The day of the opening concert dawned bright and clear, but for Seo Jaemin, the sunlight felt like a spotlight he wasn't ready for. He moved through the morning preparations with a brittle, frantic energy.
Every time his phone buzzed, his heart jumped against his ribs, expecting the blow to land. But the screen was always benign: a message from Manager Park about ticket will-call; texts from Junho and Jina, wishing him luck; a notification about the weather.
He's bluffing, Jaemin told himself for the thousandth time as he buttoned his shirt, willing his hands not to tremble. He's trying to scare me because I bruised his ego. He can't hurt us now. We're about to win. But he couldn't help the apprehension that had hung over him ever since Choi Seungcheol had parted with those words.
Do-hyun, by contrast, was a picture of zen-like focus. After one final call with his lawyers the night before, he had switched his phone off, tossing the device into a drawer.
"No more distractions," he had mumbled, snuggling in close to wrap his limbs around Jaemin. "Full focus on the music. On us. Just us."
Jaemin watched him now, standing by the wardrobe as he slicked back his hair.
"You smell clean," Do-hyun noted without looking up.
Jaemin hummed in response. After Choi Seungcheol had driven off, he had rushed to the washroom to splash his face, then insisted that Do-hyun drive them home with the windows rolled down. Once home, he had spent forty minutes in the shower scrubbing his skin until it stung, desperate to wash away the phantom stench of black tea before Do-hyun could pick up on it, dousing himself in body wash to layer over the memory of the confrontation.
"That's good," he quipped with a humor he couldn't feel. "Can't have the audience walking out because the conductor's releasing waves of B.O."
"Don't worry, your pheromones have been stable. And I'm going to triple check every single thing you eat, or drink, or touch to make sure it's all safe." Do-hyun walked over and kissed him lightly on the temple. "You're going to be perfect."
Jaemin forced himself to smile up at his mate, squeezing his hand tight.
…
The Chamber Music Theatre was small, but the energy inside was nuclear. Every one of the 300 seats was filled. People were standing in the back. The air was thick with body heat and anticipation.
Jaemin stepped onto the podium. He looked at his reduced orchestra—the thirty-odd musicians who had stuck by them, even when the money had run out—and raised his baton.
Mendelssohn's Hebrides Overture began—a swelling, rolling sound that mimicked the sea. It was tight, disciplined, and alive.
The audience leaned in. But it was the violin concerto they were waiting for. When Do-hyun stepped forward for the solo, the room went deadly silent.
Catching Jaemin's gaze, Do-hyun nodded. Just us, his gaze seemed to say. Just us.
The song began.
It was everything they had worked for. The chamber arrangement stripped away the pomp and circumstance, leaving only the raw nerve of the melody. Do-hyun played with a vulnerability that was terrifying to witness. His violin wept and soared, notes clear as crystal in the dry acoustic of the music theatre.
Jaemin conducted him, their connection a physical tether. For thirty minutes, he forgot the threat. He forgot Choi Seungcheol, and all the hurt he had received in the past. He forgot the envelope, the threat.
He was just a man making music with the person he loved.
When the final chord crashed to a halt, the silence held for a heartbeat—and then the room exploded.
It wasn't polite applause. It was a roar. People were on their feet. Flowers rained down from the balcony.
Do-hyun lowered his violin, chest heaving, face shining from the effort. He looked at Jaemin and grinned—a wide, uninhibited expression of pure joy.
…
Backstage during the intermission, the adrenaline was high. The musicians were hugging each other, laughing, wiping tears.
"Did you hear them?" Yoon Hyeonwoo Hwan Se-jin on the back. "They went crazy!"
Hwan Se-jin winced at the impact, but couldn't stop his own smile. "Looks like we all made the right decision to stay."
In the corner, Han Chaewon checked her phone to see the social media reaction. As expected, the rave reviews had begun, a few savvy audience members even posting clips of Do-hyun's solo, accompanied by a slew of thirsty comments.
Then, her smile dropped.
"Eunji-ya." She shouldered her way over to the viola player. "Look at this."
Jung Eunji looked at the screen and went pale. "Oh my god," she whispered. "Is this real?"
"What is it?" Manager Park appeared behind them beaming, but his smile faded instantly as he saw the look on the two ladies' faces.
Han Chaewon silently handed him the phone.
Manager Park scanned the headline once and his face went gray. He looked toward the dressing room door. Jaemin and Do-hyun's laughter could be heard from the other side, the sound muffled but joyous.
"It's everywhere," Han Chaewon hissed. "Fuck, at this timing?? Somebody planned this."
"What do we do?" Jung Eunji asked, her voice trembling. "Do we tell them?"
Manager Park looked at the phone, then at the dressing room, then at the stage manager signaling five minutes to the beginning of the next part of the concert. He straightened his tie, a look of grim determination settling on his face.
"No," he said firmly, handing the phone back to Han Chaewon. "Not yet. We have to get through tonight's performance. If Kang Do-hyun-nim sees this... who knows what he will do, but we probably won't be playing the Schubert."
"But Manager Park, Kang-Do-hyun-nim deserves—" Chaewon started.
"He deserves to have his efforts come to fruition. He's already sacrificed too much! How will the SPS ever be able to repay him if we allow our opening night to crash around our ears??"
When Han Chaewon and Jung Eunji remained silent in the face of his outburst, Manager Park sighed, wiping his face with heavy hands.
"It's just another hour," he insisted, his voice softer now. "Let them have this win. We will deal with it when everything is over."
…
Despite not knowing what had happened, Jaemin sensed it the moment he walked back onstage for the Schubert Symphony No. 5. The audience was still there, but the energy had shifted.
The rapt attention was gone. People were whispering. Phone screens intermittently lit up in the darkened hall, illuminating faces filled with shock that almost immediately morphed into pity.
From his position close to the front and centre of the stage, Do-hyun didn't notice. He was deep in the flow of the music, his own mobile phone still safely locked away in the dressing room. He played the cheerful, light lines of the Schubert with a grace that would feel cruel in retrospect.
Jaemin's body tensed, his throat tight as he tried to swallow. He did something, he realized, the baton trembling in his hand. Choi Seungcheol did something.
The music felt like a lie. Every joyful major chord of the symphony felt like a mockery. Jaemin conducted on autopilot, his eyes scanning the audience.
Choi Seungcheol wasn't there, although the seat for the ticket he had sent was empty. But Jaemin recognized a music journalist in the third row, thumbs flying furiously over his phone screen. He saw one of their new donors lean over to whisper something to her husband, gesturing at the stage. He saw one of the SPS's longest supporters, an old man with a shock of white hair, shaking his head with sadness in his moist eyes.
They know, Jaemin thought, nausea rolling in his gut. Choi Seungcheol did something, and everyone knows but us.
When the symphony ended, the applause was polite, confused, and uncomfortable. It died away quickly.
As the musicians lowered their instruments, Do-hyun turned towards the audience, expecting the same warmth and applause as the first half, his triumphant smile dampening when he caught the expressions on the faces in the front row.
Hurrying off the podium, Jaemin grabbed his mate's arm. "Do-hyun, come with me. Backstage. Now."