Chapter Text
It was early April, Monday, a month into the first school semester, before the homeroom. The hallway smelled like wood wax and rain‑soaked uniforms—spring’s first storm had chased half the student body inside. Wonbin jogged past trophy cases toward the music wing, necklace with star pendant stuck onto his chest, trumpet case banging against his knee, mind buzzing with one word: audition result.
First‑round results would be announced after school today, but the oboe’s voice drifted in to Wonbin’s ears, tender and low, like early morning mist curling over still water. Each note was carefully placed, not shy but never loud—measured, like the person who played it. It sounded like it didn’t demand to be heard, yet its presence lingered, bittersweet and transparent, as if the melody was quietly apologizing for existing. There was grace in its restraint, a warm ache in its precision.
Wonbin peeked through the door’s glass pane.
There was Shotaro, third‑year president, sitting in an empty room lit only by pearl‑grey window light. The oboe matched his graceful stance, as if the instrument breathed for him. Five measures, pause, adjust breathing, try again. Perfect—and still trying.
Why practice when you’re already that good? Wonbin smirked, slipped quietly inside.
“Morning, President,” he sang, leaning against a desk. “Sounding like a professional already. Need a trumpet to spice up that gloomy line?”
Shotaro didn’t jump—he never did. He lowered his oboe, a formal and measured smile. “Morning, Wonbin. Do you perhaps need anything?” All business and no play, very Shotaro.
“Do you know what time is it?”
Shotaro looked at the black band on his wrist showing the time. “A lil bit late for solo practice?”
“It’s I-need-you-o’clock right now, Hyung.” Wonbin grinned.
Shotaro raised an eyebrow sceptically, “Did you just quote Twice?”
Wonbin laughed, “I thought you don’t follow pop music.” Wonbin smiled, tapped his case in sync to his heartbeat. “Just wanna greet you.” He smiled cheekily.
Shotaro’s expression remained mild. “Audition result comes this afternoon.” He stated as if the other person didn’t know.
“Am I gonna get the solo?” Wonbin asked for a hint, eyes full of expectation.
A single raised eyebrow—that was all the reaction he earned. “It’s not for me to decide. Also, the team always come first rather than personalized ambition, Wonbin.”
Wonbin opened his mouth for another playful jab, but the hallway speakers crackled by the school bell.
Shotaro set the oboe gently onto its case. “Want me to walk you to the class or we go separate way?” Wonbin paused for some time, couldn’t believe what he heard. It was a rare opportunity that Shotaro turned a favor back to him. Before he could even respond, Shotaro had walked through the glass door.
“Hyung, wait!” He ran behind the taller man until they walked side by side. “Are you really Taro hyung or did a ghost possessed you just now?” Wonbin grinned.
“Don’t get me wrong. I will pass your class anyway.” Shotaro tapped Wonbin’s head with a roll of score sheets gently.
This was what made Wonbin liked the third year. Beyond the fact that he was an exceptionally good and diligent oboe player and a respected club president, Shotaro was kind. He didn’t push Wonbin away even though Wonbin was annoying at showing his feeling. He also didn’t press for explanation even though Wonbin was ready to give a long list of how Shotaro’s eyes sparkle under the sun, how he looks so serene while playing oboe, or how his smile could melt the snow down. Everything about Shotaro was just comforting for Wonbin.
Wonbin swallowed before his stupid feeling would burst stupid things out of his mouth. “Race you to the class, Prez!”
Shotaro didn’t race; he walked. Wonbin waved goodbye from inside his own class then, heart pounding harder than trumpet triplets.
The music room was full of chatter, instruments were put aside. Shotaro stood behind the small podium in front of the room, “Going Nationals!” was written on the chalkboard behind him. He just finished his little speech regarding the audition result that would be announced in a while by their club advisor. Since they were aiming for nationals, they agreed to do audition of the final line up for each of the competition; which meant this line up was for the regional competition, and if they made it to national, they would hold another audition. Shotaro affirmed that this result should mean that everyone had to work harder, chosen or not.
Miss Kwon, their club advisor stepped forward, held audition result in her hand. Everyone who got their name called stood up and bowed. All three of the club execs, Shotaro, Sungchan, and Eunseok undeniably secured their position in oboe, trombone, and euphonium respectively. Anton’s name was the first underclassman name being called, it was kinda obvious too, since he was the only cellist in the club. Percussion had more slots this year, seven name to the list, and then there was Sohee’s name being called as the only first class percussionist to play this year. The youngest percussionist, bubbly and all, stood immediately and bowed too fast he almost hit the cymbal stand in the corner, gaining laughter from the others.
Now it was the time for the trumpeters. Wonbin name’s was called the fourth out of eight. His confident eyes was searching for Shotaro’s, but the latter only nodded politely as congratulations.
The solo part was announced right after. This time Shotaro turned his eyes to the advisor, not meeting Wonbin’s hopeful eyes. Shotaro knew the result, even without the advisor hinting to him.
“Last one, trumpet solo for regional qualification is third year, Choi Junhee.” The room was buzzing, some cheering, some biting back tears.
The band’s advisor, a stern woman whose face rarely betrayed intention—strode in, clapping twice. The room quieted.
“Congratulations to those selected,” he said. “Your performances were judged on intonation, technique, and ensemble balance. Those not chosen, work harder. Next round—Nationals—will require re‑audition. Dismissed.” She highlighted Shotaros's advice once more.
No comfort. No soft edges. Reasonable, measured, brutal.
Students dispersed.
Wonbin closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose. Sohee bounced over from behind him. “Hyung, second chance soon, right? Nationals auditions!”
“Yeah,” Wonbin managed, forcing a grin. They hadn't even started regional yet, silly junior.
But his gaze drifted to Shotaro, now discussing rehearsal schedules with Sungchan as drum major and Eunseok as Vice President of the club. When the president finally glanced over, Wonbin lifted his chin—half‑wounded.
Shotaro’s eyes softened—only a fraction, only for a heartbeat—then he turned back to execs discussion.
The last bell had rung an hour ago and the corridors were already quiet, but one of the third‑floor classrooms still smelled faintly of valve oil and metallic brass. Light slanted through the high windows, dust motes spinning lazily in sun‑gold beams.
Shotaro set his oboe case on a desk and perched on its edge. Across the aisle, Sungchan dropped into a chair that groaned under his trombonist frame, while Eunseok hovered near the chalkboard, running gentle fingers over an old fingering chart somebody had half‑erased months ago.
No one spoke at first. The only sound was the low thrum of the building’s ancient heater.
Finally Shotaro exhaled. “So—first‑round results.” They had talk about this before, as execs, not as friends who bounded in a band together.
Sungchan let his head tip back until it thunked the wall. “I can’t believe Junhee snagged the solo again.”
“Girlie's clean,” Eunseok offered, voice mild. “The teacher likes consistency.”
“Wonbin’s consistent,” Sungchan shot back. “Consistently bright, consistently loud.” He laughed, running a hand through his hair. “I still remember his first sectional last year. Kid ripped that trumpet like he owned the key signature.”
Eunseok’s lips quirked. “And cracked the high G because he tried to impress Shotaro.” The euphonist smiled playfully.
"I don't get his flirting sometimes." Shotaro admitted.
"WOHOOO" Sungchan and Eunseok cheered in unison.
"So you realize he's been flirting with you all this time?" Eunseok asked unbelievably.
"Who doesn't?" Shotaro shrugged.
"But you act oblivious." Sungchan pointed a hand at Shotaro as if his friend was a nasty bug.
"I want to keep neutrality."
"You admire him, admit it!" Sungchan quickly guessed, nothing to lose if he was wrong.
“Professional admiration,” Shotaro answered, too quickly.
“Right,” Sungchan drawled. “Purely professional.” They both chuckled.
Eunseok hid a smile behind his hand. “At least your actual boyfriend made the cut, Chan.”
Sungchan’s cheeks colored a shade trombones could only aspire to. “Sohee practiced hard.”
“He also winked at you as soon as the names went up,” Shotaro teased.
“I deny any knowledge of that.” Sungchan straightened his posture, mock‑stern. “Drum majors remain impartial.”
“Drum majors turn red whenever their percussionist waves,” Eunseok said, eyes twinkling.
Sungchan opened his mouth, closed it, then laughed. “Fine, fine. I’m proud. Happy now?”
Shotaro’s smile softened. “It’s good for the section morale—percussion’s solid this year.”
Eunseok tapped the chalkboard once more. “Low brass and low winds too. All my euphoniums passed and you don't know how proud I am with the new transfer student.” He shrugged modestly.
"The cellist?" Sungchan asked Eunseok.
"Anton." Shotaro was the one answering instead.
“Yeah, Anton the cellist. I have much anticipation for his music. Anyway, it's a small section advantage.”
“‘Small section advantage,’” Sungchan repeated, shaking his head. “Try ‘Eunseok‑hyung tutors them until midnight advantage.’”
Shotaro nodded. “They play warm because you teach them to breathe, not just to count.”
A faint blush touched Eunseok’s ears. “Well… fewer students means more one‑on‑ones.” He paused, thoughtful. “Anyway, I wish Wonbin had gotten that solo. His sound is… alive.”
“He’s unpolished, yes. But we all agree he sounds genius,” Shotaro said quietly, sliding the oboe reed between his fingers. “He just needs to learn where to place the fire.”
Sungchan raised an eyebrow. “And you’ll be there to guide him?”
“If he asks,” Shotaro answered, cheeks warming despite himself.
Eunseok laughed softly. “He doesn’t usually ask, does he? He just… appears.”
"Yeah! Why did he do that?" Shotaro pouted, looking genuinely confused.
Sungchan grinned. “Brace yourself, President Oboe.”
Shotaro rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile settling across his face.
Outside the window, late‑afternoon clouds drifted like slow brass chords. The rain from this morning left a trace of petrichor. Inside, three seniors sat in easy silence, tied by memories of missed notes, cracked highs, and every stubborn student who’d ever turned practice into music. The road to Nationals felt long, but in that quiet classroom, it also felt somehow manageable—strung together with teasing, trust, and the promise of one bright, still‑growing trumpet line.
And so, the next piece began.