The roar of applause was a tidal wave, washing over Seo Jaemin as he stepped onto the stage. He walked to the podium, a figure of calm authority in his black suit, his spine straight, his movements deliberate. The stage lights were a warm cocoon, but beyond them, he could feel the expectant hush of the audience.
He raised his arms, and the silence in the hall became absolute, a held breath of a thousand people waiting for a single sound.
He took a moment, letting the silence settle around them, and slowly, deliberately, he swept his gaze across the orchestra. It was a wordless conversation, a final check-in.
He looked at the eager faces of the woodwinds, the steady confidence of the brass, the composed power of the percussion. His eyes lingered on the strings, on the quiet intensity of their concentration, and finally, they met Do-hyun's.
Kang Do-hyun's gaze was a rock-solid anchor, a silent promise of support. A look of quiet understanding passed between them—they were ready, together.
Jaemin gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, a message of pure trust, a small smile touching his lips before he turned back to the rest of their orchestra and raised his baton.
The first notes of the Adagio for Strings were a tentative, achingly beautiful whisper. It was a piece of profound sorrow, and the orchestra, having found their own rhythm of grief, played it not just with their instruments, but with their entire being.
There was a moment, just past the opening theme, when the violins' notes became slightly unsteady, a fleeting hesitation. Jaemin felt a quick, sharp thrum of panic—a flash of a symptom he'd thought he had under control—but he caught Do-hyun's eye.
Do-hyun's face was serene, his posture rock-solid, an anchor holding firm in the storm of Jaemin's nerves. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, a message of pure trust, and the shaky moment passed. Jaemin's hand, which had been about to tremble, found its strength again, and he led the orchestra back into the flow of the music.
The piece crescendoed into a raw, emotional cry that filled the cavernous hall, and as the final notes faded, a single, collective sigh could be felt from the audience.
But it was the Brahms that was truly their own. The piece began as a quiet conversation between the strings, a soft interplay of notes that spoke of quiet intimacy. Jaemin's conducting became less about command and more about suggestion, his movements a gentle guide.
And then, as the music swelled, Do-hyun's sound came to the forefront, his violin singing with a voice both powerful and tender. He was a true musical spectacle, the rare First Chair stepping into a soloist's role.
His bow flowed with a rare, quiet tenderness, a testament to the trust they had built in all their quiet moments together over the past two months. Jaemin watched him, mesmerized, almost forgetting to conduct. Every note Do-hyun played was a confession, an unspoken dialogue unfolding between the First Chair and his conductor. The entire hall faded away. It was just the two of them, in a moment that belonged to no one else, a testament to their intertwined souls.
As the final, lingering chord of the Brahms ended, the hall erupted. The applause was thunderous, an ocean of sound that washed over Jaemin, pulling him out of the intimacy of the music and back into the overwhelming reality of the public eye.
Jaemin bowed, the applause a loud, ringing hum in his ears. He then moved across the stage to where Do-hyun stood, the magnificent soloist. He reached out to shake Do-hyun's hand, a public gesture of thanks for his masterful performance.
As their hands met, Do-hyun leaned in, his smile dazzling, and whispered, "That's how you do it, Conductor-nim." The soft, confident words were for Jaemin's ears alone, a private moment of victory just between them.
Jaemin's own smile widened, and together they left the stage for the intermission, the rest of the orchestra soon trailing in after him.
…
Backstage, the musicians were a frenzy of chatter and high-fives. Jaemin and Do-hyun, however, gravitated toward a quiet, unused hallway.
Jaemin leaned against a cool wall, his face flushed with triumph. He felt a fleeting moment of exhaustion, a sudden, heavy sense of relief that the first half was over, but it was quickly replaced by a giddy elation.
"We did it," he said, a quiet sense of disbelief in his voice. "We really did it."
Do-hyun just looked at him, his smile a warm, easy thing. "I told you we could," he murmured, leaning down for a kiss.
Just then, Jaemin's elated smile froze. His eyes, so full of triumph just a moment, locked onto a point past Do-hyun as all the colour drained from his face.
Sensing the sudden change in the faint, sweet sandalwood he had come to associate with Jaemin's quiet confidence, Do-hyun stopped in his tracks. Following his conductor's terrified gaze, he whipped around, but even before his vision focused, he knew what had triggered the sharp, acidic aroma of Jaemin's pure fear.
In the first circle of the balcony, a man stood tall and unmoving, staring unblinkingly in their direction. He was dressed in a pristine black suit, his posture radiating a familiar arrogance that made Do-hyun's alpha instincts flared in a silent, furious rage. From this distance, his face was small among the rest of the crowd, but Do-hyun had seen enough pictures as he was scouring the internet for Jaemin's past that he was still unmistakable.
Choi Seungcheol.