"Jaemin?"
The voice came from a great distance, filtering through the sludge of his exhaustion.
Jaemin's eyes fluttered open to find Seungcheol standing over him. The hallway light haloed his dark hair, casting his face in shadow, but the voice was unmistakable. It was the voice that had anchored Jaemin for three years.
"Hyung," Jaemin breathed.
He scrambled up, desperation lending him a sudden, frantic burst of energy. But his body, still ravaged by the aftermath of the heat and the venom, betrayed him. His knees buckled instantly.
He didn't hit the floor. Strong arms caught him, hauling him up against a firm, broad chest. The scent of black tea and bergamot washed over him—not the stifling, concentrated scent of the dorm room, but the fresh, sharp scent of the living man.
"It's alright," Seungcheol murmured, his hands steadying Jaemin by the waist. "I've got you. I've got you."
Jaemin clung to him, his breath coming in ragged hitches. He looked up, searching Seungcheol's face, bracing himself for the disgust he was sure he deserved. He waited for the sneer, for the anger at having been deceived by an omega in disguise, for the repulsion at Jaemin's sickness.
But it wasn't there.
Seungcheol was looking at him with deep, furrowed concern. His gray eyes roved over Jaemin's pale face, checking for injuries. But beneath the worry, there was something else. A strange rigidity in his jaw. A shadow in his eyes that looked almost like… guilt? Or perhaps, a heavy, solemn resolve.
"Come inside," Seungcheol said quietly. He didn't let go, guiding Jaemin into the apartment and closing the door against the world.
The familiar interior of the penthouse usually brought Jaemin peace, but today, the silence felt stretched and thin. Seungcheol guided him to the leather sofa, sitting him down gently.
"I called you," Jaemin said, his voice trembling. "I texted. I… I was worried."
"I had some things to handle," Seungcheol said vaguely. He didn't sit. He stood by the kitchen island, pouring a glass of water. He brought it over, but he didn't hand it to Jaemin. He placed it on the coffee table, keeping a strange distance. "You look terrible, Jaemin. You should still be resting."
"My folder," Jaemin blurted out, ignoring the water. The panic was rising up to his throat again. "Hyung, did I leave it here? The manuscript is gone. I checked my bag, I checked the dorm, I even went to Professor Baumann's office and—"
He stopped.
Seungcheol had gone very still. He wasn't looking at Jaemin; he was staring ahead at a point on the wall, his expression unreadable.
"You went to Baumann?" he asked. His tone was perfectly level.
"I thought, maybe I left it there at his office somehow," Jaemin mumbled. He clasped his shaking hands—why were they shaking?—tightly in his lap. "But it wasn't there." He paused, then looked up at Seungcheol. "He also said… he said that you submitted, yesterday."
Seungcheol finally looked at him. There was no surprise on his face. No confusion. Just that heavy, stony resolve.
"I did."
"That's amazing, Hyung," Jaemin said automatically, though the words felt like ash in his mouth. The professor's description of the music echoed in his mind. "I'm glad. But… my folder. Did you see it? I can't find it anywhere."
Seungcheol sighed. It was a long, weary sound. He walked over to the sideboard and opened a drawer.
When he turned back, the faux leather folder was in his hands.
Jaemin let out a sob of relief, his body sagging. "Oh, thank you. Thank you." He straightened, reaching out for it. "I thought I'd lost it. I thought—"
But Seungcheol didn't hand it over.
"Jaemin," he started, his voice soft, almost pleading. "You know how much pressure I've been under."
Jaemin's hand stopped mid-air. "Hyung?"
"I couldn't write," the alpha admitted. He took a step closer, looming over the sofa where Jaemin sat. "For months. Every time I sat at the piano, it was just… empty. And the deadline was coming. If I didn't submit something momentous, something that would secure the European Fellowship and the Grand Prize, my father would have cut me off. My life would be over before it began."
"I know," Jaemin whispered, a cold dread pooling in his stomach. "I know how hard it is. That's why I wanted to help you, to support you in whatever ways I could."
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus.
"But, Hyung, if I want to stay here, if I want to be the partner you need me to be, I have to pass this. I can't support you if I fail." He held out his hand, fingers trembling. "Please. I need my work back."
Seungcheol looked at the folder, then back at Jaemin. His expression hardened, not with anger, but with a chilling practicality.
"It's not yours anymore, Jaemin."
The world stopped.
"What?"
"Professor Baumann loved it," Seungcheol said, a sudden feverish brightness entering his eyes. "He said it was genius. The kind of piece that defines a generation."
"He… he saw it?" Jaemin's mind couldn't make the leap. "You showed him my draft? To get feedback for me?"
"I submitted it as mine."
The silence that followed was louder than any scream. It sucked the air right out of the room, leaving Jaemin gasping, his lips moving soundlessly.
What…?
"I re-transcribed it," Seungcheol continued quickly, stepping over the silence, as if speed could justify the sin. "I cleaned up the notation. I changed the tempo marking in the second movement—it was too fast, you know it was. And I gave it a title."
He smiled, a small, tight, terrifying smile.
"The Conductor's Oath."
Jaemin felt like he had been struck by a sledgehammer.
The Conductor's Oath.
It was a perverse, twisted mirror of the title Jaemin had run by Seungcheol only three days ago. A title that was meant to be a dedication. A promise of loyalty to the man he loved.
Seungcheol had taken that devotion and made it about himself.
"You stole it," Jaemin whispered. The shock was so profound it numbed his lips. "You stole my composition."
"I saved it!" Seungcheol insisted, stepping closer, his scent flaring past the carefully applied juniper veil with agitation. "Look at you, Jaemin. You're chaos. You have raw talent, yes, but you're hysterical. You write in bursts and fits. You were sick, you were drowning in your own heat—you would have tweaked this piece until it broke, or you would have missed the deadline entirely because you were too busy crying over a bar line."
He held the folder up like a trophy.
"I gave it structure. I gave it the discipline it needed to be a masterpiece. I gave it life—"
"It's mine!" Jaemin screamed.