Vienna, 10 years ago.
The cold in Vienna was different from the cold in Seoul.
The winter wind in South Korea had teeth; it tore at you, rude and aggressive. In Vienna, the cold was a heavy, aristocratic weight. It didn't bite; it simply pressed down, seeping through the thin soles of cheap canvas shoes and settling into the marrow of the bone, silent and immovable.
Seo Jaemin, shivering violently, buried his hands deep in his coat pockets. He wasn't carrying an instrument case—pianists never had that luxury of holding their soul in their hands—but his backpack was heavy with scores and textbooks that felt like dead weight.
He checked the piece of paper in his freezing hand again.
Room 304. Advanced Harmony and Counterpoint.
It was only his third week here. He had tested out of the introductory theory courses during orientation, a small victory that now felt like a curse. He was a freshman surrounded by sophomores and juniors who all seemed to know each other.
The Vienna Academy of Music was a labyrinth of high ceilings, marble floors, and the terrifying, dissonant cacophony of a dozen instruments being tuned at once from behind closed doors.
Everyone looked tall. Everyone looked wealthy. They walked with the easy confidence of people who didn't have to convert currency in their heads every time they bought a sandwich.
Jaemin felt like a smudge of dirt on a pristine score.
He found Room 304 and slipped inside, taking a seat at the very back. He tried to make himself invisible, hunching his shoulders, pulling his worn coat tighter.
He had registered as a beta; it had been a necessary lie on his application forms to avoid the discriminatory insurance premiums required for omegas studying abroad.
Right now, however, it didn't matter. Because he felt like nothing at all.
The professor, a terrifying man with a full beard like steel wool, entered. He began speaking immediately. His German was rapid, clipped, and heavy with the Viennese dialect that Jaemin's six months of intensive language cramming hadn't prepared him for.
He managed to catch the words that he thought he remembered meant "chromaticism" and "voice-leading," but the sentences didn't connect into anything he could make sense of.
"Heast, Sie da!" the professor barked, pointing a chalk-dusted finger toward the back of the room.
Jaemin froze. He looked around, praying there was someone behind him. There wasn't.
"You, in the gray coat," the professor switched to heavily accented English, sensing the hesitation but looking no less annoyed. "Explain the resolution of the Tristan chord as Wagner intended it, versus how it is resolved in the modern context of atonalism."
Jaemin opened his mouth. He knew the answer. He could hear the chords in his head perfectly—the tension, the suspension, the refusal to resolve. He could feel exactly how his fingers would shape the dissonance on the keys.
But the German words for suspension, dominant seventh, and augmented sixth?
They evaporated.
"I..." Jaemin stammered, his face heating up. "It is... the tension is... nicht..."
A few of the other students turned around to stare at him. He saw smirks. He saw a girl whisper something to her neighbor, giggling behind their hands.
The humiliation was piercing, a flaming brand across his cheeks. He wanted to shrink into the furniture.
"If you cannot speak the language of music, you have no business in this class," the professor scowled, turning back to the board. "Next. Someone who actually belongs here."
Jaemin felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. This was a mistake. A colossal mistake.
He made to grab his bag, ready to bolt, ready to run straight to the airport and fly home.
"Professor Leitner."
The voice came from Jaemin's right on the same row. It was calm, deep, and sounded like a cello string being bowed perfectly. A young man stood up.
He was Korean. That was the first thing Jaemin noticed, the familiarity of his features. The second thing was how utterly impeccable he looked. He wore a camel-colored wool coat over a cashmere turtleneck, his hair styled back from a forehead that looked like it belonged on a statue. He didn't look scared. He looked bored, but in a polite, elegant way.
"With respect," the stranger said in flawless, fluid German, "my classmate was referencing the lack of resolution itself as the answer. He was about to say that the tension is nicht aufgelöst—not resolved—which is the modern context. He understands the concept perfectly; he simply hasn't had his morning coffee yet."
The class laughed; a warm, forgiving laugh. Even Professor Leitner's stern expression softened.
"Is that so, Herr Choi?" he huffed. "Very well. Sit down, both of you."
Jaemin slumped back in his chair, his heart still racing, but the crushing weight had lifted.
He took a peek to his right. The handsome stranger turned his head, caught Jaemin's eye, and offered a small, conspiratorial wink.
…
"Wait! Please, wait!"
Jaemin scrambled down the hallway after the class ended, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. The stranger—Herr… Choi?—was walking at a leisurely pace, a violin case slung effortlessly over one shoulder.
At the sound of Jaemin's frantic call, he stopped and turned. Up close, he was even more intimidating. He wore a cologne of juniper, a sharp, icy scent that chilled the underlying warmth of black tea clinging to his coat. It was crisp, like fresh snow on dark leaves, but politely designed to mask whatever lay underneath.
"Thank you," Jaemin gasped, bowing deeply. "Thank you so much for helping me back there. I... I knew the answer, I just couldn't..."
"I know you knew," the man said, speaking in Korean. His voice was warm, wrapping around Jaemin like a scarf. "I saw you tapping the interval on your desk before the professor even asked. You have good instincts."
Jaemin straightened, stunned. "You saw that?"
"I notice things," the man smiled. He extended a hand. "Choi Seungcheol, Third Year."
"Seo Jaemin, First Year." Jaemin took the hand. Choi Seungcheol's grip was firm, dry, and warm.
"Well, Seo Jaemin," his savior said, checking an expensive silver watch on his wrist. "Since I told the professor you hadn't had your morning coffee, I suppose we should remedy that. Would you like to grab a drink?"
"I... I don't have much money," Jaemin admitted, his ears burning again.
Choi Seungcheol laughed, a low, rich sound. "I didn't ask if you had money. I asked if you wanted a drink. Come on. The Einspänner at the central café is a rite of passage."
…
An hour later, Jaemin sat in a booth under a vaulted ceiling, staring wide-eyed at a glass of espresso topped with a mountain of whipped cream.
The café was bustling with students and faculty. As they had walked to their table, Jaemin noticed how people reacted to his companion. A group of girls near the window waved eagerly; a stern-looking cello professor gave him a nod of recognition.
Choi Seungcheol acknowledged them all with a practiced, effortless grace—a small nod here, a charming smile there—before turning his full, undivided attention back to Jaemin.
It made Jaemin feel dizzy, like he had been pulled into the orbit of a sun.
Choi Seungcheol sipped his own espresso, his gaze drifting toward the window where the snow was starting to fall.
Jaemin watched him, fidgeting with his spoon. The question had been burning in his throat since the hallway. The confidence, the way the room seemed to bend around him... it was unmistakable.
"You're..." Jaemin started, his voice quiet. "You're an alpha, aren't you?"
Choi Seungcheol paused. He turned from the window, looking at Jaemin with a lazy, side-eyed glance.
He didn't deny it. He didn't puff up his chest about it either. He just acknowledged it as a simple fact of nature, like gravity.
"Yes," he acknowledged easily. "And you?"
Jaemin blushed, his gaze dropping to his cup. He didn't want to lie. Not to the man who had rescued him in class, who was buying him this drink, who looked at him like he mattered. But the truth was dangerous.
"I..." Jaemin hesitated, biting his lip. "I'm registered as a beta."
It wasn't untrue. It was what was stamped on his visa.
Choi Seungcheol hummed, a thoughtful sound. Jaemin thought he saw the man's eyes sharpen for a moment, but his companion didn't press. He simply let the silence stretch comfortably before shifting the topic, as if sensing Jaemin's discomfort.
"So, tell me," he said, leaning forward. "What brings a registered-beta pianist all the way to Vienna to suffer through Advanced Harmony?"
The conversation flowed after that. Choi Seungcheol asked about Jaemin's hometown, his audition piece, his favorite composers and musicians. He listened with an intensity that made Jaemin feel like he was the only person in the crowded café.
For the first time in weeks, Jaemin didn't feel like a fraud. He felt seen.
He was halfway through the cup of cream and caffeine when he confessed, "I was terrified coming here. Everyone is so talented. I feel like an imposter."
"Talent is common here, Jaemin," his companion said, setting his cup down. "Hard work is common too. But a true understanding of the architecture of sound? That is rare."
He reached across the small wooden table to take Jaemin's hand. He turned it palm up, studying the structure.
Jaemin froze as Choi Seungcheol's thumb brushed over a smudge of fresh black ink staining the side of his ring finger—the mark of someone who wrote faster than the ink could dry.
But Seungcheol didn't comment on it. Instead, he ran a cool finger along the taut webbing between Jaemin's thumb and index finger, testing the flexibility, noting the impressive, practiced width of the span. It was a gentle, appreciative touch, but there was something heavy behind it, almost… possessive.
"You have the hands of a virtuoso, Seo Jaemin," Choi Seungcheol murmured, his eyes dark and unreadable for a split second before they softened back into friendliness. "Don't let them intimidate you. The people in that classroom are technicians. They merely play the notes."
He released Jaemin's hand and leaned back, smiling that perfect, devastatingly handsome smile.
"Stick with me," he said. "We'll make sure they hear your music loud and clear."
In the warm, golden light of the café, surrounded by the smell of roasted beans and old wood, Jaemin looked at Choi Seungcheol and realized he had made his first friend out here in this strange, new country.
He smiled back, grateful and glowing, and finished his drink.