A year had passed since he'd first arrived, a year that felt like a decade of struggle compressed into twelve months. He had come here with nothing but a suitcase and a pair of hands that knew how to play Liszt, but Vienna was a beast that chewed up hopefuls and spat them out.
There was the language barrier; German grammar that twisted his tongue into knots.
There was the bureaucracy; visa renewals, rental contracts, and insurance forms that looked like gibberish.
And then there was the loneliness, a cold, pervasive dampness that seeped into his bones faster than the Austrian winter.
But for every stumble, there had been a steady hand to catch him.
When Jaemin caught the flu in November and was too delirious to navigate the pharmacy, it was Choi Seungcheol who showed up at his dorm with medicine and porridge that tasted like the comfort of home.
When Jaemin's tongue tripped over the harsh consonants of the local dialect, it was Seungcheol who spent hours in the library with him, patiently correcting his pronunciation of "Streichquartett" and "Zwölftontechnik" until Jaemin sounded less like a tourist and more like a scholar.
When his landlord tried to cheat him out of his deposit, it was Seungcheol who stood in the doorway, speaking rapid, chillingly polite German until the money was returned.
Most recently, when Jaemin tried to transition from Piano Performance to Composition and was nearly rejected by the scholarship board—a move that would have sent him back to Korea in disgrace—it was Seungcheol who had vanished into the Dean's office for over an hour, emerging with a signed approval form and a tight jaw, but refused to explain exactly what he had said to sway them.
Seungcheol, practically royalty in the Academy, had become Jaemin's anchor. Having a fellow Korean in a foreign land was a comfort; having this specific Korean—who knew the ropes, the people, and the social dynamics—was a godsend.
…
It was late spring. Outside, the lilacs were blooming, but inside Seungcheol's high-ceilinged apartment, the air smelled of drying rosin, old books, and the savory richness of the dinner the senior had ordered in.
Jaemin ate quickly, scooping up the food as if he wasn't sure when the next decent meal would come. He had moved into a small, drafty studio apartment last week, another find of Seungcheol's, but his fridge was currently empty, and his heating was fickle.
Seungcheol watched him from across the mahogany table, a fond, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He poured more water into Jaemin's glass, anticipating the need before Jaemin even reached for it.
"Slow down," he said gently. "No one is going to take it away from you."
Jaemin flushed, lowering his spoon. "Sorry, Sunbae. The cafeteria food has been… questionable lately. And my scholarship stipend is late again."
"I told you to stop worrying about that," Seungcheol said, his tone breezy.
He reached into his pocket and slid a key across the table. It clinked softly against the marbletop, spinning to a stop near Jaemin's hand.
"That's for here. The fridge is always full. You're too thin, Jaemin-ah. It affects your playing weight. You need power in those arms if you're going to master that Rachmaninoff piece."
Jaemin stared at the key. It was a heavy, substantial thing. "No, no… I can't take this. You already helped me find my new apartment, and you let me practice on your piano when the practice studios at school are booked..."
"I'm not letting you do anything," Seungcheol interrupted, leaning back in his chair. He swirled his wine glass, looking at Jaemin with a soft, lidded gaze. "I'm just a homesick Korean boy, looking out for a fellow Korean musician. And a talented one, at that. It's pure selfishness; I like having you around."
Jaemin felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He wasn't used to compliments, certainly not from someone of Seungcheol's stature.
Eager to deflect the attention, his eyes darted to the heavy cream-colored envelope resting on the mantlepiece. Seungcheol had been pointedly ignoring it all evening.
"Speaking of… talent," Jaemin said, nodding toward the letter. "That's the Berlin Philharmonic acceptance, isn't it? You have to reply by this week. Everyone in the strings department is talking about it. A soloist track straight out of graduation… that's rare. Like, once-in-a-decade rare."
Seungcheol glanced at the letter. Jaemin was right. Any other violinist at the Academy would die for a chance at such an offer.
But he didn't see an opportunity; he saw a sentence. Berlin was far away. Berlin meant cold practice rooms, aggressive agents, and solitude. Berlin meant moving out of Vienna.
It meant leaving the fascinating, chaotic, brilliant boy sitting at his dining table.
"I'm not taking it," he said.
Jaemin's spoon clattered loudly onto the porcelain plate. "You... You're what? But—your graduation—What will you do?"
"I'm not going to Berlin. And I'm not graduating next month." Seungcheol stood up, walked to the mantlepiece, and tossed the letter into the wastebasket as casually as if it were a flyer for a pizza delivery. "I went to the Dean this morning. I'm declaring a second major. Composition and Conducting."
Jaemin's mouth fell open. "But... Sunbae, that's insane. That's another two years. You're the best violinist in the program. Why would you start over?" He paused, a sudden realization dawning on him. "Wait. Did the board make you do this because you vouched for my major change?"
Seungcheol didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to the table and pulled out the chair beside Jaemin. He seated himself with a comfortable ease, close enough that their knees almost brushed.
"They didn't make me do anything," Seungcheol said, his voice dropping low and quiet. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gray eyes intently focused on Jaemin.
"Though, you're right about one thing," he continued. "They didn't want a scholarship pianist switching to Composition. They thought it was a waste of money. But I told them they were deaf if they couldn't hear what I heard in your improvisations. I told them my tuition would cover the risk."
Jaemin balked. "You... You paid? For me? Or, your family's—"
"It doesn't matter," Seungcheol cut him off softly. He reached out to tap his fingers lightly against the back of Jaemin's hand on the table, as if he were playing on his instrument. "The violin is solitary. I've mastered it, and I realized, this year… It's lonely at the top. I don't want to stand on stage alone. I want to build something greater."
He looked back at Jaemin, his gaze intense and unwavering.
"You have melodies in your head that I could never even dream of," he murmured. "I hear you on the piano when you think no one is listening. It's raw and wild and… unearthly. You just don't seem to know how to organize it yet. You need a structure to pour your genius into."
Jaemin shivered under the scrutiny, but he didn't pull away. It was true. He was a mess of inspiration without any proper structure. Without Seungcheol, he often felt like he was drowning in the sheer noise of his own mind.
"If I stay," Seungcheol continued steadily, "I match your timeline. We graduate together. Imagine it, Jaemin. You on the piano, performing the concerto you wrote, with me on the podium, conducting the orchestra, translating your brilliant chaos into perfection.
"I want to build a legacy," he went on, "but I can't do it alone. I need a partner. I need… you."
Jaemin's heart hammered against his ribs. The admiration he felt for this man—the wealthy, charismatic, perfect senior who had taken him under his wing—swelled into something overwhelming.
The sense of guilt was immense, but the relief was stronger. The thought of Seungcheol leaving next month had been more terrifying to him than he had dared to admit.
He stared at Seungcheol, amber eyes searching the handsome face.
"You would delay your career for two years... for me?" he whispered in disbelief, his voice trembling with emotion and awe.
"For us," Seungcheol murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that made Jaemin's insides turn to water. He leaned in until Jaemin caught a faint scent of black tea. "For what we could achieve, together. So it's not a delay. It's preparation.
"You could be the greatest composer of our generation. We could own this city, the world. But you have to trust me to help you shape your song. You bring the emotion; I'll provide the structure." He looked up at Jaemin, suddenly appearing hesitant, "Does that… sound alright to you?"
It sounded glorious.
Barely able to believe what was happening, Jaemin could only nod mutely.
Seungcheol's answering smile was dazzling. He held a hand out between them.
"Deal?"
There was never any chance in any world that he would possibly refuse.
"Deal," he whispered, slipping his hand shyly into Seungcheol's larger one. "Thank you, Sunbae, for believing in me."
Seungcheol paused. His hand shifted, his fingers twining slightly with Jaemin's.
"If we are going to be partners," he said gently, "If we are going to face the world together... 'Sunbae' feels a little too distant, doesn't it?"
Jaemin swallowed. He looked at their joined hands, then up at the elegant, incandescent man sitting knee-to-knee with him, filling his entire field of vision.
"Hyung." The word spilled softly from his lips, unfamiliar but right.
Seungcheol smiled again, a wide, graceful curve of his lips which crinkled the gray eyes that burned with promise. He gave Jaemin's hand one last warm squeeze before rising to his feet, the energy in the room shifting from intense to celebratory in a heartbeat.
"Excellent," he said. "Now, finish up. I'll open a bottle to commemorate this moment. And then, we begin."