Over the next three days, the music became a battlefield. Jaemin, his mind a chaotic mess of regret and self-recrimination, felt the familiar harmony of their orchestra dissolve into a clashing, disjointed mess. Every time he raised his baton, he could feel Do-hyun's gaze, but it was no longer the warm, encouraging anchor he had grown used to. Now it felt like a cold, analytical observation, a mirror held up to his own insecurities.
He would try to catch Do-hyun's eye, a silent apology written in his expression, but the concertmaster was turning out to be a master of evasion. His posture was flawless, his focus absolute, his violin a perfect extension of his will. He was the epitome of a professional, a wall of cool, unwavering competence.
He was in his own world, perfectly in tune with the music, yet completely out of sync with Jaemin.
The silence between their exchanges was deafening. The only thing that punctuated it was the occasional squeak of a violin or a missed cue from the wind instruments as the other members of the orchestra, confused by the sudden tension between their two leaders, floundered and made glaring mistakes.
The second day was even worse. Jaemin's movements were stiff and hesitant, his usual passion replaced by a cold, formal precision that drained the life out of the music. The orchestra, a finely tuned instrument in his hands just a few days ago, was now a collection of individuals playing without a unified soul.
By the third day, the tension had reached a breaking point. The music was a discordant cacophony, a direct manifestation of the emotional chasm between Jaemin and Do-hyun. At one point, Jaemin almost thought he could feel the bitter scent of black tea and bergamot encircle him, mocking, gloating… winning.
When he finally lowered his baton, the last note hanging in the air like a ghost, the silence that fell over the hall was heavy. The rest of the orchestra members had already packed up and were talking in subdued tones, leaving Jaemin to face the swirling eddies of his own thoughts on his own.
The rehearsal had been a disaster, a reflection of his own emotional chaos, and he had no one to blame but himself. He had carelessly allowed the ghost of his past to overshadow the man who actually stood before him, the man who had done nothing but give to him, many times even going out of his way to do so over the last few weeks. The sting of his own failure as a conductor was nothing compared to the sharp, agonizing pain of having hurt Do-hyun.
I am my own worst enemy, he thought, the words a cold, bitter pill of clarity in the maelstrom of defeat and self-doubt.
Defeat heavy on his shoulders, he was just about to retreat into his office to lick his wounds when a familiar presence just behind him cut through his thoughts.
"Are you heading home?" Do-hyun asked quietly, expression unreadable.
Too exhausted to speak, Jaemin simply nodded.
Do-hyun gestured toward the exit. "I'll drive you."
The offer, so familiar from the last few weeks, felt like a punch to the gut. Jaemin, his heart aching, could only nod again in quiet assent before following Do-hyun out to the car.
The journey was a tense echo of the one just a few nights before. Jaemin felt like he was drowning in the oppressive silence, each passing streetlight illuminating his face and the distance between them. The engine hummed a low, monotonous rhythm, but there was no familiar scent of cedar to comfort him, no warm, quiet presence at his side. Do-hyun's scent was still there, but it was muted, a distant echo of its former strength. The air was heavy with unspoken words, a symphony of discord that made Jaemin's skin crawl.
When they arrived at his apartment, neither of them moved. The engine continued to hum, a small, stubborn sound in the quiet street. It was a stark contrast to the nights before, when Do-hyun had always cut the engine, the simple act an unspoken statement that he would be staying the night.
Tonight, the running engine was a glaring sign that this was just a ride home, a polite formality before they went their separate ways.
Jaemin sat there, his mind a frantic torrent of thoughts as he stared at the door handle. He couldn't end the day like this. He couldn't go inside and face his family without having mended what had broken between them. He just couldn't.
He had to fix this.
Do-hyun noticed Jaemin's hesitation. "What is it, Conductor-nim?" he asked, his voice softer than it had been all week, the tiniest crack in his cold facade.
Jaemin's eyes pricked with tears at the question. "Don't call me that, please," he whispered. "Not when we're… Not when it's just us." He looked up at Do-hyun, amber eyes pleading and vulnerable. "I don't want to go back. I... I want to stay with you."
Do-hyun's body stiffened at his words. The car was suddenly a pressure cooker, the air thick with an unspoken tension that felt like it was building to a breaking point. Do-hyun's hand, still on the gearshift, clenched as his smell of cedar flared, an angry, frustrated scent that filled the car.
"Your family is in there," he said, voice low and strained. "Waiting for you. What would they think?"
"I don't care what they think," Jaemin insisted, his own voice warbling. "I didn't ask them to come. I don't want them to be here. I can't go back to them, not when... when it's like this between us. I can't."
He reached out to turn off the engine, but Do-hyun's hand, a fraction of a second faster, stopped him. The brief contact was electric, and Jaemin's breath hitched as a wave of raw, aching vulnerability, a desperate plea for reassurance, coursed through him.
I need you to tell me, Do-hyun's scent seemed to scream. I need to know this is real.
All of a sudden, he understood. Do-hyun's anger wasn't directed at him, but at himself, for his own insecurity.
As Do-hyun's emotions flooded into him, Jaemin suddenly knew exactly what he had to do. Without stopping to think, he leaned in, his own cherry blossom scent flaring in the small space, a silent, desperate offering.
He reached out and, with trembling fingers, touched both wrists to the sides of Do-hyun's neck, right at the pulse points, the place where his scent was the strongest. Then, bringing his hand up to his own neck, he proceeded to rub Do-hyun's scent directly onto his skin.
This deliberate gesture of scenting himself with Do-hyun's pheromones was an intimate, primal declaration, an action that needed no words. He was marking himself, taking Do-hyun's scent into his own, an undeniable statement of ownership and belonging.
As he did so, the acrid scent of his anxiety and fear, which had clung to him all day, immediately dissipated, replaced by a soft, calming floral bloom.
Do-hyun's eyes widened, a flicker of shock and then something else—a possessive, fiery heat—lighting up their depths as he watched Jaemin claim himself this way. His hand shot out, capturing Jaemin's, not to push him away, but to hold it there, to press it more firmly against his own skin. His eyes narrowed, and a low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his own cedar scent now an encompassing, powerful whirlwind that made Jaemin's head spin.
He had never felt so safe with anyone else in his life.
"Do-hyun," Jaemin whispered, his voice trembling with quiet apprehension as he leaned into his touch. "Can I... can I go home with you tonight instead?"
Do-hyun's expression softened and, without a single word, he nodded and shifted gears, pulling away from Jaemin's house.
…
From the front window, the twins watched the car disappear around the corner. Jina, with a small smile, nudged her brother.
"Well, looks like Oppa isn't coming home tonight."
Junho simply smirked in response. "I'll handle Omma. Don't want her getting the wrong idea."
They exchanged a conspiratorial grin, a single, silent understanding passing between them. As the headlights of Do-hyun's car disappeared out of sight, Junho called out loudly: "Omma!"
Behind them, the bedroom door opened, and their mother came out, a worried look on her face. "What is it? What happened? Is your brother back yet?"
"Hyung did come back, but he just left again," Junho said, his mind working quickly. "He said not to wait up."
"Is he alright?" she asked, concerned. "He looked so upset earlier this morning when he left for work. I was worried sick."
"Oppa's fine, Omma," Jina added, her eyes still fixed on the empty street. "He's with his colleagues, they'll be rehearsing till late."
Their mother's shoulders relaxed just a little. "Oh, with colleagues. Well, that's a relief. I'm just glad he's not working through this all alone."
"Yeah." Junho murmured with a soft smile, looking out the window with his chin resting on the sill above his folded arms. "Yeah, he's gonna be alright."