Zitao began to notice a change when he realized with startling clarity that it had been a few weeks since the conductor had even said a word about his playing.  He hadn’t said anything to Zitao, actually, but that was a welcome change from the way things had been before. 

And to be truthful, there was no longer anything he could accuse the cellist of.  Zitao’s playing had improved in leaps and bounds from the extra practice that he had kept up over the past month.  The conductor still yelled, still threw batons, still stormed about the room, but now it was no longer directly solely at Zitao.

Gradually, very gradually, Zitao had begun working his way back up the seat rankings, finally finding himself in the tenth chair after a few months of exhausting practice and constant auditioning. 

Zitao was finally starting to fit in, starting to enjoy himself as he caught on to the rhythm of life in the orchestra.  He had begun to make friends within the orchestra, both within and outside of the cello section.  Besides Park Chanyeol, the current third chair cellist, Zitao had also grown close to Luhan, their concertmaster and the first chair violinist who had brought him in on the first day.  In turn, Luhan had introduced him to his own circle of friends.  When he wasn’t practicing, he’d become used to hanging out after hours at Luhan’s house where they’d spend the increasingly cold nights eating hotpot, watching movies and enjoying one another’s company.

Best of all, now that Zitao had friends in just about every section of the orchestra and could expect to see friendly faces in the crowd whenever he entered the rehearsal room, the recognition and support he gained from them had helped Zitao grow a thicker skin to the harsh, cold nature of their conductor. 

Today, they had finished practicing Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2, Op. 18.  Everybody had been on their toes, and Zitao noted with pride that their orchestra had been playing perfectly tonight.  They flew through the piece with power and skill.  Their resident pianist, an incredibly talented young man by the name of Zhang Yixing, finished the piece with a flourish, raising his hands off the keys gracefully and into the air after the final note to the sound of applause from the entire orchestra. 

Even Conductor Wu looked less disgruntled than usual, surprising them all when he gave a few slow claps himself before silencing the orchestra with a few taps of the baton across his music stand.

“I’m not sure what was different about today, but all of you have played unusually well.  Now, if we can only keep that quality of playing up, we might not completely embarrass ourselves in December.”

There were chatters of excitement at hearing the conductor’s begrudging praise, quieted only when the man in question cleared his throat roughly.

“Don’t let this go to your head.  We still have a lot of work to do, and I expect all of you to work twice as hard, especially if you would like a chance at playing a solo piece in front of the audience for December’s concert.”

There were gasps of surprise. 

“You heard me correctly.  As you know, we will see the official return of our executive director, Kim Joonmyun, in December.  He has expressed a desire to see our best talent at the concert, so we have planned to allow for one of our most talented musicians to enjoy a solo performance during the opening night’s repertoire.  Auditions for the solo will begin next month.  Pieces can be of your choosing, so long as they fall within the romantic era so that we have a balanced repertoire for the night.”

Everyone was turning to whisper to one another in barely contained excitement.  Zitao gripped his own bow tightly, heartbeat fluttering as he cast an eye down on the extra sheet music he brought with him to every rehearsal, full of the pieces that he used to play as a soloist.  This was his chance.

When he looked up, he realized that the conductor was looking straight at him, eyes piercing through him with their usual ferocity.  “It won’t be easy, and you will need to practice hard for the audition.  I expect nothing but the very best, do you understand?”

Although Conductor Wu had been addressing the orchestra as a whole, Zitao couldn’t help but feel as if the conductor had been addressing him and him alone.

Is that a challenge?

Zitao hardened his own gaze, knowing full well how intimidating his own countenance looked as he met the conductor’s gaze with his own.  The conductor actually looked startled, raising his eyebrows a hair before quickly recovering and turning his attention elsewhere.  Zitao felt a trickle of satisfaction at the other’s response. 

You just wait and see, Wu Yifan.  I’ll show you just how much I’m worth.

The days passed too quickly for Huang Zitao as he worked hard not only with the orchestra’s regular repertoire, but now also for the potential of having a solo during the concert in December.

Zitao found himself staying even longer than usual in the empty practice hall, practicing from early in the day to very late in the evening, often forgetting until much later to eat dinner. 

Worried about his health, his friends often took turns to come into the practice hall to drag him out and convince him to take a break. 

Saturday, Luhan and Yixing came in, gently closing the metronome and shaking Zitao awake from where he had fallen asleep in an upright position, hugging his cello close to him. 

On Sunday, it was Kim Minseok, the violist with the round face, who pulled him away from his sheet music with the promise of freshly grilled samgyeopsal, the violist's treat. 

On Monday, it was Do Kyungsoo, a short oboist with large eyes and a surprisingly intimidating personality, and Kim Jongin, the easy-going percussionist who was also Kyungsoo’s boyfriend, who pulled Zitao away with an arm slipped through the crook of each of Zitao’s own.   

Tuesday, Byun Baekhyun the clarinetist came in, gripped Zitao’s ear with two fingers, and hauled him out as Chanyeol quietly put away his cello for him. 

Wednesday, Kim Jongdae the flutist forced Zitao to the floor, giving him a merciless tickle attack that left Zitao gasping surrender on the ground in near tears.  Zitao couldn’t agree fast enough to leave if only the other would stop. 

He supposed he was grateful for his friends' interventions, though.  The late night practices were taking a toll on his body, Zitao realized belatedly.

During Thursday’s rehearsal, Zitao was unable to stop himself from interrupting one of the conductor’s long tirades with a loud sneezing fit.

Expecting to be yelled at, the cellist had abruptly stood up and bowed, apologizing for the interruption.  Despite his apologetic demeanor, Zitao looked up between his fringe, glaring at the conductor, daring the other to say something. 

To his surprise, as he sat down, the conductor remained silent, staring intensely at Zitao with something in his eyes that Zitao wasn’t quite sure how to read. 

After a few seconds of holding the other’s gaze, Conductor Wu turned to continue his speech as if it hadn’t been interrupted at all.

The cellist found the other's behavior puzzling.

Friday, Zitao shivered as he entered the building, holding his cello case close to him with one hand while the other struggled to open the door.  Muscling his way in, he eventually found himself in the practice room and dropped his damp case to the ground as he shook the snow off of his hair and clothes. 

As he peeled his soggy coat off him with a grimace, he stopped when he realized that something was off.  First, the light in the room was already on.  He knew for a fact that nobody else practiced as early as he did, and it didn’t make sense for the janitor to have left the light on.  Second, in the middle of the room, there was a single chair and a stand already set out, perfectly centered.  He walked up slowly to the chair, shuffling around it before pausing.

In the chair was a thick, plaid blanket, a small white card resting on top of it innocently.

Zitao picked it up with trembling fingers.

It’s cold outside.
Use this.
…Don’t stay late tonight.
 

Zitao turned it over.  It was unsigned. 

Unnerved, Zitao whipped his head around the room, but found it to be empty as usual. 

…Who?

As he passed over the conductor’s door with his gaze, he paused. 

It couldn’t be… …could it?

Still, the cellist slowly walked up to the door, clutching the blanket close to his chest as his other hand raised to knock on the door.  Before he could knock though, common sense overtook him.

He was being ridiculous.  Of course it wasn’t.  Conductor Wu might be treating him less poorly now, but that didn’t change the fact that he hated Zitao.  Besides, the conductor wasn’t working today, of course he wasn’t in.  Zitao shook his head, and turned away from the door.

It must have been the motherly Kyungsoo, or maybe another one of his friends.

Zitao moved away from the door.  On the other side of the door, the shadow between the floor and the door quietly shifted and moved away as well.

As the days passed, Zitao found more and more small gifts from his secret admirer.  The gifts were always eerily paired to what Zitao needed for each particular day. 

Zitao had run out of the special rosin that he had brought from home.  The next day, the same brand of rosin was lying in a brand new case on the chair.

Zitao’s calluses had rubbed up against the strings in a way that had caused them to split open.  The next day, Zitao had found a box of small bandages, along with another small card, warning him against practicing too much.

On one of the days where his friends had all been too busy to meet up, Zitao found himself yet again forgetting the time and leaving without dinner.  The next day, there was a bag full of fresh take-away containers from the expensive Italian restaurant down the street, with a note pleading him to not to forget to eat.

Initially, Zitao had thought it had been his friends pulling a prank on him, but as time went on, he realized that his mysterious benefactor was both A) serious, and B) no one from within his oblivious group of friends. 

A part of Zitao’s mind still thought it could have been the conductor who had been leaving the gifts for him, but the other man’s behavior toward him had not changed, still treating the cellist as if he didn’t exist during rehearsals. 

Wishful thinking, Sehun had snorted when he had told his roommate about his suspicions.  And maybe it was.

But just the possibility of having the gifts come from Conductor Wu was enough to send butterflies flying through his stomach.  And maybe Zitao didn’t want to know who the gifts were from, as long as it left that possibility. 

The cellist often found himself perplexed by his feelings toward the man.  Zitao hated him…didn’t he?  The man who had been the source of endless nights of no sleep, who had made it a point to publically humiliate him whenever he could, who had demoted him to last chair on the first day he had entered the orchestra? 

The whole reason he wanted to get the solo part was to prove the prideful, egotistical jerk a lesson, to think twice about calling Huang Zitao worthless. 

…Wasn’t it?

So when had Zitao stopped thinking of the conductor with hatred, and replaced it with longing?

It was the day of the auditions, and Zitao found himself standing last in line outside of the small audition room, gripping his bow with a sweat-slicked, tense hand as he tried his best not to lose his composure.

“Hey, don’t worry, you’ll do great.”  Zitao turned to look over his shoulder at Chanyeol, who was standing right next to him with his own cello in his arms, having already played (and failed) his rehearsal and was now waiting as moral support for their other friend, Baekhyun. 

Zitao could only muster half of Chanyeol’s own bright, beaming smile in return.  “Well… I hope so.”

Chanyeol snorted.  “You hope so?  Of all the cellists in our section, you’re the one with the best chance of winning this solo performance.”

Zitao rolled his eyes.  “Chanyeol, I’m tenth chair.  You’re seven chairs ahead of me, you shouldn’t be saying that.”

Chanyeol sighed.  “I’m just keeping the chair warm for you, you mean.  It’s only a matter of time before you overtake me.”

Zitao frowned as he changed bow hands, leaning down to wipe the sweat off his hands onto his pants.  “What are you talking about?  It’s just a matter of practice.  If you practiced as much as me—“

Chanyeol laughed sharply.  “Practice?  I wish practice was all there was to it.”

“I’m very good, Zitao, I know I am.  But when you’re placed in a pool of geniuses, suddenly my ‘very good’ is just ‘very mediocre’.  Besides, you’ve got something that I don’t have.”

Zitao furrowed his eyebrows.  “…something you don’t have?”

“I’ve never heard anybody play like you do.  Do you remember the last time you played for us?  The mock recital at Luhan's house?  We couldn't get Jongin to stop crying for an hour.  Jongin.  I'm not the only one who thinks that way either.  We all do.  Especially the conductor.”

Zitao raised his eyebrows.  “What do you mean by—“

They were interrupted as the door opened and a miserable looking Baekhyun stepped out, clutching his clarinet to him with trembling hands.  Chanyeol's attention immediately shifted to the clarinetist as he set his cello down and leapt to the man’s side.  Throwing an arm across the clarinetist’s shoulder and offering gentle words of encouragement, Chanyeol began to the smaller man back toward the main rehearsal hall.  Zitao watched them pass, offering a sympathetic smile to the clarinetist, before a sharp voice called out next to his ear.

“Huang Zitao!” 

Zitao jumped and whipped around, only to see Conductor Wu leaning against the doorframe, clipboard and pen held in one hand as his arms crossed in a gruff, displeased manner.  This time, the conductor was dressed in a grey suit vest and a button up shirt with yet another tie.  It was a crime how good the man looked even with the tense, angry look he always had on his face.  The conductor jerked his head at the room behind him, standing aside to allow the cellist entrance.  Zitao entered quickly to not anger the man further, looking behind him forlornly as the door closed shut behind him.

“No music?”

“No, I’ll play by memory.”

“Fine.  Whenever you’re ready.”  Yifan said gruffly, putting on a pair of reading glasses as he clicked the pen in his hand. 

Zitao let out a shaky sigh, readjusting the position of his rock stop and the grip of his knees against the cello. 

He closed his eyes and wet his lips, unaware of the way the conductor closely followed the movement of his tongue. 

Placing his fingers and bow across the strings, Zitao took a deep breath and began to play.

Camille Saint-Saëns. The Swan.

Wu Yifan had heard it a million times before, by a dozen other accomplished cellists.

But never before had his heart stopped on the very first note, a high, delicate G with a trembling vibrato. 

The conductor loosened his tie as he felt his mouth go dry.  Without being able to help it, his eyes fluttered shut as he lost himself in Zitao’s breathtaking music. 

“…How did I do?”

Wu Yifan struggled to open his eyes at the sound of Zitao’s voice, murmured and gentle, as if a soft continuation of the piece’s coda. 

“You…”

He rubbed his mouth, staring at the man before him in a new light. 

“You…”

Zitao was looking at him in silence, eyes shining in clear confusion, delicate lips pursing.  Wu Yifan found himself staring again before he shook himself roughly and stood up abruptly from the chair.

“You… you’re going to need to work harder.”

Zitao’s expression crumpled as he looked to the ground.

“…because you’re going to be our star soloist for the concert in December.”

Zitao whipped his head up, eyes widening in shock and joy. 

“…really?!”

“I only say things once, Huang Zitao.  Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He set his cello down quickly, standing up and giving a deep bow. 

“Thank you!   Thank you Yifan!”

Wu Yifan suddenly found himself with an armful as the cellist threw his arms over Yifan’s neck, giving the cold-hearted conductor a deep hug.  Yifan barely had time to loosely throw his own arms around the other’s waist before the cellist could throw the two of them off balance.  He was only able to pat the slightly shorter man stiffly on the back once or twice before the cellist was out of his arms again, dashing out to spread the good news to his friends waiting for him in the other room.

The conductor was left in the room by himself, arms still outstretched, glasses askew and cheeks red.