Pushing off the blankets, he rose to his feet. The chill of the floor against his bare soles sent a small shiver up his spine, grounding him as he padded toward the door. The music became clearer with each step, the melody unmistakable now. It was Lovely by Billie Eilish and Khalid—a song he'd heard countless times before, but this version carried a depth and rawness he hadn't known it could possess.
Descending the stairs, he clung to the railing, the soft creak of wood beneath his weight mingling with the delicate rise and fall of the piano notes. As he reached the bottom, the sight before him gave him pause. There, bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the windows, was Yaroslav seated at the grand piano. His broad back was to Beom, his shoulders moving in subtle rhythm with the flow of the piece.
Yaroslav's fingers danced over the keys with precision, every stroke deliberate yet fluid, as though the piano were an extension of himself. The music wasn't just being played—it was being felt, expressed, each note imbued with an emotion that transcended mere sound. The air in the room seemed to hum with it, an unspoken story unfolding in melody.
Beom hesitated in the doorway, caught between the urge to stay and the instinct to retreat. He felt as though he were intruding on something private, something sacred. Yet, the music rooted him in place, a gravitational pull he couldn't resist.
"Is that… Lovely? By Billie Eilish?" Beom's voice broke the silence, soft and hesitant, as though he were afraid of shattering the spell the music had cast.
Yaroslav didn't stop playing but tilted his head slightly, just enough to show he'd heard. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Mh-mhmm," he murmured in response, his voice low and unhurried, as if even speaking were part of the rhythm.
Beom stepped further into the room, drawn by the melody and the quiet intensity of Yaroslav's presence. His gaze fell on Yaroslav's hands, strong and precise, moving with an elegance that seemed at odds with his usual rough demeanor. It was mesmerizing, watching him—this man who so often seemed a force of chaos—create something so achingly beautiful.
"You should come play with me," Yaroslav said suddenly, breaking Beom's reverie. His voice was calm, casual, but there was an undercurrent of invitation, a challenge even. He glanced over his shoulder, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Beom's. "You know how to play the violin, don't you?"
The question hit Beom like a jolt, and he froze. Memories surged forward unbidden—his father's encouraging smile as he guided Beom's bow, the harmonious blend of their instruments filling the room, and the aching silence that followed his father's death. The violin had once been his refuge, his way of connecting with the man who had been his anchor. But now, it was a relic of a past he wasn't sure he could face.
"No," Beom said abruptly, his voice sharper than he intended. He turned away, retreating a step as if distance could protect him from the emotions threatening to rise. "I don't… I can't."
Yaroslav didn't press him, but the music stopped, the sudden absence of sound making the air feel heavier. Beom kept his back to Yaroslav, his hands clenching at his sides. He hated how raw he felt, how easily the mere mention of the violin could unravel him. It wasn't just an instrument—it was a lifeline he had let go of long ago, and picking it up again felt like reopening a wound that had never truly healed.
"You used to love it, didn't you?" Yaroslav's voice was quiet, devoid of judgment, yet it carried a weight that made Beom's chest tighten.
Beom didn't answer. His mind was too loud, filled with the echoes of his father's voice, the sound of their duets, and the pain of that loss. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "It's not that simple," he said finally, his voice barely audible.
Yaroslav didn't respond right away. Instead, he turned back to the piano, his fingers finding the keys again. This time, the melody was softer, gentler, as if the music itself were offering comfort. Beom stood there, his back still to Yaroslav, listening as the notes washed over him.
The room felt smaller somehow, the space between them charged with unspoken understanding. Yaroslav's playing wasn't just music—it was a bridge, an invitation. Beom could feel it, the subtle way it reached for him, coaxing him to take a step forward.
But he didn't move. He stayed rooted in place, caught between the pull of the past and the safety of his distance. The music continued, wrapping around him like a gentle embrace, and for a moment, he let himself feel it.
And yet, the thought lingered in the back of his mind, quiet but insistent: Maybe someday...
As Yaroslav continued to play the piano, filling the house with a soulful melody, the unexpected sound of his phone ringing cut through the music. He paused, letting the last note linger in the air, before reaching for the device sitting nearby. Glancing at the screen, his expression softened—a rare sight for someone usually so guarded. The name on the display was unmistakable: Vanya, his older brother.
"Алло?" Yaroslav answered, his tone casual yet laced with curiosity.
"Моя жена только что родила девочку," Vanya's voice came through, brimming with excitement.
Yaroslav's brows lifted in surprise, and a smile spread across his face—a genuine, warm smile that seemed to transform him entirely. "Правда? Поздравляю!" he said, his voice lighter than usual. "Завтра приеду навестить вас. Передай Ольге привет," he added, his tone carrying a rare tenderness as he mentioned Vanya's wife.
Beom, who had been lounging in the hall nearby, caught snippets of the conversation. Though his grasp of Russian was limited, he managed to pick up a few words: жена (wife), девочка (girl), and something that sounded like a name—Olga. He could tell the conversation was important by the way Yaroslav's expression softened, the usual sharpness in his features replaced by something more relaxed, even joyful.
The call went on for a few minutes, with Yaroslav chuckling at something his brother said. Beom watched from the couch, trying to piece together the bits he understood. He was curious but hesitant to ask—it felt like intruding on a private moment. Instead, he focused on Yaroslav's demeanor, noting how the man seemed so different when speaking with his brother. There was a warmth, an openness that Beom rarely saw.
When the call ended, Yaroslav set the phone down and stood, stretching briefly before heading toward the kitchen. His movements were deliberate, calm, as if he carried the good news with him, letting it shape his mood.
Beom remained in the hall for a moment, debating whether to follow. He wasn't sure what had been said, but the words he recognized painted a picture in his mind—something about family, perhaps a celebration. His curiosity got the better of him, and after a moment, he stood and made his way toward the kitchen.
He found Yaroslav rummaging in the freezer, pulling out various ingredients and setting them on the counter. His broad shoulders and easy movements made even the mundane task of gathering food seem effortless.
"What are you getting ready to cook?" Beom asked, leaning casually against the kitchen counter. He rested his elbow on the surface, his head propped on his hand, watching Yaroslav with an air of curiosity.
"Seafood boil," Yaroslav replied, his voice steady as he began organizing the ingredients: shrimp, mussels, crab legs, and a few vegetables. He glanced at Beom briefly before returning to his task, grabbing a large pot and filling it with water.
Beom couldn't help but watch him, his gaze lingering on Yaroslav's hands as they moved with practiced efficiency. There was something fascinating about the way Yaroslav worked—strong, capable, yet strangely meticulous. He didn't seem like the kind of person who would bother with cooking, yet here he was, preparing what looked like a feast.
"Seafood, huh?" Beom said, his tone teasing. "Didn't peg you as the type to go all out for dinner."
Yaroslav shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Food should be good. Why not make it worth eating?"
Beom chuckled softly, shaking his head. He reached for a glass and filled it with water, taking a sip as he watched Yaroslav set the pot on the stove and begin seasoning the water. The scent of garlic, spices, and herbs quickly filled the kitchen, making Beom's stomach growl faintly.
He leaned back against the counter, his gaze drifting over Yaroslav's profile. There was something oddly comforting about watching him cook—like seeing another layer of a man who was usually so stoic and intense. Beom's thoughts wandered as he stood there, recalling the snippets of Russian he'd overheard earlier.
"What was the call about?" Beom asked, his voice casual but tinged with curiosity.
Yaroslav paused for a moment, glancing at him. "My brother," he said simply. "His wife gave birth to a girl."
Beom's eyes widened slightly. "Oh. That's... nice. Congrats to him, I guess."
Yaroslav nodded, his expression softening again. "I'll visit them tomorrow." He picked up a knife and began chopping a lemon with precision, his focus briefly shifting back to the task at hand. "It's a big deal. First child."
Beom hummed in response, taking another sip of water as he mulled over Yaroslav's words. He couldn't imagine Yaroslav in a family setting—he always seemed too sharp, too solitary. But the way he spoke about his brother and the news of the baby painted a different picture, one that intrigued Beom.
"Do you cook often?" Beom asked, trying to steer the conversation to lighter territory.
Yaroslav smirked faintly, his hands moving with precision as he sliced through the ingredients and tossed them into the pot. His focus was sharp, almost surgical, yet there was an air of casual confidence in the way he moved. His smirk deepened as he glanced at Beom. "Only when I want something good. Or when I'm in the mood," he said, his voice smooth and teasing, though it held a trace of seriousness.
Beom leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he raised a brow. "In the mood for seafood, huh?" he quipped, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.
Yaroslav chuckled softly, a sound so low and brief it could have been missed if the room weren't so quiet. "Something like that," he replied, not looking up from his task. His voice carried a hint of warmth, a subtle break from the usually guarded tone Beom had grown accustomed to.
The pot on the stove began to boil, steam rising and filling the kitchen with the rich, heady aroma of spices and seafood. The smell wrapped itself around Beom like a comforting blanket, and against his better judgment, he found himself relaxing. There was something oddly domestic about the scene, something that tugged at a part of him he wasn't ready to confront. Watching Yaroslav cook, seeing his calm demeanor, and hearing the faint trace of joy in his voice when he talked about his brother—it felt so... normal.
Beom let his eyes wander to Yaroslav's hands, noticing how deftly they worked. The way his long fingers gripped the knife, steady and purposeful, spoke of someone used to control, someone who thrived on precision. For a moment, Beom wondered how those same hands could be so gentle when they wanted to be, the memory stirring an uncomfortable mix of emotions he quickly tried to push away.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the bubbling of the pot and the occasional clink of utensils. Beom shifted his weight, his gaze flicking back to Yaroslav's face. His expression was unreadable, but there was a certain softness in his eyes when he wasn't guarded—a softness Beom couldn't decide whether to trust or resent.
Maybe there's more to him than I thought, Beom admitted to himself reluctantly, the thought bubbling up unbidden. It was a side of Yaroslav he rarely saw, this quieter, more human side. Yet, even as the thought took root, another followed swiftly, sharp and biting. But I still can't forgive him for the trauma he put me through.
The weight of his past with Yaroslav lingered like a shadow, dark and suffocating. No matter how normal or comforting this moment felt, it couldn't erase the nights Beom spent reliving the worst of what had happened, the moments when Yaroslav had been the source of his pain. Forgiveness wasn't something Beom could offer—not yet, and maybe not ever.
Still, he stayed where he was, watching as Yaroslav began to layer the ingredients into the pot with meticulous care. The simplicity of it all—the rhythmic movements, the fragrant air, the subtle exchange of words—was enough to ground him, at least for now.
"What?" Yaroslav asked suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was casual, but there was a hint of curiosity as he glanced at Beom.
Beom blinked, realizing he'd been staring. He quickly looked away, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "Nothing," he muttered, trying to sound indifferent.
Yaroslav's smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. "If you say so," he said, his tone teasing but not pressing the issue.
Beom scowled, feeling caught but unwilling to admit it. Instead, he changed the subject. "How long is this going to take? I'm starving."
Yaroslav chuckled again, the sound softer this time. "Patience, Beom," he said, stirring the pot with a measured hand. "Good things take time."
Beom snorted, leaning more heavily against the counter. "Yeah, well, I hope it's worth it."