The perfect silence of the room was disrupted as a soft knock sounded on the door causing Jeonghan’s brows to furrow. Particles of dust floated above where he lay, staring at the unidentifiable mould that was sprouting on the ceiling. He wasn’t supposed to be here, in the little supply closet at the end of the corridor where they kept the instruments and props. Most people would consider the room a mere shoe-box, but it was the closest thing Jeonghan had to call ‘home’. Mr Choi, the owner of the theatre, had allowed him to use the room to store his violin equipment when he first arrived. Ever since, Jeonghan would disappear for a short while each day he spent here, just to lie and be alone. Back in the Academy, his dorm room was shared with seven other children of varying ages, so opportunities for genuine solitude were scarce. Until this point, nobody had ever visited the room, and he wasn’t important enough for anyone to check where he escaped to. With a huff, he rose from where he lay spread across the icy concrete floor, a strip of too-bright light flooding into the room as he pried the rusty door open.

Although Jeonghan was unsure exactly who’s face he anticipated being at the other side of the door, it was certainly not Seungcheol’s. A shaky breath escaped his lips, as a million different scenarios flooded through his mind. His last encounter with Seungcheol—which was also one of their first—had been less than pleasant. Jeonghan winced at the thought of his words, but resigned the thoughts to the back of his mind with a sigh, knowing his actions were justified. He said what he said, all he could do now is hope Seungcheol would listen to his advice, and maybe that he didn’t hate Jeonghan too.
“Knew I’d find you in here,” the boy spoke, lips upturned at the sight of Jeonghan’s shocked face. “Come on, you hardly thought I didn’t know where you’re always disappearing off to, did you?”
“What do you want?” Jeonghan tried his best to seem unaffected by the boy’s presence. Considering the way the slight smug smile faded from Seungcheol’s face, it must have worked.
The boy sighed, explaining that they needed to go upstairs to speak to his father. Once Seungcheol wasn’t looking, Jeonghan worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Guilt sat in the pit of his stomach. Jeonghan didn’t want to treat Seungcheol so harshly, but he really didn’t have any other choice.

Jeonghan’s heart rate accelerated at Seungcheol’s words, but he stood up to follow behind anyway. The pain in his ankle flared as he climbed up the stairs, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. He had coped with much worse before. The lump in Jeonghan’s throat grew as they reached the entrance to the grand office belonging to Mr Choi, the owner of the theatre. The office was dauntingly empty when they arrived, and Jeonghan felt swamped by the huge oak desk commanding the centre of the room. The air smelt of a musky cologne that only intensified the sick feeling in Jeonghan’s stomach. Seungcheol took a seat in one of the two armchairs sitting in front of the desk, and Jeonghan copied the action.

Without him realising, Jeonghan’s fingers danced across the armrest of the chair, playing out a melody in his mind. From the corner of his eye, he could see Seungcheol’s gaze fixed on him, and he shifted awkwardly in his seat at the attention. He looked up for a moment, meeting Seungcheol’s eye line. The other boy’s stare didn’t falter, and Jeonghan quickly looked away, embarrassed by the sudden eye contact. He cleared his throat, preparing to ask Seungcheol why he had been staring but was interrupted by Mr Choi’s sudden entrance.

The man walked with heavy footsteps, each one creating a low thud that made Jeonghan wince. He stood tall too, towering over the two seated boys in his well tailored two piece suit. The leather chair behind the desk sounded a shrill screech as the man sat down, a weighted sigh escaping his lips. Fine lines were painted across the man’s weathered skin, causing Jeonghan to withhold a gulp and fixed his gaze to a point on the surface of that large oak desk.
“I am very disappointed in you both,” Mr Choi began, his deep voice filling the room, “Your actions were careless and irresponsible, and they will not go unpunished.” Seungcheol groaned softly beside him, but otherwise, he kept quiet.
“You two will be responsible for cleaning the theatre after every performance for the next month.”
“A whole month?” Seungcheol whined. “It gets so messy though, how are just the two of us gonna clean it?”
Jeonghan’s heart rate skyrocketed as he listened to the way Seungcheol was speaking to his father. He flinched violently as Mr Choi raised his arm, not sure whether to be relieved or anxious when he simply ran a hand through his short, sleek hair. Seungcheol didn’t react at all, which only added to Jeonghan’s confusion. “Why isn’t he afraid?” he thought.

The man continued to speak, lecturing them about their misbehaviour, but Jeonghan was barely paying any attention. From the corner of his eye, he stole a glance at Seungcheol. The large armchair swamped him, legs barely reaching the ground. His hair sat in a soft black tuft atop his head, shadowing his soft, round eyes that looked as though they were born to be smiling. Looking at the innocence that misted his features, Jeonghan realised Seungcheol lived a very different life to his own; one he could never dream of.

He knew it was supposed to be a punishment, but Jeonghan was actually rather pleased with the thought of cleaning the theatre. Cleaning was one of the few things he found pleasure in, along with sleeping. Each morning when he woke he would make his bed so the sheets lay without even a trace of a wrinkle, and the cardboard box beneath his bed that held the few clothes he owned was always arranged neatly, the items folded without fault. Jeonghan had walked into Mr Choi’s office anxious, waiting to receive his punishment, and had instead left with a weight removed from his shoulders. The theatre held shows every Friday, Saturday and Sunday, which meant there were now three days a week he was allowed leave the orphanage, even if it was only for a short while. From past experience, Jeonghan knew good fortune like this was likely too good to be true, yet he found pleasure in the thought regardless.

Jeonghan’s practice for the day went by smoothly, albeit the frequent distractions that came in the form of Seungcheol. The boy just wouldn’t stop interrupting Jeonghan’s playing to express his awe and tell him something very unnecessary like “That sounds pretty”, or other vague compliments that Jeonghan could do just fine without. It wasn’t until Jeonghan began to set up for that evening’s performance that Seungcheol left him alone, swapping his perch on the edge of the scuffed stage for one of the plush velvet seats in the audience. Somewhere in the midst of his recital, it occurred to Jeonghan that this was, in fact, the very first-time Seungcheol had watched him perform. The thought sat in his mind for a just second, like a chunk of food stuck in his throat. But a mere second without concentrating was all it took, and his fingers stumbled over the next few notes. As he finally pushed the thought aside he thanked his lucky stars today wasn’t one of the days the Orphanage was monitoring his performance. The last time he was caught making a mistake like that, they locked him in the dark little practice room with his teacher, forcing him to play until he was certain he wouldn’t make such an ‘amateurish error’ ever again. When they eventually did let him out, the sun has risen again and the other children were off getting breakfast. Jeonghan instead hid in the girl's bathroom as he washed the freshly crusted blood from his cheek.

The audience for that day’s performance was small (-perhaps that was why Seungcheol’s presence had bothered him so much?), and fortunately no one present seemed knowledgeable enough to notice his slip up. His hands were shaking by the time he walked off stage, a lump forming somewhere deep in his throat as he spotted Seungcheol’s father waiting for him backstage. The man stood tall and broad, his muscular yet well-fed body towering over Jeonghan’s small, scrawny body. At first, he didn’t say anything, the silence weighing heavy on Jeonghan’s shoulders. Just as the man was about to speak Seungcheol arrived, his soft brown hair standing in little tufts above his lightly freckled cheeks. He skipped across the floor to where Jeonghan stood before turning to address his father.
“Wasn’t Jeonghan’s performance great?” he grinned.
Much to Jeonghan’s surprise, Mr Choi simply agreed with a smile—no mention of his glaring error. He gestured towards the boys, implying they should follow him, as he walked out the door and down the narrow corridor until they reached one of the practice rooms behind the theatre. Inside, Jeonghan spotted a cream coloured breakfast-tray sitting on the ground which held two large sandwiches accompanied by a spread of freshly cut fruit and two small glasses of water. Somewhere behind him, he heard Seungcheol muttering about how he was starving and wanted more than just a sandwich, but that was the furthest thought from Jeonghan’s mind.

Offering a curt smile, the older man left them to eat in peace. Seungcheol took a seat on the old rug that lay in the centre of the room beneath the table holding the food. Noticing they way the other boy hovered awkwardly by the doorway; unsure of what he should do. Seungcheol extended a free hand gesturing for the boy to join him on the floor. Jeonghan almost tripped on the edge of the rug as he walked, and a deep red blush stained his soft cheeks. Skinny legs tucked neatly beneath him, he kneeled on the rug, trying his very best not to look at the freckled boy from across the table. Within minutes, Seungcheol had finished his food, stray crumbs dotted along his plump lips, yet Jeonghan has barely half a sandwich eaten. The bread was fresh and soft, stuffed with roast chicken and salad; Jeonghan had never tasted anything like it. He wanted to savour the taste so he wouldn’t forget it, but the groaning pain seated deep within his belly he had learnt to ignore was telling him to do otherwise.
As if sensing his dilemma, Seungcheol spoke up with a soft chuckle. “Hurry up and eat, we need to start cleaning.”
He responded with a nod and did as he was told, but it didn’t matter much in the end. Just over two-thirds of the sandwich eaten and Jeonghan was able for no more. Despite how much he wanted to keep eating, his stomach wasn’t used to consumin