Chapter Text
Even though he didn’t want to be there, Hongjoong agreed to the seasonal concert. It was his duty as a lead pianist—his guilt told him.
The idea had been following him for a few months: he had this commitment, a part to fulfill.
He had so many people who worked hard for his success, too: his managers, tutors, tuners—and yet, if he failed during the performance, it was only his responsibility. Same as if the pianist succeeded, the praise and glory were his solely.
Hongjoong was afraid of the swallowing darkness, of the hall full of people. And while he spent his whole life there, only now this paralyzing fear caught him.
When he entered the hall, a tall stranger stood in the center of the stage, holding a violin, and Hongjoong took a seat in the first row.
There was an odd familiarity in the violinist that didn’t let Hongjoong’s eyes leave him. Perhaps, it was about his cold gaze directed to his instrument, his sharp, carved out of marble features, or how far he stood from the orchestra. Did he even know that he wasn’t alone on the stage?
He held his breath when musicians all at once raised their instruments, and a sonorous sound of violins pierced the air. His heart was beating violently.
Hongjoong recognized the piece instantly: Vivaldi, Summer. A violent yet graceful storm, a roaring thunder—that’s how Presto sounded, as if it was made for the stoic main violinist. Hongjoong watched his every move, his knitted brows and closed eyes as he played, filling every second with power.
He moved in perfect sync with other musicians, and he existed on his own, separated from everyone.
It left him mesmerized by how an intense composition itself became even more ardent in the hands of the musician before him. And yet, Hongjoong noticed one huge difference between him and everyone else on the stage.
“Have you chosen your solo?” his manager, sitting on the right, asked out of the sudden. Hongjoong turned to him, violin still ringing in his ears. He only nodded. “Great.”
He didn’t, and he wondered if the reason why Wooyoung didn’t ask which exactly was that he knew it.
He needed to get on the stage today. To play, to perform. Even if it made him anxious, he couldn’t refuse it—but he forgot about his worries for a second as he watched the new musician.
When he turned back to the stage, the composition had already ended. The violinist never looked back at the orchestra or spoke to them, and they began the next piece, following the conductor's instructions, one by one.
Hongjoong leaned back in his seat, his gaze wandering around ancient frescoes on the far ceiling.
***
He settled with Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 in the last minute, the piece he knew too well to ever forget. He played it at many concerts and contests, and Hongjoong resented this fact because it was not fair.
Hongjoong couldn’t stop thinking about the violinist, his cold eyes, and his alienated posture. He recently moved from Australia, Wooyoung told him. Or perhaps Hongjoong asked. And—Park Seonghwa—was his name that Hongjoong thought suited him no less than Vivaldi.
He couldn’t understand him, though. Why hadn’t he looked back at the orchestra, thanked them for their work? Wasn’t that arrogant, not to? Hongjoong forgot for a second that he didn’t know Seonghwa at all. Hadn’t even heard his voice.
After the rehearsal finished, Hongjoong went to the schooling wing of the conservatory. To his old classroom, where he had been playing for years. Where that old Schimmel piano stood.
The man sat behind it, breathing in and out. He listened to his surroundings, to every distant step and voice in this large building that became his second home, and once there was none, he brushed his fingers over the piano’s keys.
In one moment, the room was filled with shimmering ocean waves, and a small boat gently rocking on them, reflected in irregularly shaped pearls. Hongjoong felt a chill running down his spine as if from a cold yet gentle ocean breeze.
“Une barque sur l’océan.” This name sat on the tip of his tongue like velvet. It was his secret, his ephemeral solace, ever since the pianist discovered this suite years ago.
Even when he could play the whole sixteen note sheets by heart, each time he felt as present as ever. This discipline of lifelong practice gave him freedom of expression, to reinvent the composition and himself when he plays it.
And every time he was thrilled with the linking together of two chords, as with the harmony of two colors in the blooming garden outside. For him to create a flowing sequence, paint it with an upper and middle register, and then abruptly descend in a muted climax of tremolo and tremendous arpeggio.
He discovered over and over again his and the piano’s real purpose—to create beauty. He could never forget his teacher’s words from years ago: “Nothing is more hateful than music without hidden meaning”. The memory of those bright words, however, brought him immense sadness as he grew up, as people told him to move on from this illusion, this childish dream, and study harder for the competition, practice better for the concert.
He closed his eyes as he led tremolo and arpeggio to meet at fortissimo at the top of the register. And then they cascaded back down the piano, never letting his fingers rest. Right now, he wasn’t a world-class pianist but a mere boat traveling on uneven waters, as deep as his blue hair; the rough pearl hiding on the seashore.
Even if everyone laughed because it was a dream, he couldn’t stop. That’s the truth to him. It didn’t matter if he never got to play this piece on the big stage—he could cherish the reason he began to play on his own that kept him going his whole life, protect it from the expectations and judgment of their world.
The chords danced around an extremely high ostinato until they climaxed in fortississimo, tension giving way and returning with a sense of calm and closure.
He knew that although the boat began on the ocean, the ocean always ended up on the boat at the end of the composition, embraced in the waters’ solitude. It was a piece of Hongjoong’s home, where he returned whenever he felt lost.
The last notes faded in the air, and he opened his eyes.
A person was standing at the doorstep, pulling him out of the ocean—Seonghwa. Silent, yet his eyes were wide open as if he might cry.
No one was supposed to hear that piece.
“What are you—” Seonghwa began, but the voice from the corridor stopped him.
“Hyung, here you are,” he turned his head to them. “I’ve been looking for you.”
A blonde man entered the room, with Wooyoung by his side.
Hongjoong only looked at his manager in a silent question.
“Oh, you’re both here. Nice.” Wooyoung said. “So, this year we’ll be going with a duet performance for the concert’s opening, instead of solo, and…”
“They chose you. You two, I mean,” the blonde man continued. “Looks like we’ll have to set up extra rehearsals for your duo piece.”
“Right, it’d also be better if you get to know each other—for the sake of your teamwork, or, well, couple work.”
And if Hongjoong saw this as a simple unexpected adjustment he was ready to deal with, it was not until the moment when he met Seonghwa’s gaze. The eyes of the violinist, who looked like the world was about to end.
***
“What about the Debussy sonata?”
“Too cold.”
“Then Salut d’Amour?”
“Too sentimental.”
“…Meditation from Thaïs?”
“That’s a confession in music form.”
“…So?”
“No.”
“Are you going to propose something yourself, then?”
The next day came too soon.
They were seated across from each other again, this time behind a long table in a quiet music classroom that felt just as tense as yesterday’s. It was their first official rehearsal, though they hadn’t touched their instruments yet.
Choosing the piece came first. A duet was granted more freedom than a solo—how fair was that, Hongjoong wondered.
Ten minutes in, and it already felt like an hour. They were going in circles. Every suggestion was either met with mockery or indifference. And for all of Seonghwa’s complaints, he hadn’t offered anything better.
“Your suggestions are too trivial,” Seonghwa said finally, chin resting in one hand as he stared out the window. “Wrong mood. Pieces everyone’s heard a million times. Though I suppose they’re enough to win first place—if that’s all you’re aiming for.”
“I repeat: what masterpiece can you suggest, which is not ‘trivial’?” Hongjoong rubbed his hands together, trying to calm down. Seonghwa made him lose his nerve—oh, he was exactly this type of person. A musician who thinks they’ve achieved everything, and that it allows them to act as if the world revolves around them.
For a moment, Hongjoong remembered those bewildered eyes when Seonghwa had heard him playing. To get that look, oddly, he didn’t regret what happened. But now, he questioned if Seonghwa yesterday and today was the same person.
“I’ve never played a duet with anyone, so I’m not familiar with joint pieces. Though even something like the Franck sonata would fit better than some Salut d’Amour.” Seonghwa finally answered, still not looking at him. He looked bored, disinterested, as though he had many other things he’d rather spend time on than sitting there with Hongjoong.
“Why did you agree this time then? Pardon me, but it doesn’t appear to me that you’re happy to sit here,” he really wanted to know.
“I didn’t. My managers have decided that for me.”
“Couldn’t you say no?” Hongjoong pushed.
Seonghwa turned his eyes to him, heavy and cold amber, as if studying the man. And Hongjoong added, feeling Seonghwa’s gaze sending shivers down his spine: “Or, were you okay with this?”
“I think you should be perfectly aware that it is far not always possible.” he was, for sure. And yet, he wanted to ask Seonghwa. If the man really wanted, he could’ve found a way.
“At the very least, I would ask you to cooperate. Like it or not, we’re professionals. There are places where I’d rather perform than at this concert, too. But we have to deal with this,” he answered, hoping a bit of his openness would ease the situation.
“Sure. Let's keep it professional. Now, where would you squeeze our rehearsal between your competitions and concert tours, huh, Hongjoong-ssi?” his tone was bitter, poisonous even. Even if it wasn’t, it sounded like an insult.
“If you have this type of schedule, it doesn’t mean that every other professional musician does too, Seonghwa-ssi.” With every second they talked, the more he wanted to bite back and cancel the duo. “I know this concert has no value to you, since it’s not an elite competition or your solo show. I get it.”
Hongjoong couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t be silent about his thoughts. He locked his eyes with Seonghwa. “But at least respect the people you work with. Maybe the music itself doesn’t matter to you, but don’t disrespect the people to whom it does.”
“To whom it still does, truly? You’re all the same, both in Sydney and Seoul,” he clicked his tongue and rested on the back of his chair, black hair falling on his face.
There was a shift in Seonghwa for a second, a glow. Now, with his big, round eyes, he reminded him more of a child who was hurt, who held a grudge. Hongjoong continued to stare into those eyes, but he couldn’t read neither them nor Seonghwa’s mask of steel.
They sat in this silence for a while, in this numb staring game. Hongjoong felt his anger melting away. He couldn’t hold onto it, and in truth, he hated himself for that.
“I suggest we go with Beau Soir,” he let out a tired sigh and said finally, his voice quieter now, like he was offering something fragile.
It took a couple of seconds for the other man to catch up before he answered, “Debussy? …Alright. Beau Soir it is.”
“Guess our managers would figure out the practice schedule,” Hongjoong said. He felt relieved that the man agreed so easily, but he didn’t have the energy to discuss the schedule now.
Seonghwa only nodded and stood up, taking his bag and nervously looking at his phone.
He walked out of the room, closing the door almost silently.
Hongjoong stayed there for a moment, remembering about his next rehearsal.
He was growing to believe Seonghwa hated him, that there was something wrong with him. It was okay, nonetheless, he repeated, because he had no plans of becoming friends with that rich kid who didn’t seem to care about anything but competition.
They only needed to perform that piece together, and never talk to each other again.
***
Wooyoung had told him that their proposal of Beau Soir was approved by the director, along with their rehearsal schedule. Hongjoong should’ve felt relieved—he wouldn’t have to coordinate with Seonghwa again. But somehow, that made it worse.
It just confirmed what he already suspected: Seonghwa didn’t want to see him.
When he first saw him again, Hongjoong was sitting beside Wooyoung in the front row of the concert hall. He could’ve stayed backstage, but no—he wanted to watch this time. Really look.
Seonghwa stepped out onto the stage, silent, not even acknowledging the orchestra. Hongjoong followed his every move—how he opened his case, took out the violin, raised it to his chin. Not once did Seonghwa glance his way.
Then Hongjoong saw it.
He glanced at the other violinists… and back to Seonghwa. Wrong. That’s what had felt off when he saw him last.
Seonghwa raised his bow, and Summer poured into the hall. Vivaldi. Not a bad choice, he had to admit.
As always, Seonghwa’s playing was immaculate—sharp, exacting. His bow carved through the air like it had something to prove. Eyes shut, brows furrowed, swaying slightly on his feet. He never looked at anyone—not the orchestra, not the conductor, not even the audience. Only the violin beneath his chin seemed real to him. Was he so disinterested in this place that he couldn’t even look up? Pathetic.
Then came the snap.
A sharp ping rang through the air, and the whole room tensed.
Seonghwa’s string had snapped.
He didn’t even flinch. Missed a beat, yes, but kept playing—eyes still shut, jaw clenched, as though he, not the instrument, had broken.
Hongjoong sat forward. Shouldn’t he stop? Swap violins with the orchestra? You can’t just keep playing like that… can you? But Seonghwa did. And the orchestra followed his lead.
By the end of the piece, sweat clung to Seonghwa’s temples. He looked down at his fingers, and for a moment, Hongjoong thought he saw red lines crossing the strings. Maybe it was just the lights.
A blond man, his manager, hurried onto the stage. He took Seonghwa’s violin and tucked it gently into the case, then pulled out a small box of bandages.
“…last time you changed them?” he asked.
“Don’t remember,” Seonghwa muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Was it here—?”
“No.”
Hongjoong couldn’t make out the rest, but Seonghwa’s guilt was written across his face.
The manager sighed and handed him the bandages. “I’ll ask to get them replaced—have a break, okay?”
But as he turned to leave, Seonghwa stopped him.
“Don’t—”
His voice cut louder than Hongjoong had ever heard it—desperate.
“I mean… I’ve been thinking. Can we visit a luthier today?”
The man paused.
“I want a new violin.”
His hand clenched the box like it held him together.
“I need it, San.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a plea.
The manager, San, just nodded. And they left the stage together.
Hongjoong stayed seated, motionless.
What version of Seonghwa had he just witnessed?
And which one was real?
***
Hongjoong sat in the classroom, eyes fixed on the raindrops trailing down the panoramic glass. Thirty minutes until his rehearsal with Seonghwa. Their fourth one-on-one. Still no progress. No words, no warmth. Just silence thick enough to strangle the music.
He wanted to ask about the day when Seonghwa’s string snapped, why he didn’t do anything, but the moment never came. It never felt right. Their duet was technically clean, but soulless. The music said what they wouldn’t.
A message from Wooyoung blinked on his screen, asking him to pick something up by the conservatory entrance. Hongjoong stared at it for five full minutes before dragging himself downstairs.
As he stepped beneath the covered walkway, rain hitting the roof like static, he froze at a voice around the corner.
Seonghwa.
“Where did you get my number?” Hongjoong turned around, yet he couldn’t find the violinist. “I’m not, Soobin.”
The name prickled something in Hongjoong. He edged closer, pressing to the wall. It wasn’t meant for him, but the need to know overpowered everything else.
“What do I have to do with this?”
“I don’t care. Decide on your own.”
“Am I still angry? Are you serious?”
The voice on the other end was muffled by the rain. Hongjoong strained to catch every word.
“I told you—I’ve never cared about that competition. You can’t understand why your actions hurt me, can you? Not because I got disqualified, no.”
What competition? Something from Australia?
“I have nothing to say to you. Don’t ever contact me again.”
The line went dead. For a moment, there was only rain. Then Seonghwa’s shaky breath was barely audible over the storm.
When he walked back into the building, Hongjoong rushed ahead and ducked behind the stairwell ladder. He shouldn’t be hiding. He hated it. But he couldn’t stop listening. He had asked Seonghwa to respect his boundaries. And now he was breaking them himself.
Wooyoung’s texts buzzed again. He ignored them.
“Oh, hyung, you’re here.” San. “I just got your invite to the Singapore Violin Competition this December. Mm, what would you say? Should I refuse?”
“Should you… What?” Seonghwa’s voice was so different now—soft, depleted. Hongjoong could almost see his eyes; he wanted to see them more than anything now. No steel. Just fog. “I don’t know.”
“Hey, you okay?” There was a silent pause. “What happened?”
“… Soobin’s called.”
A pause, then San’s voice tightened.
“That bastard? How did he… what did he want from you?”
“He told me he received an offer to relocate to Korea. Asked me if I wanted him to. If I missed him.” Hongjoong’s chest twisted. Seonghwa’s voice cracked on the last word.
“I told you we should’ve gone public with the accident. He doesn’t get it—he never will. Want me to take care of it, hyung? After that, I don’t think he’ll bother you anymore.”
“No. His family would bury me. And you’d get dragged down with me. Just… let it go. I told him to leave.”
“Will you be alright, hyung?”
“I’m trying. I won’t let him back in.”
They fell silent. Hongjoong counted to five. Peered around the wall. San was hugging Seonghwa, one hand rubbing circles into his back. Seonghwa’s shoulders trembled. He swore he could see the other’s shoulders tremble.
***
Seonghwa wasn’t late for a minute.
“Shall we begin?”
Professional. Distant. Like nothing had happened.
Hongjoong wanted to ask if he was okay—his wet collar, his tired eyes—but there was never a right moment. Not in this setting.
As they practiced, Seonghwa could stop a few times to start over, replay one part so many times, and with each try, he got frustrated even more. Hongjoong watched him carefully, unsure of what the right thing to do was. As Seonghwa stood with his violin pressed under his chin, deep in his thoughts.
“I think we should take a break.” Hongjoong gently reached out, his hand brushing the pale wood of the new violin. It shimmered faintly under the filtered light. To his surprise, Seonghwa didn’t resist. Just let the violin drop to his side.
“But—” Seonghwa wanted to protest, but Hongjoong already turned away and crashed on the sofa across the room.
“Five minutes won’t kill you, Seonghwa-ssi.”
Another small victory: Seonghwa sat beside him, placing the violin on the stand. They left space between them. Still, it felt closer than ever.
Seonghwa sat rigidly, hands on his thighs. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. Hongjoong watched his chest rise, then fall, like ocean waves. Then he heard his own voice.
“Hwa, may I ask you something?” Seonghwa looked at him in confusion, and Hongjoong almost expected a remark about his formality, but nothing came.
“Depends.”
“Why did you continue to play with a broken string?” Seonghwa looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Because I had to. Even with a broken string.” Seonghwa answered, looking Hongjoong in the eyes. They weren’t cold anymore, but they weren’t easier to understand; there was a storm inside, covered with exhaustion.
“Even if it injures you?” Hongjoong couldn’t forget the red-painted strings, but he didn’t dare to lower his gaze to Seonghwa’s bandaged fingers on his right hand.
“Even if it hurts, the show must go on. What else would I have done, stop in the middle?”
“No, I mean, shouldn’t you swap your violin with other musicians in this case?” That was what Hongjoong saw other violinists do, though the string snap is a rare event; he wanted to check something.
“It’s not that simple. Most violins… aren’t playable for me due to some peculiarities.” He hesitated. Peculiarities. Defects.
Hongjoong latched onto the word.
“Are you in pain when you play?” He hadn’t meant to ask. But it slipped.
“What?” the whisper.
Seonghwa flinched. In moments like this, when the walls fell, Hongjoong didn’t see a cold, arrogant prodigy. He saw someone scared. Not of Hongjoong or playing duo.
He was now sure that there was much more to Seonghwa than just a rich kid who craved to be the best. This was just a facade to hide what’s on the inside, and Hongjoong craved to know the real Seonghwa, who hides under that shield.
“Is that why you always play with your eyes closed?”
“Maybe. Sometimes there’s pain. But not physical.” His voice dropped. “When I close my eyes, it’s easier to bear. It used to, at least.”
His mind raced. Was this pain connected to Soobin? Was Seonghwa in pain when he was with Hongjoong? He wanted to ask it all, but no words came. Did he have a right to ask something like this?
“But closing your eyes doesn’t make the pain disappear.” Seonghwa didn’t answer, his big, glassy eyes staring at him.
Hongjoong moved closer, placing a hand lightly on Seonghwa’s side. His other reached up, fingertips gently brushing under Seonghwa’s chin—lifting it just enough that their eyes met fully.
The closest they’d ever been.
“It doesn’t help anymore, right?” Even if he wasn’t in pain, he had his own reasons to keep his eyes closed. It didn’t solve anything. “Don’t close your eyes, Seonghwa, please.”
I don’t want to see you in pain.