Chapter Text
the metronome was a cruel tick, clack. tick, clack underneath the notes echoing in the room.
seonghyeon’s fingers flew across the ivory keys of the piano. he was playing rachmaninoff, navigating the chords with precision that most professional pianists twice his age would envy. his posture was ramrod straight, his expression a mask of porcelain indifference, but beneath the collar of his uniform shirt, his skin was damp with cold sweat.
it was his ninth hour in the practice room. his shoulders screamed in protest, the tendons in his wrists burning with a throbbing ache, but he did not stop. he could not stop.
“flawless technique, seonghyeon. truly. a perfect, hollow shell of a performance.”
the memory of his grandfather’s voice echoed louder than the resounding chords in the soundproofed room. the maestro’s words were always delivered with an indifferent smile, usually in front of a room full of critics and instructors. “do not give the boy false hope,” maestro eom had told the headmaster just last week, his tone laced with icy contempt. “he plays like a typewriter. there is no soul in a machine.”
seonghyeon struck the final chord with a force that made the piano chassis vibrate, letting the sound ring out into the stifling silence of the room. he dropped his hands to his sides, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
he was a legacy student, a supposed prodigy, but to the man whose blood ran in his veins, he was nothing more than a shameful secret; the illegitimate son of a daughter who had disgraced the family name. every trophy seonghyeon won, every score he memorized, was a desperate, bleeding plea for a single nod of validation. a validation that never came.
the heavy acoustic door clicked open, breaking the vacuum seal of the practice room.
“whoa. intense.”
seonghyeon snapped his head up. leaning against the doorframe was ahn keonho. his tie was loose, his blazer slung casually over one shoulder, and he was holding a half-empty carton of banana milk.
keonho was everything seonghyeon was not: messy, unbothered, and irritatingly radiant. he was a scholarship student, completely lacking any former proper classical training, yet he possessed a raw instinctual ear that had somehow caught the attention of maestro eom himself.
“the sign on the door says reserved, ahn,” seonghyeon said, his voice clipped and freezing.
keonho shrugged, completely unbothered by the hostility. he took a sip of his milk and stepped fully into the room, letting the door shut behind him. “i know, i know. but mr. do is looking for you. i was just walking by and heard you trying to murder that piano. rachmaninoff didn’t hurt you, you know.”
seonghyeon stood up abruptly, grabbing his sheet music and shoving it into his leather satchel. “if you took music seriously, you would understand that perfection requires discipline. not that i expect someone who sight-reads jazz compositions in the hallway to understand.”
“hey, music is supposed to be fun, eom. if you grip the keys that hard, they’re going to bite back.”
“i don’t need advice from someone who refuses to even sit for a proper recital,” seonghyeon shot back, the bitterness bubbling to the surface.
it infuriated him. keonho had been at the academy for three months, hailed as a potential genius, championed by seonghyeon’s own grandfather, yet the boy actively dodged every opportunity to perform. he always had an excuse: a jammed finger from basketball, a missing page of sheet music, a sudden bout of sickness. he treated the stage like it was completely optional, a luxury he couldn't be bothered with, while seonghyeon bled for a single moment in the spotlight.
“right. well. mr. do’s office,” keonho deflected smoothly, stepping aside and giving a mock bow. “after you, your highness.”
— ♪ —
mr. do’s studio was located at the end of the east wing, overlooking the manicured courtyard. when the two boys entered, the renowned pianist was sitting at his desk, studying a thick binder of sheet music. he looked up over his silver-rimmed glasses, and gestured for them to sit on the small leather sofa against the wall. seonghyeon took a seat on the far right edge. keonho dropped onto the left side, sprawling out comfortably, though his foot immediately began a subtle, nervous tap against the carpet.
“seonghyeon. keonho,” mr.do began, closing the binder. he leaned back, lacing his fingers together. “i’ve been reviewing the curriculum for the upcoming winter showcase. the board is expecting a worthy presentation from our top students.”
“i've been preparing liszt’s la campanella, sir,” seonghyeon interjected smoothly. “it is performance-ready. i only need to refine the tempo.”
“i’m sure it is flawlessly prepared, seonghyeon, as always,” mr. do sighed. “but you won’t be playing liszt. and keonho, you won’t be submitting another 'improvisational composition' tape from the safety of an empty room to fulfill your performance credit.”
keonho’s foot stopped tapping. he sat up a little straighter, his easy smile faltering. “sir?”
“this year, i am pairing you two together,” mr. do announced, picking up a thin booklet of sheet music and sliding it across the glass desk. “you will be performing a four-hands duet. schubert’s fantasia in F minor.”
seonghyeon stared at the sheet music as if it were a venomous snake. “a duet?” he choked out, his composure fracturing. “with him? sir, with all due respect, our styles are completely incompatible. ahn doesn’t even practice! his playing is a disaster, and he has zero regard for tempo!”
“and that,” mr. do said sharply, his voice commanding the room, “is exactly why you need him, seonghyeon. your technique is perfect, yes. but your music is locked in a cage. you play out of fear. you play to survive. keonho plays because he breathes it. you need to learn how to feel the music, not just execute it.”
seonghyeon felt the blood drain from his face. the critique sounded terrifyingly close to his grandfather’s cruel dismissals. he dug his nails into his palms to keep his hands from shaking.
mr. do turned his gaze to keonho, who had gone unnaturally still. the vibrant, happy-go-lucky boy looked suddenly pale, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“and you, keonho,” mr. do said, his tone softening but remaining firm. “you have a gift. but you are hiding behind your casual attitude. you avoid the stage, you avoid pressure, and you run whenever people ask you to truly present yourself. seonghyeon has the discipline and the grounding force you lack. if you are going to survive in this industry… if you are going to honor the talent you were given… you must learn to face the audience again. seonghyeon will be your anchor on that stage.”
“i don’t- i don’t think i can,” keonho whispered. it was the first time seonghyeon had ever heard the other boy sound genuinely small. keonho swallowed hard, his eyes wide. “mr. do, please. i can compose. i can arrange. just… not a live showcase. not with hundreds of people.”
seonghyeon frowned, glancing sideways at his rival. he had expected keonho to laugh off the assignment, to make a joke about being tied to seonghyeon’s strict schedule. he hadn’t expected this visceral terror. it didn't make sense. keonho was the maestro's golden boy; he had the classical world at his feet. what on earth was he so afraid of?
“it is not a request,” mr. do said, his voice ringing with finality. “you two are assigned to practice room A, starting tomorrow evening. three hours a day, minimum. the piece requires two players to breathe as one, to anticipate each other’s movements, and to share a cramped bench. figure out how to tolerate each other, or you both fail the showcase. am I understood?”
seonghyeon felt a suffocating wave of dread wash over him. he looked at the sheet music on the desk. fantasia in F minor. a piece of profound tragedy, deep longing, and intricate, weaving melodies that required absolute vulnerability between the two pianists.
“understood, sir,” seonghyeon forced out through gritted teeth.
beside him, keonho didn’t speak. he just nodded slowly, his hands tightly gripping the fabric of his trousers.
as they walked out of the studio and back into the hallway, the distance between them felt wider than ever, yet paradoxically, completely inescapable. seonghyeon stopped and turned to keonho, crossing his arms over his chest. he wanted to establish his boundaries before this forced partnership ruined everything he had worked for.
“listen to me,” seonghyeon said coldly, his voice trembling slightly with suppressed emotion. “i am not going to let you drag me down. my grandfather is going to be in the front row of that showcase. if you miss a single cue, if you play one sloppy note because you were too lazy to practice, i will never forgive you.”
keonho looked up. the color hadn't fully returned to his face, and his eyes were shadowed with an unspoken grief that caught seonghyeon entirely off guard.
“you don’t have to worry about me dragging you down, eom,” Keonho said softly, his voice lacking its usual bright cadence. he offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “i’m a lot more terrified of this than you are.”
before seonghyeon could ask what that meant, keonho turned and walked away down the corridor, leaving seonghyeon standing alone in the silence, the crushing weight of the impending duet pressing down on his chest.
— ♪ —