It was almost midnight when Seungcheol finally returned. He smelled of cold rain, damp wool, and the acrid bite of consecutive cigarettes.
He unlocked the door quietly, expecting the apartment to be empty. He had stayed away for hours, paralyzed by a toxic cocktail of shame and fury, unable to face anyone—least of all Jaemin, with his bright, hopeful eyes. He expected Jaemin to have gone back to the dorms, hungry and tired of waiting.
But the apartment was warm, lit only by the pool of yellow light from the floor lamp. And there, curled up in the middle of the floor, was Jaemin.
He had fallen asleep on the rug, his head resting on a throw pillow he must have pulled down from the couch. His mouth was slightly open, his dark hair messy across his forehead. He looked impossibly small, defenseless.
Seungcheol stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his coat onto the parquet floor, watching him. The tightness in his chest loosened, just a fraction.
He liked this. God, he liked this. He liked coming home to someone waiting. He liked the way Jaemin looked at him—like Seungcheol was the one who had hung the moon and stars in the sky above them. Just remembering it was a balm to the raw, bleeding wound his father's letter had left.
He walked quietly into the room, intending to wake Jaemin and send him to the bed, but his foot nudged a stack of paper on the floor.
Jaemin's manuscript.
Seungcheol crouched down. He knew he shouldn't look—it was considered bad form, to view a composer's work in progress without express invitation—but he couldn't help himself. The hunger in him, the need to see what Jaemin had created in his absence, was too strong.
He picked up the top sheet.
First Movement: Adagio.
Seungcheol's eyes scanned the staff. He heard the notes in his head instantly; perfect pitch was the one gift his father hadn't had to buy for him.
He frowned. He read the next four bars. Then the next page. He straightened up, walking noiselessly to the piano. He placed the sheet on the stand and pressed the keys so softly they barely whispered.
A suspended fourth hung in the air, tense and yearning, before resolving into a minor sixth that was so unexpected, so heartbreakingly beautiful, that it made Seungcheol's breath catch in his throat.
It was exquisite. Structurally complex, daring in its use of dissonance, yet retaining a melodic core that would bring any audience to its knees. It possessed a raw, emotive power that Seungcheol had been trying to force out of himself for months, failing every time.
Seungcheol looked at his own empty staff paper, sitting accusingly on the piano bench. Then he looked at Jaemin's work.
This wasn't just good. This was the work of a prodigy. This was the kind of piece that won fellowships.
The kind of piece that secured the Grand Prize.
Seungcheol turned to look down at the boy curled on his living room rug. A moment ago, he had felt affection. He had felt a desire to protect him.
Now, looking at the rise and fall of Jaemin's chest, Seungcheol felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his gut.
If Jaemin submitted this, Jaemin would win. And if Jaemin won, Seungcheol would lose everything. His inheritance, his allowance, his family name. His home.
He wouldn't just lose a contest; he would lose his future. He would be cut off, cast out, stripped of the only identity he had ever known.
He would be nothing.
The silence in the room stretched, heavy and suffocating. Seungcheol looked at the manuscript. It felt heavy in his hand, a weapon he had accidentally picked up.
He didn't tear it up, or burn it. Instead, he carefully gathered the papers, organized them into a stack, and placed them neatly back on the coffee table.
Then, he knelt to scoop Jaemin up into his arms.
At the movement, Jaemin murmured something unintelligible, nuzzling into the damp wool of Seungcheol's coat, blindly trusting and seeking warmth.
"Shh," Seungcheol whispered, lifting the boy's slight body and carrying him into the bedroom. "Stay asleep. I've got you."
He laid Jaemin down on the silk sheets and pulled the duvet up to his chin, then brushed a stray lock of hair from Jaemin's eyes, his thumb lingering on the boy's fair cheek. A surge of emotion, so strong it almost brought him to his knees.
I love him, he thought. The realization was a shock. I think I actually love him.
He stared at Jaemin's peaceful face, his heart aching with the truth of it.
But then, the image of his father's letter, crumpled in the trash, flashed behind his eyes. The threat. The humiliation. The end of his life as he knew it.
He kissed Jaemin's forehead softly, his touch heartbreaking in its tenderness.
I love you, he thought again.
But there are things I cannot afford to lose.