Archive of Our Own ^beta

prologue.

Sungho hums softly to himself in the dim light of College of Music’s auditorium, his hands moving on their own muscle memory in front of him, touches gentle and methodical on the surfaces of his harp.

He lets his mind wander off to serene places as he moves, a sense of calm washing over him as it always does whenever he’s in here, gently bringing a soft piece of cloth over the body and strings of his instrument. He’s humming the piece he’d just practiced minutes ago—a simple rendition of When You Wish Upon A Star that he’d prepared for the orchestra’s first monthly evaluation after they’d all be coming back for the first semester of a new school year—and Sungho has all the usual worries about about becoming a junior at university, but he lets them all fade away to the back of his mind for now.

Because here—alone in the auditorium after hours—is Sungho’s sanctuary from the outside world and the harsher throes of real life. It’s a moment to step away from a packed schedule of classes, scholarship work at the library, once-in-a-while side gigs, and a couple of more stable part-time jobs. Whenever Sungho gets his two hours alone, he gets to spend about half an hour actually playing, what with all the time he takes to set up his harp and put it away; regardless, it’s all precious time spent with his instrument, in a peaceful, softly-lit place, with some of the best acoustics Sungho’s ever experienced in his life. Nothing rivals how much this place amplifies the ritual of it all, the pure energy that flows through Sungho’s veins with every touch of his instrument’s strings, whether he’s playing or tuning or cleaning off dust.

Frankly, if the orchestra and the College of Music hadn’t allowed him the grace of having this place all to himself every once in a while, Sungho doesn’t know if he’d even have anywhere else to practice on the classical harp. The thing is huge—much more so than the older, smaller one that Sungho practices on at home—gifted to him when he’d graduated high school by someone who’d hoped Sungho would continue to play even throughout university, which he still does. The pedal harp is his most prized possession, and Sungho fusses over it accordingly: always keeping it dusted, wiped down, covered when it isn’t in use—and most of all, he makes sure to make time to play it, to keep creating enchanting melodies until his heart tires of the beautiful sound. (It never does.) He’s been playing and practicing in between semesters, and now that they’re entering a new semester, Sungho’s looking forward to what new things the orchestra will have in store. He knows it’s only ever going to get harder, juggling dreams with responsibilities as more of the latter make themselves known with the passing of time, but Sungho is willing to take that on. He’s always been. He’s always had to.

Bzzt, bzzt… Bzzt, bzzt… Bzzt, bzzt…

So he’s only a little bit startled when he hears his phone start to buzz, the screen lit up where he’d left it on the stage floor. The sound makes a low rumble against the hollow wood that makes Sungho wince, flinch away from his harp, and walk over to go and pick it up—and then he’s met with a screen signaling it’s only a few minutes past 8 PM, and also that it’s Myung Jaehyun calling him, with his puppy emoticon on the contact name and his unflattering contact photo inhabiting the entire screen, daring Sungho to answer the call. Sungho does after two more buzzes in his hand, and brings the phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Jaehyun?”

“Hey, Sungho-yah, we’re short on people, Donghyun didn’t show up today. His shift’s open, do you wanna take it? It’s pretty busy tonight. You know, back to school and everything. Are you busy?”

Sungho pouts at that, his little moment of calm disrupted, but it’s not like Sungho’s unused to abrupt changes in his plans. He can hear the clattering of plates and the sizzling of meat in the background on Jaehyun’s end of the call, and he’s known Sungho since they were both in baby bassinets, knows he isn’t going to pass up any chance to earn his keep. Jaehyun was the one who’d gotten Sungho the job at the barbecue restaurant in the first place, and he probably also knows it’s about the time of year that Sungho goes to get his instruments serviced, and, well— “Yeah. Uh…”

“Yeah, you’re busy? Or—” Jaehyun is cut off by more noise in the background, and a short exchange where some customer yells, One more bottle of soju here, please! and Jaehyun responds with, Yes, right away! before speaking back into the phone, “Yah, Boss says he’ll pay you for the full shift until closing if you can make it here in fifteen minutes. The line’s getting pretty long.”

Sungho chews on the inside of his cheek, glances over to his harp beside him, and sighs into the phone, “I’ll buy you lunch if you can make it twenty. I’m at the auditorium, I need to put the harp back.”

“Done and done,” Jaehyun answers immediately, always loyal and reliable. The guy deserves more than just lunch, but Sungho doesn’t need to be inflating his ego all the time, so they call it even. “Just get your ass here, then.”

“Got it,” Sungho says, already walking toward the harp. “Wait for me.”

He hangs up the phone.

It’s an abrupt departure, but he’ll find the time again soon. For now, Sungho hums his song a little faster, puts his harp back into its hiding place as quickly and carefully as he can, and gets to work.

When Sanghyeok returns to the College of Music auditorium to retrieve the item he’d left in his seat from earlier’s event, he doesn’t expect to find the stage lights still on, and the space filled not with silence—but faint music echoing off the curved walls and high ceilings, melodic and slow.

Sanghyeok enters through the doors on the second floor, where the ground level of their university’s Music building connects to the auditorium’s balcony seats. He’s careful not to make too much noise, subconsciously conceding to the curiosity of what or who is making that soft, flowing music. The particular tone of the strings sounds oddly familiar, though Sanghyeok isn’t well-versed enough in music to know immediately what instrument it must be—and when he leans slightly over the railing, eyes closing in on the single person under the ambient, warm light of the stage, the reason for the strange familiarity clicks in his head soon enough: the harp.

Against all odds and his often nonchalant nature, Sanghyeok rips his eyes away in favor of walking quietly down the steps to the main floor, eager to get a closer look.

His sunglasses are down there, anyway. Third row, somewhere in the middle, where he’d been sitting mere hours ago with his class and a couple of others, listening to a group of the College of Music’s alumni talk about how music has shaped their world even as they’d gone on to work in completely different fields. Now, the auditorium is empty, save for the Sanghyeok and the boy onstage, his eyes closed in focus as he plays his harp, fingers not missing a single note despite the lack of sight. He doesn’t notice when Sanghyeok sets foot onto the carpeted floor, walks down the center aisle. He doesn’t notice that—although Sanghyeok had come for something he’d left in a third-row center seat—his eyes are fixated on something else entirely.

What the boy on the stage doesn’t know is that up close, Sanghyeok can see the harp that he’s playing more clearly—and would know that harp anywhere, after the probably thousands of times he’s seen it before.

It’s unmistakable: the stark, yellow gold body, the emerald green accents across the curved top and the pillar at the front. There’s intricate, gold detailing at the base of it, though Sanghyeok isn’t close enough to see what it is, nor did he pay enough attention before to really remember it now. All he knows is that this exact harp was in their house one day, and then gone the next—replaced by the more sleek, modern, black-bodied harp that used to sit behind red rope next to a grand piano at their family’s department store, the instruments having gone unplayed when Sanghyeok’s older brother started getting too busy to play music at the store with their mom, just for fun.

Sanghyeok never questioned where the old harp went; all he knows is that his mother had likely donated it somewhere, the way their family tends to do to maintain good PR. There’s a cloying tinge to the wave of nostalgia that washes over him now that he sees it here, on a college auditorium’s stage—and he’s at least knowledgeable enough to tell that it’s still well-loved, making music under a different pair of skilled hands.

He almost doesn’t even notice at first when the music comes to a stop. It takes a few seconds of strings resonating softer into a natural fade-out before Sanghyeok eventually breaks out of his trance, makes his way toward the seat where his sunglasses still are (thankfully), and then turns back to face the stage once more, where the harpist is already staring at him with round, cat-like eyes.

“Oh, hey there! Sorry, I didn’t notice you come in.”

Sanghyeok nods in acknowledgment, transfixed on the boy’s every move. His voice is rich, soothing, somehow high and low at the same time—and Sanghyeok just stands there dumbly for a few seconds before his head kicks into gear and reminds him that this guy is also just some other person, and people talk to each other when they find themselves alone in an empty room. 

“Hello,” Sanghyeok answers with a simple smile, eyes darting slowly between the boy and his instrument off to the side. “I came in through the balcony, sorry if I scared you. I just came to get something I left behind. Sunglasses.”

He laughs, nodding at the object in Sanghyeok’s left hand. “It’s all good.”

Sanghyeok nods. “You play well.”

“Really?” he giggles again, looking down with a small smile. “Thank you.”

Sanghyeok nods his head toward the harp this time, unable to hold back his curiosity any longer, “Is that yours?”

The harpist follows Sanghyeok’s gaze toward the instrument, chuckling bashfully as he answers, “Well…  sort of. Sorry, I never caught your name…?”

Sanghyeok picks up his sunglasses, starts walking back toward the center aisle to get closer to the stage as he tells him, “Lee Sanghyeok.”

“Lee Sanghyeok,” the other boy repeats, crouching down and holding a hand out as Sanghyeok approaches the stage. “Nice to meet you, Lee Sanghyeok. My name is Park Sungho.”

Park Sungho, Sanghyeok almost wants to repeat back. He doesn’t. Instead, he reaches to shake the hand that’s being held out to him, standing on his tippy toes to reach the stage without pulling Sungho down into the small gap where the orchestra pit is closed off.

“That’s a pretty nice harp,” Sanghyeok remarks, still holding Sungho’s hand. “You haul that thing in here every day?”

“I’m in the orchestra. We practice here, so they let me keep it in storage here. I’ve got a smaller one to practice with at home.” Sungho says this all while looking down into Sanghyeok’s eyes, grip still firm on his hand, calling Sanghyeok to attention when he gives a slight tug. “Wanna come see?”

Sanghyeok freezes for a couple of seconds—but then, with a gentle squeeze from Sungho and against his better judgment, he plants his other hand on the edge of the stage, squeezes Sungho’s hand back tighter, and jumps.

Sungho makes space for him, holds his other arm up for balance when Sanghyeok doesn’t quite stick the landing. Sanghyeok’s at least thankful that he didn’t hurtle right into the other boy, sending them both toppling into the ground; either way, Sungho doesn’t really make fun of him for losing his balance a little on the way up, lets go of Sanghyeok’s hand when he’s regained his bearings. 

Sungho simply walks them both toward the harp, Sanghyeok following as he feigns innocence, listening to what he has to say.

“It’s a bit of a wild story, actually, ‘cause obviously, I could never afford something like this,” Sungho explains, running his fingers across some of the harp’s middle strings, a pleasant series of notes resonating in between them. “Someone gifted it to me. She was like… a role model, I suppose? Well, we learned to play together, like, ten years ago or something. Apparently, she donated it to the College of Music on the condition that I could choose whether or not to keep it for myself after I graduated—so, obviously, that’s pretty insane.”

Sanghyeok nods in agreement, half-amused and half-intrigued, hearing this story for the first time. “She must have friends in high places.”

“Tell me about it. Sometimes I wonder if keeping it would use up all the luck I’m meant to have in this lifetime—but, I mean, look at it!” Sungho laughs, staring lovingly at his harp. “I play it whenever I can, and protect it with my life.”

“I can see that.” Sanghyeok chuckles. “Can I touch it?”

Sungho steps away for a second, not as defensive as Sanghyeok was expecting, and simply says, “Of course! Just be careful, Sanghyeok-ssi.”

Sanghyeok nods, stepping forward into Sungho’s space, just as Sungho takes a half-step back. He runs his fingers over the soundboard of it, not touching the strings, trying to hide the fact that he has, in fact, touched this exact harp before. He looks down at the intricate, gold detailing toward the base of the front pillar, pieces falling back into place in his memory when he sees the motifs of ivy, crawling up and outward to the rest of the harp.

It’s a beautiful instrument indeed. Sanghyeok may have his own qualms about its history, but he definitely still has eyes. He knows that the harp had been passed down in his family for several generations, his mother having inherited it from her great-grandmother—the last person before her who’d even played it—and Sanghyeok wonders if Sungho knows all that, too. To be exact, Sanghyeok remembers that it was twelve years ago when his mother started learning how to play the instrument; it was a thing that she did together with Sanghyeok’s older brother, when he decided he wanted to learn the piano. The two of them would go and take their lessons at the community center, away from high society and all the expectations that came with the family name. It was their thing. Sanghyeok’s dad was a lover of music himself, hence the harp and the grand piano at the department store, too.

“Are you interested in learning?” Sungho asks out of the blue, and Sanghyeok turns his head to look at him where he’s hovering over his shoulder. “You can touch the strings, too, if you want.”

Sanghyeok shakes his head shyly, but plucks at one of the dark blue strings anyway, a high F-note ringing out between them. “No, thanks. I’m a dancer, actually.”

Sungho’s eyes widen, intrigued. “Oh, really? So you’re on one of the teams, then? The street dance crew? Or, like, ballroom? Others like that?”

“Just street dance,” Sanghyeok answers with a shrug, “but I’m taking a break for now.”

Sungho hums. “Why?”

“Burnout, I guess?” Sanghyeok answers honestly, stepping away from the old harp. “I don’t know, it just wasn’t fun anymore. I don’t see the point.”

“Well, we all go through slumps,” Sungho smiles, tilting his head toward the instrument. “If you’re taking a break, maybe it’s a good time to learn something new?”

Sanghyeok juts his lips out into a pout, shaking his head. “I’ve tried music, too, Sungho-ssi. I played violin for a bit. Wasn’t my thing.”

Sungho’s eyes widen even more at that, his mouth forming into an interested little ‘o’, an excited glint in his eyes. “Really? Hey, well—if you change your mind, orchestra’s holding auditions all through next month! And we could always use some more violonists.”

Sanghyeok laughs agreeably. There’s an infectiousness to Sungho’s enthusiasm, even with the weight that he doesn’t know the subject matter carries for Sanghyeok. While he did learn the violin for a couple of years, in a child’s poorly-veiled attempt to step into his mother’s world, it had only stuck about as well as Sanghyeok’s landing when Sungho had pulled him up onto the stage, and Sanghyeok never really learned to put his heart and soul into music the way his mom and older brother seemed to do so naturally, so to speak. He’d gone a different route entirely by pursuing dance—something entirely of his own, an art he felt connected with at least more than he’d ever felt to anything else—and while he does genuinely love it, he’d made the difficult choice to step away before it morphed into just another thing he was pursuing for no other reason than to be able to say he was pursuing something. He didn’t quit the dance team with the intention of throwing himself into something new, much less something he’d already decided wasn’t for him, long ago.

“I didn’t really play for a long time, and it’s been a while since then,” Sanghyeok explains kindly, hoping it doesn’t get Sungho too dejected. “I’m probably all rusty.”

Naturally—and Sanghyeok, in hindsight, doesn’t know why he didn’t expect this—Sungho persists. “All are welcome to try out, though. I could probably even help you, if you want. I know a thing or two about other string instruments, too.”

Sanghyeok chuckles nervously, feeling strangely small. It sort of makes sense that his mother wouldn’t have passed on her precious harp to anyone who wasn’t passionate, some kind of musical genius, and a seemingly great person all-around, all at once. Sungho’s insinuating that he wants Sanghyeok to play violin for him and see if he’s good enough to get into the orchestra, as if Sanghyeok hadn’t just walked in on Sungho play the harp with the same ease as breathing, and Sanghyeok hasn’t even told Sungho yet that the role model he’d spoken of was Sanghyeok’s mother and that the metaphorical distance between them might as well be contained within the size and stature of that green and gold harp.

When the silence drags on for a second too long without an answer, Sungho is the one who breaks the tension with, “No pressure, Sanghyeok-ssi. I’ll just give you my number, if you promise to at least think about it. Hm?”

Heat rushes into Sanghyeok’s cheeks at the proposition, Sungho’s smile bordering on  mischievous as he holds a hand out in front him, expectant. Sanghyeok just takes his phone out of his pocket, caught off-guard by Sungho’s boldness, hidden beneath those kind, round eyes. He unlocks his phone and pulls up a new contact entry before handing it to the boy in front of him, heart pounding in his chest in a mix of awe and sheer disbelief. He doesn’t know what possesses him to even have the audacity to answer, “I’ll think about it and call you, then.”

Sungho smiles down at the phone as he types in his information, looking up at Sanghyeok through his eyelashes before hitting Save and handing the phone back. “A text is fine. I work a lot. I wouldn’t wanna miss your calls.”

Sanghyeok takes his phone, looks back and forth between Sungho’s sly expression and his full name on the screen, followed by a harp emoticon and a music note to match—and he leaves the auditorium with his heart still pounding against his chest, the sweet sound of Sungho’s harp playing on a background loop in the back of his mind.

Sanghyeok ends up biting the bullet and agreeing to meet with Sungho a little over a week later—and now, he’s showing to the College of Music’s auditorium at half past seven, bringing with him his old violin and a single piece to play for Sungho as promised, just so Sanghyeok can, in Sungho words, ‘show him what he’s really got.’

When he arrives, Sungho’s already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his huge, classical harp. Sanghyeok comes through the auditorium’s main doors this time, and Sungho’s face lights up when he spots him, both hands immediately coming up in animated waves. Sanghyeok raises a single hand back up in greeting as he jogs down the center aisle, choosing to run up to the steps on the side of the stage instead of jumping up like Sungho had made him do the last time, almost risking them both toppling onto the stage in an awkward mess.

“Hey! Sunglass boy!” Sungho says when Sanghyeok comes up the stage, his smooth voice resonating poignantly across the space. He’s wearing a yellow-green cardigan today, all buttons undone with a black tank top underneath, and his hair is all fluffy around his face and also— “Sorry if I smell like smoke, I just came from my part-time job. Barbecue restaurant. I don’t have classes on Mondays this semester, so it works out nicely.”

Sanghyeok nods at him, a smile already forming on his face from Sungho’s easygoing, cheery energy alone. “Well, I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve been looking forward to this all day.” Sungho stands up easily, his hands never even touching the floor to support his own weight. Sanghyeok’s not sure why he notices that. It takes a while for the words to even register, and that only makes it worse. Sanghyeok’s heart jumps into his throat when Sungho asks, “Have you been practicing?”

“As much as someone who last played five years ago can practice in a week, I guess,” Sanghyeok chuckles nervously, one hand scratching the back of his neck, while the other clutches on tighter to the case of his violin. He gestures toward the instrument as he jokes, “I think I tuned it pretty well, but if it doesn’t sound all that great, you’ll let me blame it on the old rosin, right?”

Sungho laughs. Sanghyeok hasn’t know him that long at all, but one of the things he thinks he’s learned about him already is that Sungho likes to laugh. He laughs easily, Maybe giggles is more the right word for how he’d just reacted to Sanghyeok’s attempt at humor, and it soaks up the slight tension before it can start piling onto itself, out of control. Sanghyeok appreciates it, whether Sungho knows he’s doing it or not, and he laughs along when Sungho simply says, “I’m excited. Well, are you gonna show me, then? What piece are you playing?”

Sanghyeok shakes his head. “It’s a surprise,” he says sheepishly, right before busying himself with setting his violin case down onto the floor, and then taking the instrument out with awkward hands.

And maybe it was the understatement of the century when he’d deflected Sungho’s question about practicing, because Sanghyeok has been practicing, even if it’s during stolen moments when no one else was home to hear him play, or even notice that his old violin had disappeared from where it had been collecting dust. Sanghyeok had gone looking for old sheet music trying to recall the few compositions that he had run into the ground, over and over until he could play them absolutely perfectly, regardless of the uphill battle of always wanting to give up when he wasn’t immediately good at something from the get-go. Sanghyeok had found one of those compositions eventually—and he’s spent the entire past week mostly just trying to remember how to hold a violin properly, where he likes to rest his fingers as he holds the bow. After that, the rest of it had simply followed, returning to Sanghyeok’s muscle memory surprisingly quickly—and Sanghyeok is confident he’ll be able to play something decent for Sungho, even after just a week of staggered practicing. Maybe even something good.

(The nerves come mostly from the same place that they did the last time that Sanghyeok tried to play the violin to impress someone—when he’d realized quickly that there are people like his mother who have music flowing through their veins like blood, and there was always some part of them that Sanghyeok still just couldn’t reach, no matter how perfectly he’d hit every note. 

Sungho seems to be one of those people. Even from what little Sanghyeok’s seen of it, he can tell that Sungho plays his harp with soul and conviction, with that secret something special that seems more and more like something you either just have or don’t. Sanghyeok’s not exactly hoping that Sungho will finally tell him that he has it, but maybe he’s hoping Sungho likes him enough to level with him, tell him the secret of what exactly it is.)

Sanghyeok can feel Sungho’s expectant gaze on him when he lifts his instrument out of its case, holding his bow and violin at his sides for a second before actually resting the violin under his chin. It feels strangely intimate, vulnerable, having to assume this position he’s grown unfamiliar with over the years, getting ready to play a piece for an audience of one with barely any preamble besides light banter and a playful, ‘it’s a surprise,’—as if Sanghyeok has any right to be confident that he could surprise a musical genius like Park Sungho.

But Sungho simply stands there, with his kind eyes and kind smile, nodding gently at Sanghyeok encouragingly at the seconds go by.

It’s enough for Sanghyeok to push through his self-consciousness, remind himself it won’t be the end of the world if he messes up, and just play.

The song he’d chosen is a grand one—and Sungho’s reaction is one to match. Sanghyeok keeps his eyes open as the music flows from his violin, his gaze trained on his fingers on the frets and the angles of the bow and the shifts in Sungho’s expressions, all at once. The piece sets an intense rhythm right from the start, sending Sanghyeok’s own heart beating at that same pace as he plays, and he’s egged on by the adrenaline it sends pumping through him and the slow, gradual way that Sungho’s jaw falls further toward the floor.

Sanghyeok keeps playing, never losing focus on hitting the right notes, bringing his bow against the right strings, Even the sound of his old violin on its own resonates almost majestically in the auditorium’s space, the sound full-bodied and flowing as Sanghyeok hits every note he’d practiced, every minute vibrato, every dip from high to low. He makes eye contact with Sungho for a brief second, and the look of utter disbelief on his face is enough to fuel him to keep going, the music matching the tension building between the two of them on the stage.

Sanghyeok feels the same way he remembers feeling in the past, as if every single note is wrung harshly out of his calloused fingertips and sore wrists. Even as he plays this intense, almost imposing piece, he notices the way Sungho’s expressions shift as he watches him, a heady mix of fascination and scrutiny and acknowledgment, all at once—and he wonders what it is he’s thinking, if he’s trying to place what it is that Sanghyeok lacks, even as he hits all the right notes.

Sanghyeok continues playing. Sungho continues watching. Sanghyeok eventually has to remind himself to breathe through it, especially as he goes into the third act and Sungho starts to walk toward him, his arms crossed, coming closer, closer, closer, until he’s a mere foot away and leaning in even further, nodding to the beat like with his brow furrowed like he’s looking for something else in the series of notes, or perhaps even in Sanghyeok himself. Sanghyeok stays glued in place, playing the last few measures like his life depends on it, even with Sungho suddenly so close—

And Sungho backs away on his own when he can tell that the piece is about to end, leaving enough room for Sanghyeok to look him right in the eye as he plays the last, low note, a single measure of sustained vibrato before he flicks his wrist, and takes the bow away from his violin’s strings.

They’re plunged into silence—and there’s a few seconds where they simply stare at each other in the ambient light, the tension so thick that it almost feels like there’s a fog settling into the once-clear path between them—but it’s quickly broken by Sungho walking toward Sanghyeok with a small clap, his lips parted around a disbelieving laugh.

Sanghyeok breathes out a sigh of relief at that, nearly slumping forward onto his knees when he registers Sungho’s satisfied reaction. Sanghyeok only realizes now how hard and fast his heart had been beating all along, and it takes nearly all he has not to just faceplant into the floor. He’s sure it’s not a good look for the shortened version of a six-minute piece to have him heaving and exhausted like this—but if Sungho’s thinking it, he doesn’t mention it.

In fact, Sungho doesn’t really say anything at all.

Sanghyeok is the one who eventually asks, in an attempt to break through the tension, “So? What did you think?”

Sungho crosses his arms again, raises an eyebrow, and says matter-of-factly, “Bach.”

Sanghyeok chuckles, sheepishly moving his bow to his left hand. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you could recognize that.”

“Here I was, thinking you were some kind of amateur,” Sungho scoffs, still shaking his head. “You sell yourself short, Sanghyeok-ah. You’re more than capable.”

Sanghyeok laughs. Sungho speaks nothing but praises for him—but Sanghyeok can see the flash of something else in his eyes, the strange flicker across his stunned expression, and he’s not sure if he’s imagining it into reality, if it’s worth it to pull at that loose thread. Sanghyeok decides to keep playing along and ask, “Good enough for orchestra, you think?”

And that’s when Sungho’s expression shifts, his eyebrows raised as he suddenly turns the question back on him.

“I don’t know,” Sungho shrugs, looking right into Sanghyeok’s eyes like he knows something. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure,” Sanghyeok says awkwardly, earlier’s self-consciousness returning in waves. He decides to throw out, “You don’t seem impressed.”

“I never said that,” Sungho shakes his head, his smile still strangely lighthearted, like he’s enjoying stringing Sanghyeok along—but Sanghyeok immediately pushes the thought out of his mind. He may feel a bit chided, but he seriously doubts that Sungho actually has a single, malicious bone in his body. He’s sort of proven right when the next thing that Sungho asks, gentle and genuinely curious, is, “Do you always get this down on yourself?”

Sanghyeok shrugs. He answers honestly, “I told you, I didn’t really play for a long time. I guess my heart just still isn’t really in it, until now.”

Sungho pouts, but he nods his head anyway, sympathetic. “Well, then, you don’t have to join the orchestra if you don’t want to, Sanghyeok.” He gestures over to the open case of Sanghyeok’s violin, tells him without words to go and set it down. Sanghyeok follows. “I mean, to answer your question: yes—we would absolutely jump for talent like yours—but I just threw it out there as a suggestion, you know? If it really doesn’t feel right, you don’t have to do it.” Sanghyeok places his instrument back into its carrier, and out of the corner of his eye, sees Sungho tilting his head as he adds, “I’d still stick around. If you want me to, I mean.”

And despite the dull, sinking feeling settling at the pit of Sanghyeok’s stomach—he finds himself looking back at Sungho to scrunch the bridge of his nose and smile, to which Sungho laughs again, before giving the same nose scrunch and smile right back.

It’s a little insane, how enamoured Sanghyeok has gotten with this boy, after two meetings and four minutes of intense violin and a couple of texts in between. Sanghyeok’s not confident enough to be certain that those little comments that Sungho’s been making count as flirting, but that doesn’t change the effect that they have on him, leaving Sanghyeok a nervous, blushing mess. He’s barely recovered from the ordeal of having Sungho see right through him after playing his violin, and somehow Sungho’s already finding ways to make it better, to tell Sanghyeok he’s not here to judge, that whatever Sanghyeok wants to do now, after all that, is totally okay.

“Sungho,” Sanghyeok starts off after a few more seconds of silence, walking over towards him now that his violin has been set down.

Sungho tilts his head. “Yes?”

Sanghyeok asks him directly, “Why do you play the harp, mm?”

Sungho sends him another pout and head-tilt combo, a slightly surprised look on his face. Sanghyeok simply purses his lips, expectant, so Sungho answers anyway.

“I…” he shrugs, “Hm… It’s been a while since anyone asked me that question.”

Sanghyeok nods. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I do think about it a lot on my own, though, I guess.” Sungho glances backward toward his harp, an amusing fondness in his eyes. “I’ve played for a long time. I think I actually just feel the most like myself, when I’m playing harp, if that makes sense?”

Sanghyeok hums, curious. “You do seem to enjoy it.”

“Yeah?” Sungho smiles, walking over to where the harp is this time, and actually going to sit on the stool next to it, ready to play. “It’s… peaceful. You know, not all harp music is relaxing, exactly, but every time I play, I just feel, like… safe. Secure. I’ve also always been really expressive—I’m sure you can already tell—and harp specifically always lets me show that. Like, I get to move my body a lot, move with the music. There’s just something different about it; whenever I try playing other instruments, it’s not the same. The music always just—” Sungho holds both hands out in front of him, as if pushing something towards the empty seats in the audience, “—it goes out, it happens then disappears. When it’s the harp, it flows differently. I feel like the sound comes back to me. It keeps itself going, because it keeps me going.” Sungho brings his fingers to pluck at a few strings on his instrument, hands flowing like water as they move closer toward himself, ending in a pointed look at Sanghyeok across the stage. “Do you get what I mean?”

Sanghyeok pouts, playful. In a way, he does—but it’s not in the way that he really understands, or can say he’s ever experienced anything like it before. Perhaps he hasn’t stayed committed long enough to any one craft to feel as connected as Sungho does to his own. Dancing was the closest thing, maybe; Sanghyeok can relate to the peace that comes with movement, with expression that responds in a feedback loop instead of being simply drained out of him, like his violin solo just had. That seems like what it was, now that Sanghyeok thinks about it. Sanghyeok’s a fast learner, can re-learn a Bach composition in less than ten days on an instrument made for his non-dominant hand, but he hasn’t quite figured out yet what it means for his instrument to give him something back, something like the flow or the emotion of the music that forms from presses of his fingers and fluid movements of his hands.

“I could never really relate to musicians, honestly,” Sanghyeok admits openly, a slightly bitter chuckle escaping his lips. He takes one more look at Sungho’s harp and remembers all of the times he’s seen it before, thinks he can definitely understand why his mother would have passed the instrument on to someone like him. “Music was always my mom and brother’s thing. I tried getting into violin thinking I might be able to share in that—I wasn’t. It just made them sort of feel more… unreachable,” he chuckles, “so I gave up.”

“Well, we all have our own reasons,” Sungho shrugs. “One’s not more meaningful than any other.”

Sanghyeok laughs. “Come on. You know that’s not true.”

“It is!” Sungho laughs back, trying to lighten the air. “What matters is how you go about it, right? I mean, sometimes I wish I didn’t have to go and choose one of the most expensive instruments to play when my parents could barely afford the beginner one back then—and yet here I am. It’s not even just that I love the harp; it’s also the fact that a bunch of people have rooted for me to keep playing. Even the woman who gifted this to me—she told me she didn’t want me to give it up. So I keep playing. And it’s brought me a lot of good things so far.”

It’s a little… unsettling, hearing Sungho suddenly speak of the person who Sanghyeok has only ever known as his mother. It feels like something that shouldn’t be happening, Sanghyeok becoming privy to a different side of her in its truest, rawest form, from someone who has no idea of the weight that it carries. “I guess music really does bring people together.”

But not for me, Sanghyeok decides to leave out—though something in the shift of Sungho’s expression tells him he hears it in the tone of his voice anyway.

Sungho stands up again, walks over to where Sanghyeok is, and crouches down next to Sanghyeok’s violin. “Can I touch?”

Sanghyeok holds his hand out in a simple gesture of, “Go ahead.”

Sungho smiles, carefully picks up Sanghyeok’s instrument, settling the violin gingerly under his chin. Sanghyeok’s surprised to see Sungho holding the thing even more awkwardly than Sanghyeok had been earlier—but he supposes that, musical genius or not, Sungho isn’t a violinist, at the end of the day. He’s made his love of his harp pretty clear.

Sungho laughs again to break the tension, before he plays a simple progression on Sanghyeok’s violin—just the first four measures of what Sanghyeok eventually realizes is When You Wish Upon A Star. Sungho stops right after, holding the violin and the bow out to Sanghyeok with a shy smile and saying, “It’s been a while since I tried that.”

Sanghyeok scoffs, reaching for his violin, movements stiff. “I wouldn’t have been able to guess.”

“Could you maybe try playing your sonata for me again?” Sungho asks, miming the motion of playing the violin, just as he had seconds ago. “But this time, try closing your eyes.”

Sanghyeok glares in disbelief. Sungho just nods, and Sanghyeok sighs, realizing he was dead serious. “I’m not as good as you. I can’t do that, obviously.”

“Just try,” Sungho rolls his eyes, playful. He walks up behind Sanghyeok, and Sanghyeok’s heart starts picking up the pace again, and it doesn’t help that Sungho hovers a hand above his left arm and asks, just like earlier, “Can I touch?”

Sanghyeok nods again, answers with a strained hum.

Sungho doesn’t actually do anything more than guide Sanghyeok’s arm upward to position the violin back under his chin, which Sanghyeok finds himself following frighteningly easily. He holds his bow up in front of him as well, trying and probably failing to meet Sungho with an unimpressed stare when the harpist walks in front of him, telling him again. “Close your eyes.”

Sanghyeok huffs another time—but this time, right after, he follows Sungho’s instruction anyway.

When Sanghyeok’s eyes are closed, he hears Sungho say in front of him, “Play slower, miss a few notes. It doesn’t matter. I want to hear you make music. Not just play the violin.”

Sanghyeok exhales, furrowing his brow. In theory, he gets what Sungho’s asking of him—but he doesn’t know what he’s meant to actually do.

“Okay,” Sanghyeok says anyway, “I’ll do my best.”

And so Sanghyeok starts playing his perfected Sonata no. 2, eyes closed and all, with a slower tempo and missed notes and what he’s sure is an increasingly frustrated furrow in his brow.

He doesn’t expect Sungho to start speaking to him through it, his voice disembodied as it rings out from all around him. 

“Sure, music brings people together—” Sungho starts, suddenly sounding a lot more serious than before, “—but it can also drive them apart. I understand that, too.”

Sanghyeok squeezes his eyes shut at the stinging reminder, willing himself to keep playing, to keep his eyes closed.

“Anyone can learn to listen for what someone else’s music says to them,” Sungho continues, “but as a musician, you have to remember to let your music speak at all.”

Sanghyeok’s heart clenches as he plays, the statement feeling all too pointed as that same exhaustion from earlier begins taking over him, his mind and body all too focused on the notes to even think about how to do what Sungho had asked of him. Make music. Maybe Sungho’s trying to prove a point: maybe all that Sanghyeok knows how to do is play the violin.

The notes come to a natural crescendo, Sanghyeok’s hands too cemented in the muscle memory of how to play this one piece perfectly. Sungho’s no longer saying anything, but Sanghyeok carries on.

Then, as if Sungho had read his mind, he says, “You could end up playing all the notes perfectly, and still end up saying nothing.” Sanghyeok simply takes the gut punch, continues on playing, and he feels his breath hitch when Sungho comes up right behind him, inquisitive voice coming over his right shoulder, “So what do you want your music to say, Lee Sanghyeok?”

Sanghyeok stops playing when the words register, his bow coming away from the violin strings with a low, dissonant hum.

He turns around to look at Sungho, who’s still standing right behind him, hands clasped innocently behind his back. Sanghyeok blinks at him, and he’s not quite sure which emotion comes out in the way he stares—fascination, longing, envy. As much as he wishes that all of this just came naturally to him, it never has.

“The woman who gave you the harp,” Sanghyeok finally brings up, gesturing with his bow over to the other side of the stage. “Song Min-kyung?”

Sungho’s eyes widen at the mention of her name, and it seems to take a second for him process it coming out of Sanghyeok’s mouth. “You know her?”

Sanghyeok purses his lips, avoiding eye contact when he admits, “Yeah. She’s my mom.”

It’s Sungho’s turn now to blink at him like a deer in the headlights, caught off-guard. He glances back and forth between Sanghyeok and the harp for a few seconds, and Sanghyeok is mostly just relieved that though Sungho looks taken aback, he doesn’t really seem offended that Sanghyeok had kept it from him all until now. In fact, after just a few moments of deafening silence, Sungho just goes, “Oh—wow, I didn’t know.”

Sanghyeok chuckles bitterly. Maybe he feels some type of way about the implication that his mom never even mentioned him to the person she’d passed her first harp onto, but then again, it’s not like his mom ever talked about Sungho with them, either.

“I don’t know what my music says, because I don’t speak the language that you two do,” Sanghyeok explains, not unkindly. He’s simply stating a fact, and if it leaves them at an impasse, then that’s that.

He’s not sure what he was expecting out of that, but Sungho simply beckons for him to follow as he walks across the stage again, saying softly, “Come here.”

Sanghyeok follows, violin and bow still in hand. Sungho sits down at his harp. He sets his feet down onto the pedals, but his hands remain planted on his thighs—and he looks up at Sanghyeok with his earnest, round eyes again, pulling Sanghyeok into his orbit no matter how many obstacles Sanghyeok tries to throw in their way.

“Play something with me,” Sungho says eventually, a gentle request—but to Sanghyeok, it’s daunting, feels like the weight of the world settles itself into the body of his violin. “If you listen for what my music’s saying, will you answer me with yours? Let me listen, too?”

Sanghyeok blinks at him, lips parting around an uncertain, “I…”

Sungho nods encouragingly, hands moving to play the first few notes of a piece that Sanghyeok hasn’t heard in years, but comes rushing back in a wave of washed-up memory—something with meaning, not just a chance to show off hitting every single note.

“You know this song?” Sungho asks as he plays, gradually slowing to a stop as he waits for Sanghyeok’s answer. “This was the first thing that Ms. Song taught me to play.”

Sanghyeok nods. It’s a piece of music from a Studio Ghibli film, something his mother and older brother used to play together all the time on the harp and the piano. Sanghyeok had learned it on his own, before deciding there was no place to for him to wedge himself into something that wasn’t really his. His heart wasn’t really in it enough—or whatever bullshit excuse he’d convinced himself of back then. “Arrietty is her favorite movie.”

“Oh?” Sungho parts his lips, a small smile forming as he nods at the new information. “I didn’t know that.”

Sanghyeok smiles at the ground, the strange weight of it not lost on him.

Against his own defenses, Sanghyeok just rests his violin under his chin again, a wordless gesture met with Sungho’s giddy smile.

Then Sungho closes his eyes, rests his fingers on the strings of his harp, and starts playing.

It’s as mesmerizing as the first time that Sanghyeok had witnessed him, playing his harp like no one’s watching, his movements fluid and slow, not a single abrupt shift in his hands as they move across the strings. 

Sanghyeok allows himself to play just a few measures after, recalling the accompaniment as Sungho busies himself with plucking the melody on his harp strings. He allows Sungho to take the lead first, supporting the gentleness of his harp with the fuller-bodied sound of his violin, and Sanghyeok observes the flurry of expressions that flit across Sungho’s face as the music comes together, an entity of its own instead of mere sounds coming from the instruments under their hands.

And there’s not really a lightbulb flash that goes off in Sanghyeok’s head—but in the moment, he thinks he understands at least a little bit more what Sungho had been asking of him, the almost conversational way that their music flows together, the sounds of harp and violin molding themselves around each other to fit into a single, harmonious piece. After one verse, Sungho settles for playing the low, repetitive accompaniment, gracefully letting Sanghyeok play the gentle melody—and instead of on his harp, Sungho keeps his eyes trained on Sanghyeok as he moves his bow, smiling whenever their back-and-forth melds together in perfect harmony, eyes falling shut as if savoring the feeling of it under his skin. 

Sanghyeok doesn’t think he’s ever felt goosebumps the way he does when the two of them lock eyes all of a sudden, Sungho nodding at him in time with the slow rhythm, and Sanghyeok transfixed on the way Sungho seems to be regarding him so closely, watching, listening. Playing with Sungho feels like telling a story together, the two of them building something from nothing until it all fits together. Sanghyeok never bothered to really find out if there were words to this song that his mother loved so much, but with Sungho, it feels like he can hear them anyway; they make themselves known in the unbridled shifts in his expression, the contented smile on his face akin to what one gives to a kitten showing its belly or a sprout growing its first leaves. Maybe it’s that they’re playing a slower, less finnicky piece; but it’s also the way that Sungho’s more than made room for Sanghyeok in his little hideaway with his harp, where they’re no longer a protégé and a burnout—just two people who know the same song.

This time, Sungho doesn’t need to hover around him, and Sanghyeok doesn’t have to close his eyes. The energy that flows between them as they play is clear and palpable and real, so unlike anything that Sanghyeok’s ever felt before—and even as the song comes to a close, the sounds or harp and violin disappearing into a graceful fade, Sanghyeok can tell that the connection between them goes beyond the outlet of their music, the truths they’d told each other without uttering a single word.

Sungho is the one who breaks the tension-filled silence afterward, as he leans the side of his head onto the body of his harp, “You’re full of surprises, Lee Sanghyeok.”

Sanghyeok’s eyes are glazed over in awe as Sungho looks up at him, and in this single, fleeting moment, he decides: he wants to keep Park Sungho looking at him like this, spellbound and proud, beyond just tonight.

It’s just a a few days later, on a lazy Saturday morning at home, that Sanghyeok happens upon his mother sitting in their house’s music room, a place he’d only recently stepped foot back into, and only to haphazardly retrieve his old, dusty violin.

“Oh, hey, Sanghyeok-ah,” she calls out to him when she notices his presence, her expression curious, but not at all displeased—especially when her gaze flits over to Sanghyeok’s violin, held safely along with the bow at his side. “You’re…” she chuckles, intrigued, “I was wondering where that went.”

Sanghyeok shrugs, nonchalant. “I brought it out,” he explains, closing the double doors behind him, and walking further into the room.

The space is much nicer today than when he’d snuck in two weeks ago, making quick work of retrieving his violin from its dark corner along with whatever old sheet music he could find. Today, daylight spills in through the open doors to the balcony, overlooking their back garden while the wind from outside blows through their curtains, sheer white and painted gold with morning sun. Sanghyeok’s not typically an early riser—especially not on weekends—but he’s spent the whole week thinking seriously about Park Sungho’s suggestion that he audition for the orchestra, and he figures it wouldn’t hurt to use the space he has at his disposal, instead of closing himself off from this single room in his own house. Admittedly, Sanghyeok does still feel a little bit small in here, dwarfed by how at-home his mom looks next to the grand piano and the black harp and the guitars and records hanging on the wall, but he supposes she’ll hsve to find out about what he’s doing at some point, whether it’s from his own mouth or simply hearing the sounds of violin ringing throughout the whole house.

“I didn’t know you were playing again,” she starts up fittingly, standing up from the sofa in the corner where she’d been reading a book in the path of the wind and the sun. Sanghyeok knows that she likes being in here, surrounded by her instruments and the sounds of the world from their garden, wind through the trees and their dogs barking as they play and the gentle fall of water from the stone fountain. Her smile is sunny and bright as she walks toward him, her yellow sundress flowing at her feet. “Did you want me to go, or…?”

Sanghyeok’s heart sinks a little, but he shakes his head, “No.” He gestures over to the classical harp with his violin bow, his mom following as he walks over. “I came here to tell you that I’ve started playing again.”

His mother parts her lips at the new information, clearly surprised. “Really?”

Sanghyeok juts his lips out, shrugs, gestures for her to sit on the stool beside her harp, where she’s always seemed so at home. “You seem against it.”

Sanghyeok doesn’t believe that, really. He’s saying it to get some sort of rise out of her, and they both seem to know—but his mom indulges him anyway, answering with a lighthearted laugh, “Why would I be against it? That’s great news! I’m just surprised, obviously. Can you blame me? The last thing you mentioned to be was about you being tired and leaving the dance team.”

Sanghyeok laughs. Despite all the barriers between them, there are moments like this, too, when Sanghyeok realizes that he’s old enough to share a kind of closeness with her, remembers that there’s always been a corner reserved specifically for Sanghyeok in her heart. “Actually, eomma—I was thinking auditioning for the orchestra, this time around.”

Her eyes widen even more, almost comically large. “The orchestra? All of a sudden?”

Sanghyeok chuckles nervously. “You’re so surprised.”

“You told me before you quit that you felt nothing for the violin!” she quips, teasing.

“I was seventeen.”

“And now you’re twenty-one,” she leans forward, resting her chin in the palm of her hand, “so what’s changed?”

Sanghyeok huffs. He wonders if he should tell her about the boy he’d seen playing her old harp, the time they’d spent playing the piece from her favorite movie; Sanghyeok wonders if he should spill out the contents of his guts right here and right now, tell his mom how all the things he’d done all those years ago to try and reach her seemed to be reaching across time, making its way full-circle to now, when Sanghyeok has the eyes to see how his mother has tried to reach him.

“I met someone interesting,” is what Sanghyeok says to her, fidgeting with his bow as he smiles at the ground. “We played together for a bit. I wonder if he’d say yes to another duet, if I got into the orchestra. A real one, this time.”

His mom blinks at him, an amused glint in her eye. There’s only pure curiosity in her tone when she asks, “So you want to join the orchestra so you can do a duet with this interesting guy?”

“That’s better than not having a goal at all, isn’t it?” Sanghyeok quips back immediately—to which his mom leans backward, sitting up straight and crossing her arms, a smug look on her face.

“I’m not saying that’s not a valid reason,” she muses, then gestures at his violin as she asks, “What does he play?”

Sanghyeok shrugs, mirroring that same action toward the instrument beside her, “Harp.”

Her expression shifts upon hearing that—but only in that the corners of her lips struggle not to break into a bigger smile. At this point, Sanghyeok’s not sure if she’s picking up on the hints he’s dropping, or if she’s flattered that Sanghyeok finally seems to be appreciating the instrument she loves so much—but whatever it is, he’s just glad that they seem to be connecting over it so easily, even with all the worries and fears that Sanghyeok still carries in the back of his head.

“Speaking of,” Sanghyeok starts up, pushing past that fear, “did you want to play something with me?”

She looks up at him, taken aback, suddenly fidgeting with the high strings of the harp in front of her, sleek black against her bright presence.

Sanghyeok almost takes it back—until his mom breaks into a watery smile, and Sanghyeok starts to wonder what possessed him to think back then that things like this simply didn’t matter as much to her if they came from him.

“Sure,” she says, poorly veiled excitement in her tone as she positions her harp. “What song were you thinking?”

Sanghyeok doesn’t answer. Instead, he stands up, places the violin under his chin—and hopes his mom will meet him where he is.

He plays the first three notes on his own, a simple enough song. It’s not what he’s planning to audition with, by any means; it’s simply something he remembers his mother playing a lot with his older brother, something Sanghyeok had imposed on himself as a rule never to touch.

Sanghyeok watches as his mom’s eyes go glassy when she realizes what he’s playing—the first three notes of Can’t Help Falling in Love on his old violin—and she falls into the rhythm of it on her harp like it’s second nature, and yet also, at the same time, so new.

And it’s safe to say that—in a way that’s never happened before—Sanghyeok suddenly gets so weirdly emotional, the song easy enough to play for him to be able to feel for the first time that the two of them can finally reach each other through the music alone. For the first time, Sanghyeok’s not playing to impress her, nor prove himself worthy of being a part of this world he’s never just understood without trying; instead, he recalls Sungho’s voice in his head and tries to listen, to reach out and listen for how his mother’s music speaks, all the things she puts into the movements of her hands and the expressions that flash across the face, the soft melody of her harp that she lets fade into the background so Sanghyeok could shine. A lump forms in the back of Sanghyeok’s throat, years of strange tension crumbling down around this single moment. He plays with all the longing in his heart, the desire for closeness that he’s never voiced or simply never knew how to. It feels unfair that it could have been this simple. His heart opens up with every note that they play together, and his mother smiles at him as if it she mustn’t have been waiting even longer for a moment like this to come.

The song comes to a natural end, and Sanghyeok has to blink his own tears away when he sees tears spill over onto his mom’s cheeks immediately after, though they’re wiped away in a second with the back of her palm and a breathy, contented laugh. 

Sanghyeok purses his lips at that, suddenly shaken out of the unusual, vulnerable moment. They’re plunged back into ambient silence, the trees still shaking in the wind outside, dogs still playing, birds still singing their songs. His mom scrunches her nose as she tries to pretend that she isn’t sniffling and holding more tears back, and Sanghyeok allows her her pride. He takes a seat and sets his violin down beside him, not quite yet knowing what to say, the melody of the song they’d just played together still playing back softly in the back of his mind.

“So,” his mom startles him out of his reverie, her cheek leaning against her harp, much like Sanghyeok recalls from his encounters with— “you’ve met Park Sungho, huh?”

Sanghyeok is only surprised for a second—and then he hangs his head to hide the blood rushing into his cheeks at being caught. “How’d you know?”

“I know for a fact that only one person at your school plays the harp,” she chuckles, leaning further down to try and catch Sanghyeok’s eyes. “I’m surrpised the kid hasn’t called me to tell me all about it.”

Sanghyeok is quick to defend, “Well, he doesn’t seem like that kind of person. You know—meddling in family matters.”

“You’re right. He isn’t,” she says fondly, and Sanghyeok is reminded once more of the insane fact that she and Sungho know each other, and have known each other for years. “You’ve told him I’m your mom, then?”

“Well, yeah. On the second meeting,” Sanghyeok shrugs. “He did have your harp.”

She hums, like there’s nothing more to say. Sanghyeok supposes there isn’t; either way, he’d already heard that story from Sungho himself. Now, they’re just plunged back into silence again, a different kind of awkwardness permeating the air after such an unusually vulnerable moment, and it’s not like Sanghyeok has any idea what he’s meant to do now. He could just jump right back to where they were before they played together, ask if his mom has any suggestions for an audition song—though he knows it would be a little half-hearted, that it is still something that he’d want to do on his own. Still, it would be a little bit heartless of him to just ask his mom to leave, and maybe he should just leave himself and go practice in his bedroom, or maybe they could both leave and Sanghyeok could take her somewhere for brunch—

“Is there something else you wanted to talk to me about, Sanghyeok-ah?”

His mom is the one who breaks the silence again, her expression one of mild concern. Sanghyeok laughs nervously as the tension starts to build again, mounting pressure in his throat and behind his eyes. “Like… what?”

“Anything?” She shakes her head. “I… don’t know. I’m still surprised. I really thought you didn’t care for music at all. I’m sorry if I didn’t encourage you enough, back then? I just didn’t want you to feel like I was forcing you. You know I want to support whatever you want to do.”

Sanghyeok’s chest tightens, but he waves it off. “You weren’t forcing me, mom,” he says, chuckling at his immature past self. “You know me—I was just impatient. Felt like I wasn’t getting good fast enough. How could I catch up to Sangmin-hyung? To you?”

His mother sighs. “Sanghyeok-ah.”

“I know, I know,” Sanghyeok chuckles, pouting his lips. Childish as it sounds, he really did mean everything he’d said to Sungho before about feeling like they’d been speaking a language he wasn’t a part of. Now, he at least hopes he’s grown enough to know to simply listen closer—to remember to let his own music speak for him, too. “But you have to admit, I wasn’t gonna become your music kid. Not that I felt like you played favorites, or anything, but that was a losing battle from the start.”

Her expression turns serious, and she narrows her eyes. “Say what you want about your brother—but I hope you’re not going into the orchestra with some vendetta against Sungho. Since I gave him my old harp and all.”

Sanghyeok laughs, genuinely amused at the idea. “Eomma, I just said I wanted a duet with him,” he huffs out, avoiding her eyes. “Could be fun to compete a bit, though. He’s already taken me down a peg after I played him a Bach piece.”

She furrows her brows, rolls her eyes, and apparently decides she’d rather not ask. “Well, start by passing the audition first, Sanghyeok-ah. Anyway, it’ll be nice to see both of you when I attend the concerts, next time.”

“I’m working on it, eomma,” Sanghyeok says, placating. “That means I can use this room, right?”

“I never said you weren’t allowed in here, sweetheart,” she laughs, “of course you can. I won’t bother you, either, if that’s what you want.”

Sanghyeok smiles, and accepts with a simple, “Thanks.”

She stands up after that, subtly trying to wipe away more of the tears clinging to her eyelashes. She walks over to where Sanghyeok’s sitting, rests one hand on his shoulder, leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head. Sanghyeok scrunches his nose, but stays in place nonetheless.

“Let me know how it goes, at least,” his mom chirps, looking one last time at Sanghyeok’s face before turning on her heel to leave the room on her own. Before she reaches the door, though, she looks back to call over her shoulder with an expectant grin, “Wanna go out for lunch later, Sanghyeok-ah?”

“Alright,” Sanghyeok waves her off, watching as she disappears through the door, and he’s left in the room’s peaceful silence, alone but content, speaking softly into the space, “That sounds nice.”

Later that day, when Sanghyeok gets back home in the afternoon, he calls up Sungho’s number on his phone, unable to resist the temptation of telling him from his own mouth, “Turns out I will be auditioning for the orchestra, Sungho-yah. Final answer.”

“...Well, hello to you, too, sunglass boy,” comes Sungho’s playful voice from the other end of the line. Sanghyeok can picture the smile he must have on his face. “Did you want me to help you practice?”

“Actually, I’m hoping to surprise you, Sungho-yah,” Sanghyeok says, made bold by the forgiving barrier of phone static and background noise. “You’ll be there to cheer me on, right?”

“Oh, I never miss it, Sanghyeok-ah,” Sungho answers with a slight whine in his tone, to which Sanghyeok smiles to himself fondly. “That doesn’t mean we can’t still hang out until then, right?”

Sanghyeok purses his lips, giddy, trying to contain his excitement as he flops back onto the music room couch. “Sure, why not? You like barbecue places?”

“Are you kidding me? I work at one.” Sungho laughs, and Sanghyeok lets himself follow, and he runs a hand absentmindedly through his hair when Sungho asks, “How does lunch on Monday sound?”

Sanghyeok closes his eyes, heart racing. He’s so damn glad he’d left his sunglasses in the auditorium’s third-row seat.

A few more weeks later, the auditions for their university’s orchestra begins, and Sanghyeok shows up to the College of Music’s auditorium to try out for one of the empty spots in strings.

They’re made to wait in the hallway of the building’s second floor, seats set up for all the nervous hopefuls with their violins and cellos, waiting for their turn to walk onto that balcony and down toward the empty stage, the same way that Sanghyeok had on the night that he and Sungho first met. Sanghyeok’s surrounded mostly by freshmen, all decked out in something at least semi-formal and making Sanghyeok feel grossly underdressed—but he tries not to let it get to his head.

Sungho had told him during one of their recent meals together that the audition was mostly a formality—they’ve been short on violinists since two semesters ago, anyway—but it doesn’t change the fact that Sanghyeok has spent the last few weeks finding a piece that meant something to him, and practicing it until every sound and motion was ingrained deep into the fibers of his soul. Sungho had cleared out his part-time work schedule specifically so he could be there and watch Sanghyeok perform tonight—and after all the big game Sanghyeok had talked, even if it was playful teasing or veiled attempts at flirting, he’s eager not to disappoint. 

“Lee Sanghyeok?”

Sanghyeok looks up from where he’d spacing out when he hears his name called from the open door, one of the orchestra members gesturing into the auditorium, holding a clipboard close to their chest.

“You’re up next.”

Sanghyeok nods a simple, “Thanks,” stands up, and holds the door open, before walking through it himself, instrument in hand. 

The atmosphere is immediately different when he walks into the auditorium today, a spotlight pointed at the stage and a sign plastered on the balcony railing, telling the people auditioning how to get there. Sanghyeok follows dutifully, doesn’t distract himself with searching for the familiar face amongst the people sparsely sprinkled throughout the audience seats. Sanghyeok can hear his heartbeat pulsing as he makes his way down a dimly-lit passage, through spiral stairs and flying dust, until he finds himself walking out from the left side of the stage, toward the single microphone that stands at center-stage.

There’s a table set up in front of the audience seats, five people sitting with their names and titles written on strips of paper in front of them, clipboards and pens strewn out across the surface. There’s a Faculty Adviser, Concertmaster, Principal Second Violin, Conductor, and the Organization President—the last of which picks up a microphone from in front of him, greeting Sanghyeok with a kind expression, “Hello. Introduce yourself and your instrument, please.”

Sanghyeok nods, reads the name in front of him. Huening Kai. Sungho has told Sanghyeok about him, says he mostly plays the piano, but is basically some kind of all-rounder music prodigy.

“Lee Sanghyeok, third-year Sociology student. I’m auditioning as a violinist.”

Speaking of which—it doesn’t take long after that for Sanghyeok to spot Sungho in the audience. There’s a few other people watching, who Sanghyeok assumes are other existing members of the orchestra, and Sungho’s in one of the higher-up seats, just a little to the right of Sanghyeok’s direct line of sight. Even from afar, Sanghyeok can see that he’s got his lips quirked up and his legs crossed, hair messy around the playful look in his eyes. He’s wearing some kind of leather jacket today, a deep shade of burgundy that brings out the warm brown in his hair, and he chances the smallest at wave at Sanghyeok when they happen to lock eyes from across the space.

Sanghyeok comes back to the task at hand when the same guy, Kai, nods at him curiously, “Third year, huh? Can I ask what made you want to join the orchestra now?”

Sanghyeok’s eyes flit back over to Sungho for just a split-second, before he speaks seriously into the microphone, “I gave up the violin a bit of a while ago, for a lot of different reasons. I think I want to try and play it in a different way, this time around.”

Kai nods, seeming genuinely curious about his answer. “And in what way is that, Sanghyeok-ssi?”

Sanghyeok shrugs, flashes an innocent smile as he leans forward into the microphone again, saying simply, “For myself.”

(Sanghyeok is glad, when he glances into the audience, to find Sungho beaming at that answer as he sits comfortably in his seat.)

“I can’t wait,” says Kai, nodding in approval. “Then, could you introduce the piece you’ll be auditioning with?”

Sanghyeok nods agreeably, and answers, “Flowering, originally by LUCY, adapted for solo violin.”

Kai asks again, “Any reason for choosing this song?”

“Well,” Sanghyeok chuckles shyly, “it’s for the same reason I just mentioned.”

Sanghyeok steps back from the microphone after, watching the panel’s intrigued reactions, and bracing himself for the first performance he’s going to put on for an audience of even this size, in so long.

“Well, we’re looking forward to it,” Kai tells him, encouraging. “Go ahead.”

Sanghyeok exhales. Kai puts down his microphone, and Sanghyeok stares into the crowd one more time, just to fuel himself with Sungho’s intent gaze.

He steps back onto the taped X on the stage floor, takes his violin out of its case. He takes a few more deep breaths while he positions the instrument under his chin, newly familiar with the weight of it on his shoulder.

With closed eyes, a beating heart, and all the words he wants to say brewing beneath his fingertips—Sanghyeok starts to play.

And immediately, it feels different from all the times he’s played before, all those years ago. He has to keep his eyes closed to get used to the sound of his own violin taking up the entire room, reaching up to the auditorium’s high ceilings. Sanghyeok plays the first few measures with all of his heart, weaving his emotion into the spaces of the song that would normally be filled with flowery words and lively percussion, hoping to convey the ephemeral beauty in the new beginnings of spring.

When Sanghyeok gains the confidence to open his eyes, of course Sungho is watching him. He’s leaning forward, on the edge of his seat, just as in awe of him as when Sanghyeok had first played him some grand, heartless sonata—except, this time, the weight of their connection is palpable even from so far away, resonating from Sanghyeok’s old bowstrings and the back-and-forth flow of his hands creating every note. This time, Sanghyeok plays with intention, not knowing if Sungho knows the song he’s playing but hoping he can hear Sanghyeok telling him how it was his smile that had melted the snow off of his trembling, frightened hands—the same ones that now play for him a song of flowers blooming, dreams growing wings like petals in the wind. 

Sanghyeok keeps his eyes focused on Sungho for the most part after, gaining confidence with every second that the other boy looks at him like no matter what happens here today, Sanghyeok’s already won over his heart. For what feels like the first time, Sanghyeok can acknowledge the materiality of the music as it resonates around him, taking what he puts out and responding in the form of a melody with a life of its own. If he’s being honest with himself, Sanghyeok knows deep in his heart that he still has a long, long way to go before he can really claim his violin as a part of him—but he plays with his whole heart regardless, playing the word violinist into reality instead of leaving it on a perpetually unreachable pedestal. 

Sungho sits there in the audience, and Sanghyeok brings the two of them as close as possible through his music, crossing over the empty space and through all the missed years that passed before the fateful moment that they first met. As his piece approaches its climax, Sanghyeok brings forward the years he’d spent dreaming in bleak grays, jumping from passion to passion, not knowing how to move forward through momentary highs and seemingly endless valley lows. He plays his violin, a song about spring, hopeful regardless of whether this new chapter might end up withering on him again—because there’s always the small, but tenacious glimmer of a chance that one day, he’ll be able to look back with fondness and pride at the fleeting moments he’d let himself truly bloom.

Sanghyeok gives his all for the song’s final chorus, his heart racing not from exhaustion this time, but from the pure, overwhelming satisfaction of feeling seen, heard, alive. Honesty pours out from under his fingertips, channeled through his violin, and Sanghyeok listens to his music as he plays, and plays, and plays.

And when the time comes for the final, few notes—the last of them ringing out in a steady, resonant vibrato—Sanghyeok takes a moment to close his eyes, feel the air buzzing all around him, and take it all in.

He’s brought out of his trance only when the panelists in front clap for him politely, smiles on their faces as they write things down on their clipboards—but Sanghyeok’s only looking for one thing.

“Wow. Thank you for that,” comes Kai’s voice over the microphone speakers, as Sanghyeok wills himself not to linger too long on the image of Sungho on his feet, in the audience, clapping soundlessly, gaze resting comfortably only on him. “I really enjoyed that, Sanghyeok-ssi. The results will be out in a few days, so make sure to check the bulletin boards. You can exit through the main doors, please. Thank you again!”

Sanghyeok nods enthusiastically, chest still heaving as he bows a full ninety degrees with a spirited, “Thank you so much!”

In the audience, Sanghyeok immediately sees Sungho moving to step away from his seat, walking toward the back door before Sanghyeok can even pack up his violin, and descend the stairs on the right side of the stage. Suddenly, as he watches Sungho’s back, Sanghyeok feels like the auditorium’s aisle is the longest path in the world—and his heart races for a different reason entirely, tension and excitement building as he tries not to jog too fast when Sungho disappears through the doors. His instrument feels simultaneously like a weight and a boost on his back, the high of his performance carrying him through the thick fog that suddenly seems to separate him from where Sungho is.

Eventually, despite all his dramatics, Sanghyeok makes it out through the auditorium’s double doors, and he finds Sungho waiting for him in the main lobby, his leather jacket and round eyes and fluffed-up hair all up-close.

“Hey, violin boy,” Sungho greets him with an eye-crinkling smile, hands in the pockets of his jacket like he doesn’t know that the mere sight of him is deadly to someone like Lee Sanghyeok. “That was fucking amazing.”

Sanghyeok blushes, the blood under his skin rushing hot and prickly all over. “I’m violin boy now?”

“You’ve earned it,” Sungho answers, eyes never leaving Sanghyeok’s as he makes his way over. “Consider me surprised, Sanghyeok-ah.”

Sanghyeok preens. “So you liked it, then?”

“This can be our little secret,” Sungho rolls his eyes, taking his left hand out of his pocket to hold it out in front of them, a mirror the first night that they’d met. “Welcome to the Sonatina Orchestra, Lee Sanghyeok.”

Sanghyeok laughs at him, avoiding Sungho’s eyes, though he reaches out to hold his hand and give it a shake anyway. “Thank you, Park Sungho.”

He’s surprised when Sungho takes his other hand out of his pocket, only to turn Sanghyeok’s palm face-up, deposit a fresh package of rosin into it, and close Sanghyeok’s fingers gently around the edges of the tin with both his hands.

“Now,” Sungho starts up, without yet letting go, “We should celebrate. How does dinner tonight sound, Sanghyeok-ah?”

Sanghyeok smirks, uses his free hand to take the rosin and put it into his pocket, and intertwines their fingers instead. “Dinner sounds nice.”

Sungho and Sanghyeok make their way together out the doors, hand in hand, neither of them even thinking about letting go.