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A soft piano played in the background—something classical, faint and familiar. The melody floated through the air with no clear source, as if the grand piano in the corner were playing itself. Maybe it was a recording.
The bar was nestled deep in the city, yet hardly anyone came. It wasn’t the kind of place people just found. It felt… selective. Like only a few were meant to be here. The kind the bartender might choose himself.
“May I request a glass of whiskey?” Ricky asked, sliding into a seat.
The man behind the counter didn’t turn, but Ricky noticed the subtle shift. A tension in his shoulders, a stillness in his hands. Just enough to recognize. Just enough to know.
He remembered that posture.
The bartender moved again, quiet and composed, pouring the drink without a word. The amber liquid caught the light, smooth and golden, and Ricky’s eyes followed the glass to the hand that placed it in front of him.
He knew that hand.
It used to rest beside his on piano keys, matching his rhythm without effort. The fingers that once played nocturnes with him in empty halls, whispered harmonies in place of words. A pianist. Just like him. A pianist who, if memory served, never touched alcohol.
“Gyuvin,” Ricky said. “You don’t drink.”
No hello. No pleasantries. Just what came out. The words fell before he could stop them.
Gyuvin still didn’t face him. His hands returned to the counter, calm and unreadable. Not the Gyuvin Ricky remembered. Or maybe he’d never really known him—because if he had, Gyuvin wouldn’t have left like that. Wouldn’t have walked away without a word. Without explaining.
“I don’t,” Gyuvin replied. “Still can’t. I just serve the drinks here.”
Ricky stared at the side of his face, searching for something—recognition, guilt, anything—but Gyuvin didn’t turn. Didn’t look at him. Just answered like it meant nothing.
Ricky’s chest tightened. Why wouldn’t he look at him? Was he afraid? That if their eyes met, everything they buried would surface again—memories, regrets, the silence they built their parting on?
“You used to hate anything to do with alcohol,” Ricky said, softer.
He remembered how Gyuvin avoided it at every formal event they attended, how he’d wrinkle his nose at champagne, sip soda instead. He tried wine once—one reckless night in high school—and immediately spat it out, swearing it tasted like regret.
Ricky, meanwhile, learned to drink with practiced ease. Wine became part of the act—part of the mask he wore to stay palatable. The truth was, he didn’t even like the taste. But fitting in was easier than honesty. And pretending was easier than feeling.
Gyuvin let out a low, tired laugh. “Things happened. Life happened. And this is only temporary.”
Ricky frowned. “You’re leaving? Again?”
He wouldn’t have even known Gyuvin was back in Korea if he hadn’t stepped into this bar by accident on a forgettable weekday. And now here he was, already talking about going.
“I need to be elsewhere,” Gyuvin replied, and this time, he looked up—really looked at him.
Ricky held his gaze. Gyuvin looked tired. Not just in the way people did after a long shift, but in the quiet, hollow way of someone who hadn’t truly rested in years. He wasn’t the same bright-eyed boy Ricky used to know. But then again, Ricky wasn’t either.
They were both worn down in different ways. Both still carrying it.
“Do you still play?” Ricky asked softly.
Gyuvin nodded. That was all Ricky needed to know.
He stood, leaving his whiskey untouched, and walked toward the grand piano in the corner of the room. Its polished black surface gleamed under the warm light, still and silent—like it had been waiting. Like it remembered them too.
He sat down and let his fingers press gently against the keys.
Not classical this time. Not the rigid perfection his mother always demanded. He played something else—something from an artist who reminded him that music could feel like home again. The melody floated softly into the air. And before long, he felt Gyuvin beside him, slipping onto the bench, hands finding the harmonies without needing to ask.
It was “Still With You.”
They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Their fingers said enough, dancing across the keys with familiarity and ache. This was how they always connected—through melodies, through shared silences. And even now, after everything, they still understood the same language.
After a while, Ricky whispered, “Have you been well?”
Gyuvin’s response was quiet, almost lost in the music. “Better. Now that I’ve seen you again. But I should be the one asking that. How are you?”
Ricky glanced back toward the bar, to the glass of whiskey. “Good,” he said. “Or at least trying to be.”
Gyuvin followed his gaze. He didn’t say anything, but Ricky could tell—he understood what he really meant.
“This should’ve been how our conversation started,” Ricky added, trying for something light.
Gyuvin gave a breath of a laugh, soft and regretful. “It should’ve started with me explaining myself. Not disappearing behind excuses. Not vanishing for years. Not…” His voice trailed off as his fingers brushed Ricky’s in the middle of the song.
“I wanted to see you,” Gyuvin said, “but I didn’t know how.”
“When did we get so good at being strangers?” Ricky asked.
“Since we got scared,” Gyuvin answered. “Since I did.”
There was a beat of silence, only music between them. Then Ricky spoke firmly.
“Then let’s stop being scared. Let’s keep playing like this again.”
Their hands found each other—not just over the keys, but beneath them. Fingers intertwining gently. No more music, but somehow, the room still felt full. As if the melody had never ended. As if their hearts had simply picked it up where their hands left off.
Even now, after everything, they were still thinking of each other.
Still playing the same song.
♡