Sehun was a city boy, in every form and signification of the phrase. He was a hound of Seoul City, the magnificent and somewhat belligerent capital of South Korea, and the city fit suited him better than his VANS sneakers. Sehun swaggered down the neon sidewalks day by day and had had big plans to celebrate his senior year of high school, so far the peak of his existence.
Those plans did not, however, include staying with his grandparents in rural farm hills. Alone.
His radically non-conservative parents had become obsessed with the up-and-coming, fashionable epidemic known as ‘homeschooling’, and had elected to ship his terribly misbehaved out of the urban glitter to where the buckwheat, pear trees, and persimmon plants still reigned the ungroomed land. Put lightly, Sehun was furious. So much for senior pranks and unwinding with his buddies, losing ity and drowning in the modern era; their modern era. He’d been told on countless occasions of how little there was to see out in the boondocks, in the “slow” city of Sangju. Emphasis on slow.
This year was going to be the worst.

Sehun, thoroughly disgruntled, took a single step off of the travel bus and regretted ever waking from his sleep on the ride here. After one look around him at the over-forty masses, disgustingly green hills, and gray, lethargic city scene, he was ready to jump under that same bus that carried him here. His leather jacket and skinny jeans did no wonders to stave off the musky, wet air that instantly brought unfamiliar prickles to his dangerously pale skin. With a sigh of contempt and a flick of his bangs, he took hold of his suitcase and stepped off the platform.

His grandfather looked nothing special: old, wrinkled, gray. Much like any other elder. But the old man was the only one waiting out in the parking lot beside his ancient-looking pickup, caked in dust and dirt and looking as if it had been patched together multiple times, so much so that it was all probably half-homemade.

Grandpa Oh’s toothy, lopsided grin was Sehun’s first greeting into this new world. The old man stepped around his truck, buzzing with enthusiasm, and threw out his hand for a shake. “Sehun, my boy!” he slurred.

The 18-year-old beanstalk flinched and hoisted his backpack further over his shoulder before shaking his grandfather’s hand. The elder did so eagerly and clapped his free hand over Sehun’s arm endearingly. “How have you been?”

“Good, grandpa,” Sehun replied monotone.

The old man happily hurried his grandson into the creaky truck, tossing his bags in the back next to bins of pears. Sehun dropped carefully into the passenger seat, glancing around to evaluate the cabin: it was relatively clean minus various gum wrappers and scattered change and just the general uncleanliness.

Grandpa Oh bumbled into the drivers seat, beaming the whole time, and turned the key—from which a cheap plastic Pororo figurine dangled—until the vehicle grumbled stubbornly to life. Sehun began to breathe through his mouth to save his nose from the burning scent of diesel and old persons.

“Oh, you’re going to love it here!” the old man chirped. “Your grandmother and I are thrilled to have you.”
Sehun pursed his lips and slumped into the seat as his eyes drew over to the Christian cross dangling on the mirror next to a string of wooden Buddhist beads. He was silent for the duration of the drive unless his grandfather asked pressing questions, in which case he would reply with a simple “Yes” or

“No”.

The city looked uneventful, and as the truck treaded along the slow, bare roads, surrounded on all sides relatively by either farmland or poorly urbanized pockets of ugly, boxy buildings. Sehun vaguely remembered something about there being a rich stream of historical-like tourist spots, but evidence of those old style-homes and temples came and went like tiny gold nuggets in a riverbed of pebbles.

Pear trees rose out of the mist of the hills and Grandpa Oh swerved off onto a gravel road, nodding through his open window at a bypassing villager as they began to climb the hills.

Sehun was slumped over next to his own window, head deposited onto his hand, elbow on the rim of pane of glass in sulky thought. His grandpa had been rambling on about some sort of new kind of tortilla that didn’t upset his wife’s stomach, but Sehun wasn’t listening in the slightest. Staring out unto the path that lay ahead of them his mind wandered to all the memories and events he would be missing out on: he and his friends had had so many plans, so many ideas, and after this year they’d all be spread out across the country and world to their respective colleges or whatever. He’d be wasting the best year of high school away homeschooling alone at his grandparent’s prehistoric home, picking pears in his free time and making friends with the local squirrels.

Stupid, he grumbled mentally. There probably aren’t any kids around here, especially no hotties for me to hit u—
Sehun sat up just as they zoomed by two young-looking minors walking in the opposite direction, the two dressed in crisp white shirts and carrying oddly-shaped black cases in one of their hands, and sandwiches in the others. Sehun turned in his seat to watch them go and his grandfather chuckled.

“Some of the minors around here. It’s probably lunchtime at school. Don’t see them come around here anymore between classes; must be all that studying.”

“School?” Sehun inquired, facing forward again.

The elder nodded. “Oh yes. There’s a small public facility, but those kids must be from that fancy private school.”

“There’s a private school here?” Sehun asked, surprised. For such a rural area a private school seemed out of place.

“Sangju Private Academy,” his grandfather recited. “All those talented music kids go there.” The old man smirked. “That reminds me: your grandmother and I have a surprise for you tonight!”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is now,” Sehun grumbled under his breath, going back to the window.

 

Following a smushing hug by his grandmother, plates of pear slices, and hours of intense interrogation by his grandparents, dinner was finally served. The elders ate traditionally at a low, square dinner table, but for some reason this particular dining table felt weird, different from his other dining experiences.

Maybe it was the hanok house, or the silence wafting in through the open-shuttered windows, or the clear, earthy scents drifting through the house, braiding alongside the smell of home cooked, locally grown rice, vegetables, and sesame. Sitting at the dinner table under a single, off-white bulb across from his grandfather and beside his grandmother was painfully awkward, particularly as the elder woman inquired about his social life.

“What do you do in your free time?” she would croak, squinting at the boy beside her from under wrinkled eyelids.

Drink and go to nightclubs. “Mhm,” was his only response.

“Do you have many friends?”

All druggies. Sehun shrugged and shoved a wad of noodles in his mouth.

“Oh, I’m sure my grandson will make many friends here! Especially with a face like that!” She giggled in that gruff voice of hers and Sehun winced. “How about a—” The woman glanced at her husband with a cheeky grin. “—a girlfriend?”

Sehun’s eyes drew up from the bowl in his hands suddenly. The uncertainty must have shown in his features because his grandmother then laughed and patted her husband’s hand near hers, smiling at the younger on her other side.

“Who knows? Maybe you’ll find a girl here that you really like, dearie!”

Sehun gulped and focused back on his dish. Yeah. A…a girl…

The three sat in uncomfortable silence for only another moment before Grandpa Oh spoke up once again, noticing that Sehun was nearly finished with his dish and having just set down his chopsticks himself. He cleared his throat royally, eyeing Sehun, but the younger’s attention hadn’t been caught. Grandpa Oh exchanged a knowing look with the woman beside him, cleared his throat again, then said,

“Well Sehun, I hope you’ve brought a nice suit from home! You’re going to need one tonight.”

The teen looked up with a frown. “A suit? No, I don’t have one.”

Grandma Oh nodded quickly. “Oh that’s okay! Your grandfather has some extras—you’re much taller than him, though. Oh, it’ll be alright.” She chuckled with unpronounced enthusiasm.

Grandpa Oh agreed, glancing at Sehun from the corner of his eye as if waiting for the other to inquire. For a minute he thought that maybe his grandson was going to just sit there, but smirked happily when the younger finally sighed and set his bowl in his lap. “Well, why do I need a suit?” Sehun asked.

Grandpa Oh rejoiced. “Well,” he started theatrically. “Your mother had let us know that you’re very much into music.”

Sehun’s lips twitched. Please, please don’t ask about the music, he begged mentally. He didn’t want to have to explain rap, remixes, and electronic music to these oldies, and he didn’t want to lie and tell them something different either. His eyes flickered between his grandparents heatedly until his grandmother explained further.

“Well the local youth orchestra is performing tonight and because we’re so old—Lord help us—we get a special discount for tickets!” She said this as if it was the most brilliant work of modern social economics ever.

“We bought tickets! For the three of us,” exclaimed Grandpa Oh. “The performance is at the Arts Center down in Sangju tonight.” It was silent. Then his grandpa shouted, “Surprise!”

“Orchestra?” Sehun asked, miffed. 

“Youth orchestra,” his grandmother clarified. “North Gyeongsang Youth Chamber Symphony Orchestra. It’s all the music kids from the private academy. We thought maybe you could relate to them.”

Sehun wanted to scream, “I DON’T ING KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT CLASSICAL MUSIC! I WORK IN A NIGHT CLUB ING !” but refrained from doing so, instead dropping his bowl onto the table.

“Why are we going?”

“Because we were sure you’d like it, and the academy doesn’t put on many shows anymore, and because the last time we went to see them was about ten years ago, and it’s a welcoming gift!” the elder woman explained with a beaming smile.

Sehun’s mouth parted in exasperation. Oh my god please no. He couldn’t think of anything more boring than an orchestra concert, but it wasn’t like he could deny this gift his grandparents were offering—they looked like they didn’t treat themselves to this kind of thing often. He knew he was already being a pretty lame guest, but refusing to go would be downright rude and disrespectful.

“How long is it?” he drawled hopelessly. 

Grandpa Oh looked to the clock on the wall. “It starts at eight. Maybe…two, three hours?”

Sehun imagined himself slamming his head on the table. But he just pursed his lips and nodded. Grandma Oh immediately stood and began hobbling in the direction of Grandpa Oh’s closet, ushering Sehun to follow. “Now come, come! Look at all these suits your grandfather has—he grew out of them. That man loves to eat. But you’re a beanstalk, you’ll fit them fine.”

Sehun wanted to die.

 

Sehun shifted in his seat uncomfortably, tugging at the itchy trousers and stinky coat. They were velvet, of all things, and the traditional black had faded out into a sort of greenish gray. The cloth was disgustingly old and smelled…well…old. His legs must have been several inches longer than his grandfather’s because the cuffs of the pant legs cut off somewhere above his ankles and the pant crotch was terribly restricting and really, really, really uncomfortable.

He hadn’t had a single moment of serenity since they’d stepped into the concert hall, surrounded by elder women and men in their best dress, reeking of cologne and pseudo-fancy perfume.

Sehun couldn’t focus on the music. He just couldn’t. The elaborate arrays of young people—all around Sehun’s age, it looked like—striking away on their violins and violas and cellos and whatever else they held. He was so freaking antsy it wasn’t funny anymore—he was practically bored to tears, forced to sit still. If there ever was a form of torture, this was crowned. His grandparents didn’t seem to notice him: they were totally and completely enveloped in the music. It all sounded the same to him. This was stupid. How long had they been there? Thirty minutes? Sehun inconspicuously glanced at his phone.

It’s only been fifteen minutes. He groaned painfully.

I’m dying.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. It’s been thirty minutes. Sehun squirmed and thought about getting up and leaving—or maybe he’ll leave during the intermission. There was going to be an intermission, right? 

Right?

Fifty minutes in and the orchestra completed another song, the conductor finishing off the piece with a flurry of his wand. The audience’s applause erupted around the teen, but he only took this moment to groan unhappily and writhe again in his seat in preparation of the next segment. He just wanted to go home.

But for the first time throughout the whole performance something changed. Sehun’s brows lifted in interest as the very front row of musicians shifted and the first-chair violinist stood in silence, striding elegantly up beside the conductor’s podium where the entire crowd could see him and him only very well.

Sehun was taken aback immediately by the young man’s looks—even from the far balcony Sehun could tell that this violinist was small-ish and the suit he wore, although somewhat form-fitting, still hung loose on his terribly skinny frame. Although his narrow face was mostly washed out by the track lights from above Sehun was instantly taken with the cutesy form of the boy’s face.

The conductor raised his baton, and with a collective breath of the entire orchestra the music flared.

The violinist stood perfectly still with a mild, somewhat bashful smile on his face as the orchestra began sighing with sound. Sehun wasn’t well versed with the whole thing, so for two whole minutes he wondered why the frick the kid was just standing there.

But then in the midst of a lull of the piece the boy gracefully lifted his violin and tucked it beneath his chin, thin little fingers curling around the instrument. A second later his hands and arm began to move.

Sehun wasn’t generally a fan of the violin. It was itchy and easily off-pitch and, to him, just a very unpleasant sounding string instrument. But as soon as the boy’s bow was drawn across the strings Sehun’s ears rang with pleasure and he couldn’t take his eyes away.

The piece was long and tedious, the violinist’s fingers flying and running all over the instrument and extracting from the piece the most delicate yet powerful sound Sehun had ever experienced hearing. Fragile soughs of emotional tension dribbled down his spine and had him shivering with delight. That violin—oh my! That violin! Sehun watched, poised, as the soloist’s fine facial features swayed between serenity and stress with each torque of the music as if the sound of the song pushed and pulled him with will. Everything else disappeared and was drowned out by that one little boy on stage. Sehun couldn’t take his eyes away. So beautiful—

And then people were clapping. The applause was thunderous and eager, congratulating the little violin player as he bowed deeply on stage. Moments later the lights in the auditorium faded on and people began to bustle about.

The intermission.

Beside Sehun, Grandma Oh shuddered with a grin. “Oh my. That violinist was incredible! It’s given me shivers!”

“Grandma,” Sehun budded in, leaning towards her wide-eyed. “Grandma do you have the program?”

The old woman pondered for a moment and then leaned over, pulling out a booklet from her bag and handing it over. Immediately the teen blew through the pages, past sheets of music and biographies—

And there it was. Among an assortment of bios of composers and sponsors was a photo of a young man, smiling awkwardly for the camera. 

Violin Soloist
Kim Jongdae, 18

Beneath was a list of pieces that the boy would be soloing for, and Sehun couldn’t help but smile seeing that there were two more songs that he’d be able to hear that lovely boy play. He studied the flattering photograph of the fellow teen intently: the boy had a smallish face with tender, almond eyes that glinted with a hint of unsureness. His nose was toned and his lips thin and feminine, also curling up naturally at the corners. He had high-set cheekbones and picturesque, long brows. Although his lips seemed to be smiling, his eyes did not, tilted with concern. Dark bangs dangled above his eyes, somewhat messy and untamed.
He was a beautiful boy, Sehun thought. He began to read the biography:

Eighteen-year-old Kim Jongdae began playing the violin at age five under a music professor in Sangju—as a homeschooled child he had opportune time to study his music often and in-depth. Nicknamed the “Golden Violinist” after Apollo, the Greek God of music and the sun, Kim was recognized early for his prodigious skills and by age fifteen had studied with musicians such as Yo-Yo Ma, Itzhak Perlman, and Maxim Vengerov. He began attending the Sangju Private Academy at age seventeen with a full sponsored scholarship and has been performing with the North Gyeongsang Youth Chamber Symphony Orchestra for five years. He plans to attend the Royal Academy of Music in England with a scholarship to continue his studies.

Sehun stared at the page. Damn. Those credentials were really something: Kim Jongdae must have been really, really good.

Kim Jongdae.

Lost in his thoughts, Sehun almost completely missed the conversation between his grandfather and another strange man, at least until Grandma Oh’s excited shriek interrupted his imagines of the solo violinist.

Sehun glanced up to see Grandpa Oh conversing with an old man amicably—the two were obvious friends. They’d been conversing animatedly about economics and life on the farm as Grandpa Oh rubbed his nose with a grin.

“I’m sure glad to see you here, my friend. These kids are real good, aren’t they?” he said.

The stranger nodded earnestly. “They sure are…say, I was invited to go to a private reception after the concert hosted by the students of the orchestra. I was allowed a plus-one, but I didn’t think I had anyone to take along…”

Grandma oh leaned forward with interest. The stranger grinned.

“I’d like to invite you all to come along with me. Plus-three isn’t too far off from plus-one, right?”

Grandpa Oh laughed heartily and took his wife’s hand as Sehun watched with intensity.

Hosted by the students of the orchestra. The violinist might be there, he figured. Sehun would love to meet that—that Kim Jongdae.

“We’d love to!” Grandpa Oh replied and Grandma Oh nodded.

“Great. We’ll meet in the lobby after the performance. The reception is in the conference center across the street.”

“Sounds good. Thank you, my friend.” 

Sehun glared at the stranger—there was something off about him, about his smile. It seemed awkward and forced, bitter almost; perhaps not towards Sehun’s grandfather, but there was mischief and danger written in the wrinkles under his eyes. Sehun immediately decided that he would stay away from this man. After another moment Grandpa Oh started up another conversation. “Do you know anyone in the orchestra?”

The man nodded proudly. “Sure do. My son is the second-chair cellist.” He was interrupted by the lights in the house blinking on and off twice, a signal that the intermission was at its end. The fifty-something year old man turned and said, “I’ll stop by your home sometime soon—we’ll drink together, how about that?”

“It’s a date!” replied Grandpa Oh.

The stranger departed with a wave and Sehun turned his face away in distaste, suddenly eager to see the orchestra perform once again. Kim Jongdae.

Kim Jongdae.
Kim Jongdae.
Kim Jongdae.

The lights dimmed as the musicians took to their seats once again, each tuning individually on their strings. Sehun bit his tongue in slight panic: for a brief moment he couldn’t find Kim Jongdae, and wondered if he wouldn’t be coming back.

But the violinist did return to the stage in that purposeful, tender gait of his and took position in the very front.

The conductor lifted his baton.

And the music began.

 

Sehun departed from his grandparents the moment they’d crossed the street into the reception hall succeeding the end of the concert. After Kim Jongdae had taken his seat back on the first chair Sehun never looked away, not once. Suddenly classical music was interesting, and watching Kim Jongdae play the violin was extremely intriguing; the way his body moved, the way his expressions changed, the way his sole violin was clearest of them all…

Sehun smiled as he remembered, casually picking a glass of champagne off of a nearby snack table. No one was standing there to ask how old he was, so he may as well indulge. It wasn’t like he hadn’t drunk before either.

The reception overall seemed rather dull for him: maybe for someone who lived in the area full time it was exotic and mature and well planned. Friends in fancy dress mulled about in joyous banter and laughter, nibbling on h’ordeurves and sipping nice wine. It was entertaining to watch the common people enjoy themselves and discuss the music, but Sehun wasn’t really one of them.

As he lifted the glass to his lips his eyes skimmed the crowd and seeded through the faces carefully. This whole thing would’ve been a waste if he couldn’t find that violinist.

And for the majority of the duration of the time Sehun was there he predicted that it really was a waste, for he never once caught a glance of Kim Jongdae.
Eleven thirty at night. Much of the crowd had drifted away, the snack table picked through, and the champagne bottles emptied. Sehun wasn’t sure where his grandparents were at the moment but he didn’t care, he’d been avoiding them all evening. But as the night came to an end and Sehun downed his final glass of champagne in one swing in dire frustration he was ready to give up. Kim Jongdae just wasn’t here. Sehun could just go to the school some other time and look up the violinist’s name. That’s right.

He decided he needed some fresh air as the lights in the room all began to kaleidoscope around him. Sehun ran his fingers through his hair and swiveled on his heel—

“Gah!” Sehun cried as he collided with another body. The other person gasped and reeled back, about to fall to the floor, but Sehun quickly reached out and grabbed their arms, pulling the boy back up to his feet. The stranger’s chest was pressed flush up against his own and Sehun began to laugh nervously and push him away— 

Except he recognized that face. Sehun’s laugh died out and his eyes connected with the stranger’s wide, shocked ones. The boy’s cheeks had begun to flush in embarrassment and he subtly tried to inch away, but the taller’s grasp was so tight and Sehun didn’t even notice the boy’s intention to leave his embrace.

“Kim Jongdae,” Sehun breathed. As soon as he realized how close they were he quickly let go and took a step away. Kim Jongdae stepped back too, hugging his small white hands to his chest. He looked down and stood very still. Sehun smiled in sudden relief, bowing and holding his hand out. “You’re Kim Jongdae. I’m Oh Sehun. My grandparents own a pear farm up here.”

Kim Jongdae didn’t meet his eyes, but rather rubbed his lips together and then very slowly took Sehun’s hand and bowed his head. Sehun’s grip was strong. Jongdae’s was not.

Sehun continued after Jongdae had dropped his hand: “I…You…I mean—I have to say—I mean…” Jongdae avoiding his eyes wasn’t making this any easier, but the little smile quirking up the corners of his mouth in amusement was enough to prompt Sehun further. “I was completely in love with your performance. You’re r-really good.”

He wanted to smack himself. He sounded like an idiot.

Jongdae mumbled something under his breath but it was far too quiet for Sehun to hear. He leaned in.

“Sorry?”

Jongdae turned his head away and his face flushed red even more, his fingers twiddling together tightly. He cleared his throat and his voice was still terribly soft and Sehun had to really focus in order hear it. “Thank you. I’ll let the orchestra know.” He cleared his throat again.

Was Kim Jongdae…shy?

Sehun quickly shook his head and he suddenly felt extremely loud next to the smaller boy. “No! I mean…yeah…but no, I meant that your solos were incredible! You, your playing was what I was in love with.”

Sehun wondered if he said anything wrong as Jongdae seemed to shrink away. But Kim Jongdae smiled bashfully, grinned even and bit his lip. “Thank you,” he whispered. He had yet to meet Sehun’s eyes, gaze trained onto his toes.

With a breath of relief Sehun leaned back again. “I uh…I read that you’re called the Golden Violinist. Are you a fan of Greek Mythology?”

The violinist shrugged with a timid smile, then after a moment he nodded. Sehun stepped closer when an enthusiastic bounce in his step.

“I am too! I took an AP mythology course as a freshman in high school—I love Greek beliefs.” Jongdae didn’t seem like he was going to fuel the conversation further, so Sehun went on. “Apollo. Clever metaphor for your skills.”

Jongdae swiveled back and forth on his waist and clenched his fingers together with a shy smile. He still spoke quietly but his words seemed more confident. “Apollo is the god of youth and music. I am representative of both—I mean at least what people say—therefore people agree that I am also golden, like the sun…” The violinist looked up to Sehun from underneath his dark, long lashes. The taller gulped, his heart rate spiking unexpectedly. What the hell? “That’s why I’m the Golden Violinist.”

Sehun nodded, completely enveloped by the smaller’s milky chocolate eyes. That gaze was shockingly knowing and curious…but reserved, secretive, and deep. The kind of eyes one couldn’t look away from.

“O-Oh,” Sehun stuttered. He shifted on his feet awkwardly, feeling tense, but Jongdae in front of him seemed relatively more at ease. “Well…what sort of god am I representative of then?”

Jongdae hesitated, but his eyes promptly narrowed and he blushed, shaking his head quickly. Sehun scoffed playfully.

“What? What’s so funny?”

The Golden Violinist shook his head again, his thin hand coming up to cover his mouth as he began to giggle. Sehun, thoroughly amused by the other’s cuteness, laughed jovially. “Why are you laughing? Why can’t you tell me?”

Jongdae removed his hand and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, someone else’s voice cut through the room as a tall, broad young man with a set of hostile features stepped up beside the smaller Korean man. “Hello Dae. Ready to go?” the tall man asked.

Jongdae visibly tensed again, glancing between Sehun and the newcomer with anxiety. He had immediately recoiled into himself, backing reluctantly into the newcomer’s frame. The taller man must have noticed Jongdae’s and Sehun’s closeness, because his expression darkened and as he moved closer to Jongdae, settling his hand around the smaller’s hip, he addressed Sehun with an accusing tone.

“Who are you?”

Sehun vaguely bowed to the taller. “Oh Sehun.”

“What are you doing here?”

Immediately feeling both challenged and offended, Sehun’s lip curled and he responded sharply: “I’m enjoying the reception and having good conversation with this new acquaintance of mine.” He gestured to Jongdae, who immediately winced and ducked his head. It was then that Sehun recognized the black cello case in the taller man’s hand not on Jongdae’s waist. “And may I ask who you are?”

“Wu Yifan,” the now-obvious-Chinese stated, lifting his chin. “This boy here is my responsibility.”

“Responsibility?” Sehun’s eyes thinned. “How old are you?”

“I’m nineteen,” Wu Yifan claimed.

“You’re eighteen,” mumbled Jongdae. Neither man heard him.

“You look offended, Wu Yifan. As if Jongdae’s and my friendliness upsets you,” Sehun tested.

“Well it’s time for us to go, Mister Oh Sehun. Excuse us.” He intentionally turned Jongdae to face him, handing the smaller male a compact black violin case. “Here you are. Now come.”

Jongdae glanced back at Sehun, and his brows lifted and a brief smile graced his face before he turned to walk with the Chinese carrying the cello, leaving Sehun dumbfounded in his spot.

Kim Jongdae.

“Sehun!”

He his heel and met the grinning, pink faces of his grandparents. It was his grandmother that called him.

“Sehun, we’ll be going now. It’s getting late.”

He nodded and looked back once to check to make sure Jongdae wasn’t still standing there—he wasn’t, much to Sehun’s disappointment—and then followed his grandparents out of the reception hall.

 

 

[Longer version in the works. Would anyone be interested in a long fic?]