When Junmyeon doesn’t respond, doesn’t look at him, he continues, “Do you think you can wait? Next year, you’ll be going into college, and maybe—we can talk about it later. You have my phone number.” He nudges Junmyeon. “Hey, say something.”

Junmyeon blinks up at him because this is a dream, right? He must be so nervous that he’s hallucinating right now. When Jongdae stares back steadily at him, he clears his throat and replies, “Yeah. Okay.”

Jongdae grins, and he opens his mouth to say more. He’s interrupted by the door opening, and someone saying, “Kim Junmyeon.”

Junmyeon’s head turns to face the woman beckoning to him. His legs are shaking again; he doesn’t know if he can deal with this many things happening at the same time. As though reading his internal conflict, Jongdae puts a hand on his arm reassuringly and says, “Good luck.”

Junmyeon smiles at him as he stands. There’s no trembling this time, as he walks into the room. He hears the click of the door closing behind him, sees the faces of the judges as he takes a seat before the piano. He takes a deep breath before lowering his hands onto the keys, knowing that, just a door away—just a song away—there are people, possibilities, and futures waiting for him.