Whatever Huang Zitao had been expecting when he had joined the SM Philharmonic Orchestra had been completely tossed out the window when he met Wu Yifan for the first time. 

Zitao was already in a foul mood, having endured both bad traffic and an extremely rude cab driver who had not understood the delicate nature of his antique, full-size cello and had nearly tossed it onto the pavement. 

Giving the man a piece of his mind before storming off, Zitao entered the grand hall five minutes later with a grumble, only to be met by an extremely nervous violinist by the name of Lu Han.

“You’re late.”

—Was the only thing the violinist had said before taking off in a near run down the long hall, looking behind him only once to urge Zitao to follow him.  Lugging his cello behind him awkwardly, Zitao struggled to keep pace.

When they finally entered the rehearsal room, Zitao was immediately met with a hundred disapproving looks.  Feeling pinned, Zitao paused by the door as he stared back at the crowd. 

For an orchestra, it was quiet.

Clutching his cello in front of him like a shield, Zitao shyly made his way to the front of the room, weaving his way through the rows of staring musicians who remained still as he passed by, heads turning to follow his path.  Hands sweaty, Zitao readjusted his grip on his case, coming to a stop in front of the conductor’s podium. 

Standing taller than even Zitao, back turned to them all, was an imposing figure.  Wu Yifan, Zitao thought with a bit of starstruck wonder, the youngest and most decorated conductor in all of Asia. 

Secretly, it had been Zitao’s dream to one day play in the handsome man’s orchestra, ever since he had seen the man on the television once. 

That man.  He had said to his roommate, Oh Sehun, one day over breakfast, pointing a milk-stained spoon at the screen where the tall, brown-haired man was conducting a live orchestra performance.  That man.  I’ll play for him, one day, in his orchestra.  You just wait and see.

Sure.  You’re just saying that because he’s your type.  Sehun had just laughed at him then.

But who was laughing now?

“C-c-conductor Wu—“  Zitao started, bowing low to the ground several times as the man began to turn around at the sound of his name.  “—Conductor Wu, let me just say that it’s such an honor, I’m your biggest fa—“

“Twelve minutes, forty-three seconds.”  Quipped the irritated voice as Zitao stared up into the very disgruntled face of the young Chinese conductor.

Zitao swallowed.  “E-excuse me?”

“The amount of time we’ve waited in silence for you to get here.”  Zitao’s eyes widened as the taller man leaned in, noses almost touching as the conductor stabbed Zitao with his sharp gaze.

“…I’m sorry, there was some traffic, and the taxi driver almo—“

“They say that time and dedication determines one’s worth in this field.  Everyone else in this entire room is here, on time, every single day, three hours a day, to work hard.  You?  You’ve wasted—“  Conductor Wu looked down at his watch.  “—Thirteen minutes and twenty-four seconds of everyone’s time.  Now, tell me, how much do you think you’re worth to me right now?”

Zitao felt his insides shriveling up as he looked to Lu Han for help.  The violinist only gave him a pitying glance before breaking eye contact and looking down, and Zitao was once again left to his own defense.

“I…I…”

The conductor looked down his nose at Zitao and sniffed, standing back up to his full height as he looked down at his nails, suddenly disinterested in the other’s presence.

“Tell me, what chair did you audition for?” 

“Uh…third chair, conductor.”  The entire orchestra, Conductor Wu included, collectively whipped their heads over to the innocuously empty chair in question in the first cello section. 

Wu raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

It was difficult enough to get into the SM Philharmonic Orchestra, let alone audition successfully for such a high-ranking chair.  The conductor looked back down at Zitao, taking in for the first time the young cellist’s baggy eyes, bow-shaped lips (currently in a grimace), and the mop of messy black hair that covered the cellist’s eyebrows.  He looked like a highschool student, not like a professional cellist.  Wu sneered.

“Last chair.”

Zitao gaped.  “With all due respect, I auditioned for third—“

“Third chairs are reserved for those who show the skill of a principal performer.  Since we’ve already established your complete worthlessness in my eyes, you’ll be sitting in the last chair from now on.  Everyone starting from Chanyeol onwards, move up one chair.”

There was a second of shocked silence as they all looked at each other in disbelief, before the cellists in his section began their slow shifting of positions.

Zitao stared at the now emptied chair in the far back.  It was clearly too far to get a good glance at the podium.  There was no stand.  The chair seemed old and unstable, one leg clearly shorter than the others.  Sudden indignation burned in him.  He turned to argue, but Lu Han was already pushing him toward the back, pressing a thick packet of sheet music to his chest. 

“Just do as he says,” Lu Han was whispering, “…please.  Or else we’ll all get in trouble.”

Zitao bit his tongue and moved numbly toward the back, glancing back only to see that the conductor had already moved on, now gathering his sheet music as if what he had just done was just a normal occurrence.

“Now that that distraction is out of the way, let's all at least try and make up for my time.  Open up to the first movement of Shostakovich, we’ll start from the first measure.  Violins, try and keep your pace this time.”

As everyone around him geared up to finally begin playing, Zitao struggled to pull out his end pin and take out his bow at the same time.

On the first day of rehearsal, Huang Zitao got demoted from third chair to last.

To say that he now hated the smug young director would have been an understatement.

I can’t believe I’m sitting back here.  Can he even do that?!

It had been a couple of days since his first day in the SM Philharmonic, and Huang Zitao was still as angry about it as he had been at the end of the very first day.

Today, they were playing Saint-Saëns' Danse Macabre, and the angry, marching tone of the song matched Zitao’s mood just fine.  He pulled his bow across the strings with force, glaring under the fringe of his bangs at the stupidly handsome man who stood before them all, shining under a pillar of stage light, raised above them on a podium.

Despite Zitao’s anger, even he had to admit that the conductor looked handsome doing what he did.  Even as he flicked his baton in the percussionist’s direction to signal the sounds of rolling thunder, his eyes remained closed, a single sweat bead trickling down his forehead under the heat of the stage light. 

He had taken off his blazer, leaving the man in a tight button up shirt with a smart tie, the same type of ridiculously flattering attire that the man had worn to every single rehearsal, day in and day out.

They were coming to the particularly loud and energetic of the song now, and Zitao watched with torn emotions as the conductor began to throw his hands out to the rhythm, his body moving in powerful, calculated motions as he almost danced to the music. 

Stupid, handsome jerk.  Zitao thought to himself furiously as he jerked his bow across the strings.

The stupid, handsome jerk opened his eyes, looking straight into his own to return his angry gaze with a blank look of his own.

Conductor Wu suddenly threw his hands down.  The entire orchestra reacted immediately, going from a strong fortissimo to a meek smorzando in a matter of seconds before eventually trailing off into silence.

Conductor Wu threw his baton down with a loud crack before slamming his hands down on the podium, causing a wide-eyed oboist in the middle section to duck his head down quickly as it went flying past his head.

There was uneasy silence as they all waited for the conductor to speak.  When he did, it began quietly, tone quickly raising until he was speaking in a booming, violent voice.

“No.  No, no, no, no, NO!”

The conductor hopped off the podium, quickly crossing over to the other section as he pointed his finger at the percussionists.  “You idiots!  You’re supposed to sound like quiet thunder in the background, not like a raucous clattering of pots and pans!  I can’t hear myself think over that idiotic noise!”

“And violists!”  This time he stopped by a viola section, causing the closest violist, a young man with a rounded face, to pull away in fear.

“You’re violists.  Not violinists.  Don’t think I can’t hear you trying to overtake the violinists with your half-rate playing.  Do us all a favor and remember that you signed yourself up for a life-time of backseat accompaniment, and stop polluting my music, do you hear me?!” 

The man shook like a leaf, nodding quickly until the conductor moved on. 

This time, Zitao watched as the conductor pushed through the entire cello section before stopping in front of him.   The anger that Zitao had originally felt quickly turned into fear.  If he had been a dog, his tail would have been tucked between his legs. 

“And you.  You’re the worst one of all.”

The conductor looked down at him, folding his arms.  “I know your type.  You think you were a hotshot, good enough to be a professional soloist.  And when that didn’t work out for you, you tried out for an orchestra, thinking that at least you would have something to pass your time and to utilize your talents.   You’re so used to playing as if you’re the only one on the stage that you can’t keep anyone else’s rhythm but your own, can you?  You’re always a quarter of a beat faster than everyone else in your section.  Did you not notice?  Your crescendos, your diminuendos, slower than anyone else in your section.  If the cello section sounds wrong, it’s because your disparity from the rest of the group is the only thing everyone else can hear.  I’m sure if you spent more time listening to instructions and following the sheet music instead of staring at me while I conduct, you might actually learn something about playing in an orchestra.”

Zitao stared in horror, face paling.

“I thought, perhaps, that I had judged you too harshly by placing you in last chair the other day.  But maybe I made the right decision.  You have yet to prove me wrong.”

That night, Zitao his metronome and cried himself to sleep. 

“Are you sure you want to continue playing, Tao?”

Zitao snorted, pulling the phone closer to his ear as he curled up even further on his bed.

“No, hyung, I’ll… I’ll be okay.  This is something I have to do.”

There was silence on the other end as his brother struggled to believe his response.

“…well, I could always come in and clear things up.  It’s only a short flight, in fact I can book that ticket right now—”

This time Zitao sat up.  “No, no, hyung, I’ll be fine.  Really.  You’ve been wanting some family time for…how long?  You deserve it, so just relax and have fun.”

There was a sigh on the other end.  “But Zitao, you’re also my family.  My only little brother.  You know how much I worry about you.”

Zitao rolled his eyes.  “Yes, yes.”

“Your mother entrusted your care to me when she died, so laugh it up, but I’m serious, Zitao.  You know how much I love you.”

Zitao sighed, picking up a picture frame by the side of his bed.  In the photograph, his brother and him were still children, smiling widely at the camera with their hands tightly laced together. 

“I know you care, hyung.  I love you too.”

Zitao could faintly pick up the sounds of children’s laughter in the background.  Zitao smiled, holding the phone closer to his ear to hear it.  “Is that my niece and nephew?”

His brother laughed.  “Yes, they’re having a blast.  It’s their first time at the beach.”

Zitao smiled wanly.  “Well I’m glad they’re having fun.  Tell them Uncle Zitao loves and misses them.  Oh, and say hi to Eunji for me.”

“Why don’t you do that yourself?  Hold on—”

There was loud clattering as the phone was handed off.  Suddenly, loud, laughing children’s voices came over the line.

“Uncle?!”

A wide smile spread across Zitao’s face.  “Hello, love!  How are you two doing?”

A boy’s voice.  “We’re okay!  We miss you lots!”

“I miss you guys lots too.”

There was whispering in the background. 

A girl's voice.  “Daddy says that you’re sad, don’t be sad!  Me and Jung-Hwa –”

“’Jung-Hwa and I’, Minah.”

“—Jung-Hwa and I will bring you back some big seashells, okay?  Mommy says that if you pick it up and put it to your ear you can hear the sounds of the ocean!  And then you’ll be so excited that you won’t have time to feel sad anymore!”

Zitao laughed. 

“Oh, mommy wants to talk to you, hold on—“

“Zitao?”

Zitao settled back in the bed.  “Hi, Eunji.”

“What’s going on, Tao?  Your brother looks so worried, so something must be up.”

Zitao sighed.  “Hyung is always worried about me, so it’s pretty much par for the course.”

Eunji hummed.  “I guess that’s true.  But Zitao, please take care of yourself, don’t make us worry too much, okay?”

“…I’ll try.”

There was a thud in the background, followed by the sound of a child crying.  Eunji sighed.  “I told Jung-Hwa not to run—okay, Zitao, we’ll need to get going, but we’ll see you soon, okay?  When’s the next concert?”

“We have our end of year concert in December.  I’ll send brother the schedule.”

“Sounds good.  Take care, Zitao.”

“Talk to you soon.”

“Jung-Hwa how many times do I have to tell you—“  *click*

Zitao sighed, throwing the phone back down on the bed.

After a minute, Zitao leaned over, placing the picture back where it belonged on his night stand.

“We’re going to grab dinner.  You coming, Zitao?”

Zitao shook his head, turning to watch as the others packed up their cellos and locked up their cases.  “No, I think I’ll stay.  I need to practice.”

One of the cellists, a tall, lanky looking man named Park Chanyeol, laid a hand on Zitao’s shoulder. 

“Don’t you think you’ve practiced enough?  You’ve been coming to practice every day for hours for the past two weeks…”

Zitao flashed a small smile at the other.  “I’m fine.  Don’t worry about me.  More practice never hurts.”

The other looked unconvinced, but backed off, picking up his own cello case. 

“Alright, Zitao.  I’ll see you tomorrow for rehearsal then.”

Zitao nodded, waving at Chanyeol as the other cellist wheeled his instrument out with the others.

“Poor guy, he really can’t get over what the conductor said about him, can he?”

“Well, to be honest, he might actually have something to be worried about.  I’ve never seen the conductor act like that with someone before.”

“I know what you mean.  I was shocked.  I knew Conductor Wu is ruthless, but I’ve never seen him single someone out before.  Not like that.”

“Right?”

Zitao sighed, rotating his wrist before picking up his bow again from where he had left it sitting on the stand. He bent down to adjust his rock stop, eyes falling on the closed door at the side of the room.

The nameplate read ‘CONDUCTOR WU YIFAN’.

Thankfully, he was sure that the other wasn’t in.  He never saw the conductor unless it was time for rehearsal, and even when it was, he tried to keep it that way, keeping his head down when the other was around.  

Still, the conductor always found a way to single him out.  For a whole week of rehearsals, it was something else that was wrong.  Wrong note, off-key, too loud, too soft…

But as much as Zitao hated to admit it, he couldn’t ever fault the other with making any wrong accusations.  When Zitao really thought about it, he knew that what the other was saying about his playing was correct.  He had played the wrong note here, had played too softly there…  So Zitao had been making it up with practice.  He stayed overtime for every rehearsal, and came to practice every single day.  He played their repertoire once, twice, three times, with the sheet music and without, until he was sure he knew every single measure of every single movement.  He always practiced with the metronome, pacing himself to make sure that he would be on time with everyone else’s. 

Zitao would come in as soon as he could in the mornings, and often stayed until he had to leave for dinner.  Occasionally, the others would come, practicing with him, but they always left for home after an hour or two with sympathetic looks and gossiping whispers.  Zitao sat behind in the practice room, time and time again, playing the same piece until his hands were numb and fingers bleeding and callused. 

Looking down as the notes swam in front of his eyes, Zitao sighed, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand.  Then he paused, looking down at his folder of sheet music that lay near his feet.  The cellist bent over, rustling through the sheets until he found the one piece he had been looking for.

Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. 

Smiling tightly at the familiar copy of music, he placed the well-worn sheets down neatly on the stand before picking up his bow, making sure it was tightened and rosined.  Zitao the metronome momentarily, closing his eyes to visualize the beat before shutting the metronome off.  Zitao brought up his fingers to the strings and slowly placed the bow above the G string.

He held his breath, and pulled the bow across the string.

For five minutes, the deep timbers of Zitao’s cello were the only sounds to ring through the air. 

As Zitao played, the conductor’s door slowly creaked open.