SYNOPSIS keonho hated one thing more than playing out of tune, and that was the sound of your voice. much to his dismay, he found that fraternizing with the enemy wasn’t so bad.

INFO angst but barely, fluff, high school au, rivals to lovers, cellist!keonho x cellist!fem!reader, teaser wc 683

WARNINGS swearing, toxic rivalry, musical terms galore, google is your friend!

NOTE very self-indulgent and based on my own musical experience… more to come when i actually write this :p i highly suggest listening to the pieces below

the concert program 𝄞 ˚*･ॱ ˙

poet and peasant overture - suppé

pavane pour une infante défunte (for orchestra) - ravel

prince igor: polovtsian dances - borodin

OCTOBER

Audition season was a musician’s doomsday. They would either let the endless hours of practicing work their magic, or have their nerves swallow them whole. Three minutes in a room, a sheet separating you and two judges, and a student helper in the corner trying not to wince at your mistakes. It was the same hell every year: all just to play in an orchestra with other random kids from around the region.

For a dedicated, over-the-top musician, it was also the day your worth was determined. Are you exceptional, or just mediocre? Would university orchestras want you? Every answer came down to the three minutes of sweaty hands, rushed audition excerpts, and shitty room acoustics.

You seemed to be a master of the process. Every time without fail, you walked out of that audition room with a convincing poker face. To the kids in line for their audition, you were easily the principal cellist. A born prodigy. Auditions were nothing to you because you were born a winner.

Keonho thought otherwise. He knew you— your weaknesses, strengths, and just how to piss you off. And who was he to not use that to his advantage every time he caught you thirty minutes before an audition? You were the only burden between him and that principal seat; he had to break you down somehow.

You walked into the warm-up room (or, a high school cafeteria) with a sigh, hard cello case heavy on your back. The place was too familiar; your auditions were held there almost every year. You knew the path to and from the cello audition room, the cold tile floor of the room (which was not your friend), and the same orchestra directors that volunteered every year. It was hard to forget them when they greeted you like a saint.

Picking your favorite corner of the cafeteria, you scoped the place for any familiar musicians. There was the violist girl that was the principal every year. Her prominent shoulder-rest mark on her neck showed how much she practiced. Then you saw one of your favorite cellists to play with, a girl named Maya that you got coffee with before your one morning rehearsal last year.

You checked your phone. Fourty minutes until your audition. You finally began unpacking your cello, sifting through your case for the rosin you preferred to use for auditions. The cafeteria seat was stiff and probably seconds away from breaking. You set yourself up to play and found your tuner, playing a few long bow strokes on your A-string.

“Yikes. So sharp.”

Sighing, you turned at the familiar voice. “Good thing I have a tuner in my hand.”

Keonho shot you an infuriating smile. He tilted his head. “Don’t you have perfect pitch? Could just tune on your own.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” You scoffed, resting your bow upwards on your knee.

“My audition is in an hour. I’ve got time.” He shoved his hands in his pockets casually. He was far too relaxed for your liking, but you rarely saw him tense anyway. Only during extremely fast passages in rehearsals, or when you learned the reseating results. Every year, you watched his face drop when your name tag was placed on the principal chair. Every. Single. Year.

You adjusted yourself, turning away from him. Mostly because you couldn’t stand to make eye contact. How could you, when he looked so sure of himself? When he looked more determined than ever to take your place? “Tryhard.” You mumbled.

“Sure, you could say that. Or you could say i’m trying very hard to take you down.” He shrugged, pausing to find a crack in your expression. When there was none, he gave you a fake smile. “Well, good luck.”

You looked back up to watch him walk away, briefly making eye contact when he turned back to look at you one more time. The unreadable look in his eyes made your stomach stir. Keonho knew exactly how to make orchestra seem like a survival show, and you felt like you were getting eliminated very soon.