one

“Sehun!”

The door to the practice room was wrenched open as a frazzled and red faced came stumbling in. She looked mad with passion. Her eyes blazed as if possessed and the single occupant of the room, Sehun, paid it no mind, finishing out the end of the measure before pulling the instrument down to rest at his knee.

“Mother,” he said coolly, regarding her with hazed eyes.

He didn’t want to focus on her as he knew it’d make him angry. Instead he played with the fingerboard feeling the familiar worn ebony and closed his eyes.

“You made it!” the words come flying towards him. “You got in! You’re accepted!”

He lets out a breathe he didn’t know he was holding.

“Is that all?” he asked.

His mother nodded happily, “This is amazing! All of your hard work has paid off! I have to phone your aunt and—“

His mother’s voice disappears as the practice room door shuts and Sehun moved to slide his instrument back into place along his jaw. His fingers were atremble so violently that when he lifted his bow he gave in throwing it against the stand where it clattered gracelessly to the floor. The violin dropped to cradle into his lap and Sehun sat hunched forward, heart beating rapidly in his chest, eyes clenched shut, not even surprised by the moisture gathering in them.

Sehun had died long ago. He thought he already surrendered his soul to it. And yet it continued to hurt to get what his mother wanted. He hated feeling. He didn’t want to feel. The sense was unnecessary to the fate that he had already resigned himself to. He prayed to whatever god that existed that whatever else he felt is transferred into his violin. He had no use for it.

And yet there he was. He didn’t want to put a name to it be it remorse, regret or anything else like that. He focused on quelling it, allowing the familiar numbness to wash over him and leave him cold.

Sehun didn’t know how long he sat there. The tears had long dried but his head remained bent when the door opened again.

“You’re not practicing.”

“I’m sorry I—“

“No,” his mother interrupted. “It’s fine. It’s good. You’ll have plenty of time for that. Right now we’re getting dinner with the family. Your uncle’s treating us!”

“Oh,” Sehun replied, voice hoarse from disuse.

“Anything you’d like?”

Sehun’s mouth quirked downward, the question unfamiliar to him. His own preferences so rarely were considered and he had trained himself not to have any.

“Barbeque! You like barbeque, right?”

Sehun nodded.

His mother turned to leave again and Sehun stiffly turned to return his violin to the case. Her head peaked back in.

“And Sehun?”

Sehun turned to regard her.

“I’m so… we’re so proud of you.”

Sehun gazed at her wearily and hoped he looked as happy as she did.

“I know.”

Satisfied she was out the door unaware of how Sehun felt at the time.

Unaware of his pain. Unaware of his struggle.

Our struggle…

My struggle.

Two months later and I’m still haunted by that moment of weakness in the practice room. But school is starting now and I’ve retrained myself. I am but a shell and my true form rests inside of the case hanging from the shoulder of this body.

Today’s the first day of school and I must congratulate myself on my ability to blend into the walls. The first years are all gathered in what resembles a circle as they chat. I catch bits and pieces of their conversation as it buzzes around me.

“I play the flute!”
“I attended a conservatory in Munich for a few months last summer—“
“No way! I want to study in Germany!”
“Austria for me!”

The conversation continues as so. Any deviation from the subject of music is short and I can feel the waves of passion coursing through the room. The room feels like it’s living and breathing. I feel the exhale of something against the back of my neck and the sound of a pounding heart separate from my own. The passion is birthing something and I feel unease settle over me.

I’m not familiar with the feeling. Anger, despair and numbness are familiar but this vague feeling of fright goes against the nature I allow for myself. And yet my arms act on their own volition. I almost can hear a voice and it’s so cold I can’t help but to hold myself. My arms wrap around my body clutching at the sleeve of my dark blue blazer and a shiver makes its way up my spine. My eyes close as it passes through me and when I open it again I notice that I’m being watched.

It’s a kid, just like me – no not like me, no one is dead like me – but he’s alone. He’s not speaking with our classmates and his eyes are framed with dark melancholic – panda, something in my mind supplies --circles but there’s a bashful smile teasing at the edges of his lips. His eyes look tired but there is a slight hope twinkling within their depths as if he wants to communicate with me.

I look down and away, the last bit of the chill has left me and the murmuring in the room dies down as the other first years file out of the room. The living thing, the entity born of their passion seems to follow them as if it were a truly sentient embodiment. I slump against the desk, my violin case knocking carelessly against it and my knees. My eyes are still trained to the floor when I see a pair of white shoes stop in front of me.

I look up, shocked to see that kid with the dark panda eyes standing before me.

“My name is Huang Zitao.”

I’m frozen for a split second by the sound of his heavily accented voice and the distinctly foreign name that he introduces himself with but then it all makes sense to me. He was quiet because he barely speaks Korean. Was he afraid? Did he think me to be meek because I didn’t associate freely with the others? Did he consider me brethren in isolation?

“And you?”

I can’t remember the last time I spoke to someone who wasn’t my mother or instructor or anyone not music related. Family didn’t count. They were all music related.

“Oh Sehun.”

I’m not surprised by the sound of it. I know my real voice is the shrill fourth finger B on the E string. But the tangible “human” Sehun, the Sehun bot has this deeper voice. It doesn’t suit me but it can’t be helped.

“Oh Sehun,” he tries my name on the tip of his tongue and then smiles so warmly I feel it in the pit of my stomach, small but there.

I nod.

“My name is Oh Sehun.” I continue as if on auto pilot. “17. Born April 12. Specialty, violin.”

Tao’s smile only grows warmer as if pleased he’s made a friend. It’s as if he’s heard music.

“My name is Hwang Zitao,” he mimics my rehearsed introduction but it loses its cold quality instead melting with his warmth. “17. Born May 2^.  Specialty, viola.”

-to be continued-

AN: this chapter was purposfully done in two POVs to show the disconnect in Sehun's mind. As you may have noted already the genre is psychological AND supernatural so yeah... unravel the mystery that is oh sehun with me. Thanks so much to all subbers! Just on the forward~ All coments are welcome including critique about the characters. I don't want them too OOC even if it's AU. see you

PS! If anyone wants to make a banner for this story using sehun (and kai and tao) and maybe with a music note black and white scheme I would be soooo grateful