The bistro was loud, warm, and smelled of garlic and wine, starkly vibrant in contrast to the sterile practice studio.
Lukas had been true to his word; he wasn't alone. Three other brass players, all betas, were squeezed into the booth, loud and boisterous, welcoming Jaemin into their fold without a second thought.
"You're the one who wrote that dissonance etude last semester, aren't you?" a horn player named Marcus asked, his eyes wide. "Man, that piece is legendary in the theory department. Professor Schmidt uses it as an example of 'perfect tension.'"
Jaemin blinked in surprise. "Really? I thought... Hyu—Choi Seungcheol said it was a bit undisciplined."
"Undisciplined?" A trombone player snorted. "It was genius. Seriously, Jaemin, you've got fans you don't even know about."
"Even the string section was talking about it," a female tuba player chimed in, leaning across the table with a grin. "The first chair cellist said it felt like a panic attack set to sheet music, but in the most beautiful way possible. You made the violinists jealous, Jaemin. If that's not power, I don't know what is."
Jaemin felt a flush rise to his cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from a strange, bubbling warmth.
He wasn't just Seungcheol's shadow here. He was Seo Jaemin, a musician in his own right.
As the night wore on, the group began to thin out. Marcus and the others caught a look from Lukas—a subtle tilt of the head—and one by one seemed to remember that they had something or another: assignments to complete, dogs to be walked, or early morning sectionals. They bid their loud goodbyes, leaving Jaemin and Lukas alone in the booth to finish the bottle.
As the wine continued to flow, the atmosphere shifted, the bustling noise of the bistro fading into the background.
Lukas casually swirled the remaining red liquid in his glass, watching the light catch it.
"It's nice, isn't it?" he commented, his voice dropping to a more comfortable, intimate register amidst the clatter of silverware. "Just hanging out. No posturing, no pheromone competitions, no hierarchy. That's the one good thing about being a beta in this place. We might not get the solos, but we don't have to deal with the constant biological warfare you guys do."
He looked up, offering Jaemin a conspiratorial smile. But Jaemin had stiffened in his seat.
"You know," Lukas continued gently, noticing the change. "You don't have to be so tense with me. I'm not going to rat on you." He tapped his nose with a lop-sided grin. "You're an omega, aren't you?"
Jaemin sat frozen, his fingers gripping the stem of his glass. The secret he had guarded so carefully—the one thing that could get him into serious trouble in this conservative, alpha-dominated institution—hung in the air between them.
"I..." The words caught in his dry throat, panic clawing at his chest. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Hey." Seeing his expression, Lukas quickly reached across the table to cover Jaemin's trembling hand with his own. His palm was dry and warm. "Hey, hey. Relax. I don't care. Hell, I think it makes you even cooler. A male omega tearing up the Piano and Composition departments? That's badass."
Jaemin stared at him. There was no mockery in Lukas's eyes. Just acceptance, and… admiration.
The tight knot of fear that lived permanently in Jaemin's gut loosened, just a fraction. "You... don't think it's weird?"
"I think you're amazing," Lukas said simply. "And… I think even geniuses deserve to have a night off every now and then."
Jaemin looked down at their hands. For the first time, he didn't feel the need to pull away or explain himself. A shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I guess you're right," he agreed quietly.
Lukas beamed, squeezing Jaemin's hand once more before letting go to signal for the check. As he shifted, his knee brushed against Jaemin's under the table—a deliberate, gentle contact that sent a small tingle up Jaemin's spine.
Minutes later, they were standing on the sidewalk outside. The winter air was biting, but the wine kept Jaemin warm. They stood close, the bistro's golden light spilling out onto the snow behind them.
"So," Lukas said, rocking back on his heels, hands in his coat pockets as he blew his fringe out of his eyes, a casual gesture that had grown familiar to Jaemin across the night. "I know it's getting late, but I'm… kinda not ready to let you go yet."
He looked at Jaemin, deep blue eyes hopeful.
"There's a jazz lounge a few blocks down. Quieter. Better music, better drinks." He tipped his head to one side, his smile dimpled and charming. "What do you say?"
Jaemin looked at him, cheeks warm despite the flurrying late night wind. For the first time in months, the punishing weight of expectation felt miles away.
"I'd like that," he began, just as his phone vibrated violently in his coat pocket.
Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt.
Jaemin pulled it out, the incoming call screen glowing bright in the dark street, and paused.
Hyung.
Jaemin stared down at it. He wanted to ignore it. He was having a good time, and didn't feel like dealing with the demanding tension that had established itself between him and his partner recently.
"You gonna get that?" Lukas asked, eyeing the name on the screen.
Jaemin bit his lip. The phone kept ringing, insistent and demanding.
"I... I should. Sorry. It might be about the concerto."
He picked up, turning slightly away from the wind. "Hyung. I told you, I'm—"
"Is this Jaemin?"
It wasn't Seungcheol. The voice was gruff, impatient, and barely audible over the thumping bass of a club in the background.
"Yes?"
"I'm calling from The Blue Note. I'm the bartender. Look, you're the emergency contact on this guy's phone. You need to come get him."
"Get who? Choi Seungcheol?" Jaemin straightened, alarm warring with confusion. Seungcheol didn't go to places like The Blue Note. He said they were too busy wallowing in mainstream pop trash to do anything of worth with their lives.
"Well, he's here. He's not causing a scene, exactly, but he's... barely upright. He's losing grip on himself, but he just keeps staring at the bottom of his glass and asking for you."
The person on the other end sighed in the heavy exasperation of a man who couldn't be more done with the clean-up his job entailed.
"Please, just come get your friend before I have to kick him out on the curb for the police to find."
The line went dead.
Jaemin stood there, the phone clutched in his hand, the silence of the snowy street suddenly deafening.
"Is everything okay?" Lukas asked, stepping closer.
Jaemin looked at his new friend, then at the darkened screen of his phone. He thought of Seungcheol—his proud, perfect, invincible hyung—sitting alone in a dive bar, mumbling his name.
The image was so wrong, so fractured, that it physically hurt.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice tight with guilt. "I have to go. It's an emergency."
"I can come with you—"
"No. No, it's fine," Jaemin said quickly, already flagging down a passing taxi. He opened the door, looking back one last time at the newfound warmth he was leaving behind.
"Thanks for tonight, Lukas. Really. I had a great time. Thank you."
He slid into the cab and gave the driver the address of The Blue Note, not daring to look back at Lukas standing alone on the curb.
…
If getting Seungcheol into the taxi had been difficult, getting him up the stairs to his apartment was a battle of physics.
Seungcheol wasn't stumbling or belligerent; he was simply heavy, his usual grace completely abandoned to gravity. He leaned his entire weight against Jaemin, his head drooping low.
He reeked of alcohol, but beneath the fumes of expensive whisky churned his real scent of black tea, together with a tinge of something citrus. Usually masked under tight control and crisp juniper, it now poured off him in thick, bitter waves of distress.
So this was what the bartender had meant about losing grip. The pheromones were so potent they made Jaemin's head spin. Still, he had to get him home, make sure he was safe. It was the least he could do for the man who had done so much for him.
"Hyung, watch the step," he grunted, hauling Seungcheol through the front door of the apartment.
They stumbled into the hallway. Seungcheol's foot caught on the edge of the expensive rug, and they went down together, sprawling onto the hardwood floor.
Jaemin groaned, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He tried to push himself up, but Seungcheol was heavy on top of him, a deadweight of muscle and heat.
"Jaemin," Seungcheol mumbled. His head lifted slowly. His eyes were blown wide, dark, and unfocused, searching Jaemin's face in a way that made Jaemin's breath hitch. "You came back."
"Of course I was gonna come back, we have our session tomorrow," Jaemin panted, his hands resting tentatively on Seungcheol's shoulders in an attempt to steady him. "Had. I don't think you're going anywhere tomorrow."
He patted Seungcheol on the arm, trying to get him to move. "You're drunk. Let me up, let me get you some water."
"I thought you left me," Seungcheol whispered, arms looping clumsily around Jaemin's smaller frame. His voice was raw, stripped of its usual dominance. "I thought you left…"
His grip tightened around Jaemin, pinning him to the floor, not with violence, but with desperate need. He buried his face in the crook of Jaemin's neck, inhaling deeply.
"You smell delicious," he mumbled against the cold skin, the vibration running through Jaemin's body. "Like home in spring."
A small, surprised moan escaped Jaemin as Seungcheol's scent flared, spicy and commanding; strong black tea with the bitter citrus edge of bergamot. Jaemin had caught hints of it here and there in the past two years, but this… this was the first time he had ever witnessed his hyung lose control of his pheromones like this.
The smell slammed into him hard, triggering a biological response he couldn't control. His pulse skyrocketed further when Seungcheol's lips, chilled by the night but soft, found the scent gland just beneath his ear.
This was Choi Seungcheol—his mentor, his idol, his hyung, the man he had orbited for three years.
The man he had secretly, quietly, wanted for so long, but who had never moved to claim him in that way.
"You're mine," Seungcheol growled low in his throat, his lips brushing the sensitive pulse point under Jaemin's jaw and making him shudder. "My pianist. My partner. We were supposed to be great together… You don't get to run away to some... third-rate, beta, trumpeter…"
His arms wound tighter around Jaemin's waist, pulling him closer. It was clumsy, seeking comfort, seeking contact.
Seeking him.
For one frightening, electric second, Jaemin wavered. Seungcheol's pheromones were screaming at him to submit, to soothe the alpha on top of him, to finally cross the line they had danced around for years. He wanted to melt into the floor, into Seungcheol.
But then Seungcheol shifted, his weight turning oppressive, black tea pheromones spiking with a sudden, crushing density that transgressed the boundary between romantic to suffocating.
It was too much, too fast, a tidal wave of possessiveness that wasn't asking for permission.
Jaemin panicked. This wasn't the tender, careful romance he had daydreamed about in the practice rooms. This was greedy. This was consuming.
He wasn't prepared for this.
"Wait," he gasped out, and shoved Seungcheol back, harder than he intended.
The alpha fell away from him with a groan, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He didn't fight back. He simply blinked up at the ceiling with glazed eyes, his chest heaving.
"Mine..." he slurred, one hand reaching out weakly before falling back to the rug. His eyes fluttered shut, and within seconds, his breathing evened out into deep, unconscious sleep.
Jaemin scrambled backward across the floor until his back hit the wall. He was shaking. His heart felt like it was trying to hammer its way out of his ribcage, a frantic rhythm completely out of his control.
He looked at Seungcheol, sprawled on the rug—messy, vulnerable, and dangerously beautiful—and suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe in this house, this place that had been a refuge for him so many times before. The air now was too heavy with the smell of intoxicated black tea and bergamot, bewildered florals, and too many things left unsaid.
He grabbed his bag with trembling hands and fled into the night, leaving the door to slam shut on its own behind him.