Waking up felt less like rising from sleep and more like being dredged up from the bottom of a lake. Jaemin's eyes fluttered open, heavy and uncooperative.
He stared blearily at a ceiling that was familiar, yet somehow wrong. The cracks in the plaster were the same. The water stain in the corner was the same. It was his dorm room.
But the air around him felt heavy, pressurized, as if the gravity in the room had been dialed up while he slept. It was stifling, the windows and door shut tight, sealing in a stale, stagnant heat composed of black tea, bergamot, and trampled cherry blossoms.
He tried to sit up, but his limbs were leaden. A groan scraped its way out of his throat, dry and rusty.
How long had he been out? The light filtering through the thin curtains was gray and flat—afternoon light, maybe? Or early morning?
He rolled onto his side, and the movement sent a sharp, throbbing ache radiating from the nape of his neck. He hissed, his hand flying up to cover the spot. There was a small, neat bandage there—someone had cleaned him up—but the skin beneath was hot to the touch, swollen and tender.
The memory hit him in fragmented, hazy flashes—heat, a voice that commanded absolute obedience, the scent of black tea and bergamot enveloping him, pressing into every corner of the room, and the sharp pierce of teeth.
Hyung.
He squeezed his eyes shut. The heat was gone. That biological inferno that had consumed him was extinguished, but it hadn't left him clean. He felt sedated. Chemically altered. It was a dense, dragging sensation, like his blood had been replaced with mercury.
He sniffed the air. His own scent—usually a sharp, chaotic burst when he was stressed—was muted. It was wrapped in something else, something heavier and darker that dampened him down. The mix of his pheromones with Seungcheol's lingered on his skin, triggering a complex, unsettling wave of emotion.
He remembered Seungcheol's presence, the deep, consuming kiss, the friction of their bodies. He remembered that his long-held, secret wish had finally been fulfilled…
But underneath the satisfaction was a faint, nagging unsettlement. A feeling of wrongness he couldn't quite place, like a sour note in a perfect chord.
"Hyung?" he croaked, craning his neck to peer through the bathroom doorway.
There was no one there.
With difficulty, Jaemin pushed himself out of bed, his legs wobbling beneath him. The venom from the bite made the room tilt sickeningly. He caught himself on the edge of his desk, breathing hard as he fought the dizziness.
I need to go back, his mind supplied sluggishly. Something… Something is missing.
The memory surfaced through the fog: the weight of the faux leather folder in his hands, the smell of fresh ink, the triumphant stroke of the final bar line. He had gone to Seungcheol's to share his soul with the person he admired most in this world, to show him the concerto.
Where was it? The thought, cold and sharp, pierced the chemical haze.
Spotting his bag slumped near the door, he stumbled across the room. He reached for the strap, but the bag lifted too easily. It was light. Wrongly light.
His breath hitched. With clumsy, trembling fingers, he ripped the zipper open and upended the bag onto the floor. A few loose pens tumbled out. Nothing else.
He stared at the empty nylon lining, his mind blanking out. He fell to his knees, patting the floor around the bag, then checking the bag again, shaking it upside down as if the thick manuscript could be hiding in a seam.
It wasn't there. The folder—holding a year's worth of sleepless nights, the erratic scribbles of his genius, the piece that was going to earn his freedom—was gone.
He needed to call Seungcheol. Seungcheol might know where it was. He needed to call him.
Eyes scanning the room, he found his phone on the tiny desk, but when he picked it up, the screen remained black. Completely dead.
That was unusual. Jaemin was meticulous about keeping it charged. He must have been asleep for longer than he realized.
He plugged it in, pacing the small room sluggishly while it booted up. When the screen finally lit up, the date stared back at him like an accusation.
Two days. He had been out cold for two whole days.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. He had missed his appointment with Professor Baumann. He was supposed to show him the draft for final feedback before the submission deadline.
Panic bubbling up, he placed a call to Seungcheol. Unavailable. He tried again, but the result was the same.
Hyung, did I leave my folder at your place? he texted. I can't find it.
He stared the phone, waiting, hoping for an indication that his message had been seen. But the minutes ticked by, and still there was nothing.
Seungcheol must be busy. But Jaemin couldn't wait. Trying to fight the rising tide of anxiety, he forced himself into the shower, making sure to scrub all traces of pheromones from his skin before getting dressed. Pulling his collar up high to hide the tender mark on his neck, he stumbled out the door.
…
The Academy was bustling. Students rushed between practice rooms, the cacophony of tuning instruments usually acting as a balm to Jaemin's nerves. Today, it felt like noise. It felt hostile, like knives straight to his aching head.
He moved through the hallways like a ghost, feeling utterly disconnected from the reality of the laughter and the stress around him. He checked the studio he and Seungcheol usually practiced in. Occupied by a string quartet. He checked the library. Nothing.
Desperation drove him to the faculty wing. If he had lost the folder, maybe he had somehow left it in the professor's office? It was a long shot, but it was all he had.
He knocked on the heavy oak door and slipped inside when Professor Baumann called for him to enter.
The professor was at his desk, grading papers. He looked up, his expression shifting from annoyance to a deep frown as he took in Jaemin's pale, disheveled appearance.
"Herr Seo," he said, taking off his glasses. "I was wondering when you'd grace us with your presence. You missed our appointment. You've been unreachable."
"I... I was sick, sir," Jaemin said, his voice sounding thin and weak in the large room. "I'm sorry I missed our appointment. I was… indisposed. I just—I came to check if I left my composition manuscript here, by any chance?"
Professor Baumann sighed, leaning back in his chair with a look of severe disappointment. "A folder? No. I haven't seen anything of yours, Jaemin. And quite frankly, I'm getting worried."
Jaemin's stomach dropped. "Sir?"
"The deadline is in two months," the professor lectured, tapping a pen against the desk. "You have raw talent, boy, more than most. But you lack discipline. You rely on bursts of inspiration rather than steady work. You haven't shown me nearly enough of this 'masterpiece' you claim to be writing."
"I'm working, sir, I promise," Jaemin stammered. "I just… I wanted it to be complete before—"
"You should take a leaf out of Herr Choi's book," the professor interrupted, pointing a finger at him. "The both of you are close, are you not?"
Jaemin paused, looking up at the professor in askance. "Choi… Seungcheol?"
Professor Baumann gave him an exasperated look. "Who else? Honestly, Jaemin. I know you Korean students often stick together, but sometimes I wonder if you take this seriously. Just because you come from wealthy families doesn't mean you can treat music as a fun little hobby. But Herr Choi? He understands the work."
Jaemin bit his lip, the unfairness of the comment stinging, but he didn't dare argue.
"Now, that is what discipline looks like," the professor continued, gesturing to the pile of documents sitting neatly on the corner of his desk. "He came in yesterday to submit his final manuscript. Two whole months early."
Jaemin, confused, could only parrot the words. "He... he submitted?"
"Locked it in," Professor Baumann nodded, looking impressed. "I'll admit, I was skeptical. He's always been technically perfect, but a bit cold. But this piece?" The professor shook his head. "It's exceptional. Complex. The emotional depth is staggering. It's raw, painful, and beautiful. The way the dissonance resolves into that minor sixth in the first movement… I didn't think he had that kind of sorrow in him, but he proved me wrong."
Jaemin's bewilderment hiked up further. Raw? Painful? That didn't sound like the Seungcheol he knew at all.
Seungcheol didn't write raw. Seungcheol wrote like an architect—structured, mathematical, perfect. Jaemin knew that he had drafted pieces, but they hadn't sounded anything like what the professor had just described. In fact, he knew for a fact that Seungcheol had been blocked for months, even though the alpha had never cared to admit it.
But I wrote a minor sixth, a quiet, confused voice whispered in the back of Jaemin's mind. I wrote that resolution.
A sharp pain spiked behind his eyes, mixing with the turbulence in his thoughts. Something wasn't adding up.
But the heavy, drugged feeling in his limbs made it hard to hold onto the thought. It slipped away like smoke.
Surely, it was just a coincidence. A shared influence. They had been working together for so long, their styles must have bled into one another.
"I see," he murmured. "I... I will have my submission in on time, Professor. I promise."
He excused himself and left the building, still empty-handed.
The headache was setting in for real now, a throbbing pulse that matched his heart. He didn't want to go back to the small, stifling dorm room, but he couldn't seem to get his thoughts in order.
Not knowing what to do next, he walked without realizing where he was heading until he looked up to find himself en route to the place where he had always found safety: Seungcheol's house. Just the thought of it brought a sense of comfort that soothed the nausea in his stomach. As he drew closer to his destination, the throbbing in his head seemed to quiet into a dull hum.
Seungcheol would be there. Seungcheol would know what to do.
He paused on the sidewalk, a sudden, cold realization washing over him. It was strange that he hadn't heard back from Seungcheol yet. His anxiety spiraled inward.
What if he's angry?
The thought terrified him. What if Seungcheol was offended by Jaemin's state when they'd had sex? Jaemin had been sick, sweaty, and resistant. What if he had repulsed Seungcheol for good? What if Seungcheol was furious that Jaemin had lied to him about his omega designation for so long?
Is that why he isn't replying?
His focus shifted entirely from the missing score to the terrifying fragility of their relationship. He had to make this right. He couldn't afford to lose Seungcheol.
Hurrying faster now, he reached the apartment building panting and drenched in cold sweat. As he took the elevator up, watching the numbers climb, each ding sounded like a countdown to judgment. Before he knew it, he stood before the familiar black door and rang the doorbell.
Silence.
He rang it again. Nothing.
He fumbled in his pockets for the spare key Seungcheol had given him, but his hands came up empty. He had rushed out of the dorm in such a frazzled state he had left it behind.
A wave of defeat crashed over him. Unable to stay on his feet any longer, Jaemin slid down the wall next to the door. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself.
He would wait. He would wait as long as it took. He needed to see Seungcheol, to apologize for being sick, for being difficult. He needed Seungcheol to tell him where he had carelessly misplaced the manuscript, to laugh and hand it back and tell Jaemin that the stress was getting to him, that he was being paranoid.
The exhaustion of the heat and the venom finally caught up with him. His eyelids grew heavy, and despite the cold floor, he drifted off into a restless slumber, waiting for the sound of the elevator that would signal his savior—or his executioner—had returned.