The autumn rains in Vienna were a cold, persistent grey curtain that turned the cobblestones slick and seeped into the marrow of his bones. But inside Choi Seungcheol's off-campus apartment, the weather was merely a backdrop, a distant, rhythmic patter against the double-paned glass that emphasized the warmth within.
At the start of their final semester, Jaemin had moved back into the Academy dorms—a financial necessity, given the steep hike in tuition for the graduating year. Yet, his own room was little more than a storage unit now, a shoebox filled with the smell of damp wool and the constant, discordant practicing of the bassoonist next door.
For all intents and purposes, he spent most of his time here, enjoying the quiet luxury of Seungcheol's apartment with his partner in music.
He sat now, cross-legged on the Persian rug, back resting against the plush velvet of the sofa as he worked at the low coffee table.
Behind him, Seungcheol was sprawled out, abandoning his usual perfect posture for a boneless, exhausted slouch. He held a score in one hand, studying it as he toyed lazily with the soft strands of Jaemin's hair with the other.
"The opening flourish in Don Juan," Seungcheol murmured, his brows furrowed as he glared at the Strauss score in his hand. "The violins are always muddy. They can never synchronize the ascent."
"It's not the violins," Jaemin replied without looking up from his own work, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips, his voice quiet but sure. "It's your upbeat. You're hesitating before the downbeat. If you don't trust the entry, they won't trust the bow."
Seungcheol made a low noise of amusement in his throat; a concession. He shifted, sliding down the sofa until his chin came to rest heavily on Jaemin's shoulder, his chest pressing warmly against Jaemin's back.
Jaemin stopped writing, acutely aware of the weight and heat of him.
"Don't move," Seungcheol whispered.
Jaemin froze, his pen hovering over the staff paper spread out on the coffee table. He felt Seungcheol lean down, pressing his nose right against the sensitive junction of Jaemin's neck and shoulder, and inhaled, a slow, deep drag of air.
Jaemin's breath hitched. He was wearing his scent blockers, as he always did. To the Academy, to the world, even to Seungcheol, he was a beta.
But lately, Seungcheol's affection had evolved into something tactile, bordering on primal. Whenever he nosed at Jaemin's skin, seeming to instinctively seek out the sweetness buried beyond the artificial neutral smell, Jaemin felt a phantom heat flare in his belly—a terrifying, electric jolt of instinct warring with logic.
He knows, Jaemin's omega instincts screamed, making his heart jump against his ribs. He's scenting you; he has to know.
But Seungcheol didn't say anything. He never did. He just sighed, the breath ghosting hot over Jaemin's skin, and pressed a light but lingering kiss to the vertebrae at the base of his neck.
"I can't think when you're not here," he murmured, his voice low and rough with fatigue. "This apartment is too big. Stay a little longer? For dinner?"
It wasn't a confession of love. It wasn't a commitment. But to Jaemin, drunk on the proximity of the man who was now closer than his own brother, it was enough. He told himself this was simply how things were done in the West; a courtship of shared silences and mutual artistic understanding, free from the rigid labels of home.
"Okay," he whispered, leaning back into the touch. "I'll stay."
…
Two hours later, the domestic warmth had evaporated. The air in the apartment had curdled into something heavy and tense.
They were supposed to be working on their graduation compositions. The prompt was open-ended, a test of pure voice.
Define your legacy.
Jaemin was flying. His pen scratched in urgent rhythm against the paper, ideas spilling out of him faster than he could catch them.
But from the grand piano across the room, there was only frustration.
Seungcheol would play a chord, let it ring out, and then rise from the bench in agitation to pace the room like a caged tiger. He ran his fingers through his hair, stared blankly out the window at the falling rain.
The sharp, sudden ring of the doorbell shattered the vacuum. Jaemin looked up from his place on the floor as Seungcheol went to the door, returning a moment later with a thick, cream-colored envelope. Even from a distance, Jaemin could see the seal—red wax, stamped with a complex, silver insignia.
"Your family?" Jaemin asked softly.
Seungcheol didn't look at him. He made a noncommittal noise in his throat, a low hum that could have meant anything, and walked to the window to read.
Jaemin watched him, his mind drifting briefly to his own family, his father. It had been six months since they had last spoken, the conversation ending in a dial tone when Jaemin refused yet again to come home and take a business major instead.
He gripped his pen tighter. Three years, coming to four. Because flights home weren't covered by his scholarship, he hadn't returned since his studies here had begun, and no matter how eager he had been to escape and spread his wings, there were days when he couldn't help but feel homesick. He missed his friends back home, missed the food, missed his mother's soft warmth, his siblings' bright laughter and silly antics.
But he had to push through. He would return with a degree and a composition piece that was entirely his own. He would prove to his father that he wasn't a mistake.
A sharp, crumpling sound brought him back to the present.
Seungcheol stood by the window, the letter crushed in his fist. The slouch of the exhausted student had vanished, replaced by a rigid, brittle tension. His broad shoulders squared, not in confidence, but in defense.
Without a word, Seungcheol walked to the metal wastebasket in the corner of the room and threw the ball of paper in with enough force that it rattled against the tin.
"I'm going for a smoke," he said, his voice dead flat. He didn't look at Jaemin, just grabbed his coat and stormed out into the rain.
"Seungcheol, wait," Jaemin started, half-rising. "It's pouring out there."
"It's fine," Seungcheol clipped out.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving Jaemin alone in the silence.
Jaemin waited. One minute. Two. He tried to look at his music, but the notes wouldn't come into focus.
He shouldn't look. It was an invasion of privacy.
But the expression on Seungcheol's face—like a man waiting for the executioner's blade—refused to leave his mind.
Making up his mind, Jaemin scrambled up, crossed the room, and fished the crumpled ball from the bin. He smoothed it out on the piano lid.
The letter was brief, and brutal.
Do not mistake our patience for leniency. I have been informed that your preliminary scores are merely adequate. That is not a word our family recognizes.
Secure the European Fellowship. Win the Grand Prize. If you return to Seoul with anything less, do not bother returning. You wasted your chance with the Berlin Philharmonic, and we have no use for a conductor who cannot lead.
Heart sinking as realization dawned, Jaemin looked up, taking in the apartment—the leather furniture, the high ceilings, the view of the wet city streets.
It wasn't a gift. It was a cage.
A fierce wave of protectiveness washed over him, hot and blinding. Seungcheol wasn't being distant or difficult because of ego. He was terrified. He was carrying the crushing weight of a dynasty on his back, a father who saw him as an investment rather than a son… and it was crushing the music out of him.
I have to help him, Jaemin thought, carefully refolding the letter and placing it deep in the trash, burying it under a layer of coffee grounds so Seungcheol wouldn't know he'd seen it. I have to be good enough to stand beside him. I need to be strong enough to shoulder some of this weight.
He returned to his workspace, his resolve hardening. He didn't want to write a piece just to pass. He wanted to create something that would make Seungcheol smile again, music so undeniable that when they stood on the stage together, Seungcheol would look at him not just as a friend, but as a true partner—an equal in music and in life.
The melody hit him all at once—a sorrowful, soaring line for the violins, answered by the deep, steady resolve of the cellos. It was the sound of rain against glass, of a warm hand on the back of his neck, of a silent plea for connection.
Jaemin picked up his pen, and the music began to flow.