opportunities come and go, competitions are won and lost. after already squandering so much of his youth, inho doesn't have the luxury of looking at the time or dwelling on whether he's going too fast or too slow. rather than having his passion carrying him this go around, it's desperation and a raw drive to succeed instead. passion is saved for when you could make strides and were producing things you could be wholeheartedly proud of; simply playing complicated pieces is nothing to be praised over when many others could do the same.
for the first two years, he wonders if this is how seol had lived— manic and frenzied, clinging onto what semblance of a future she could. he had made fun of her, then; looking back now, he hadn't struggled nearly enough, resigned and bitter at his luck of the draw. it gives him the strength to try a little harder on some days, whispers to him just one more day, week, month— on others, and eventually, it fades as his hard work between jobs and lessons is rewarded with a vacated pianist position at one of his bars.
naturally, life doesn't go on without its share of setbacks to go along with its boons, but… it's different. stability, that is. and the lack of excitement and clamor aside, he's learned to appreciate being able to go to the same job and return to the same flat, playing a little closer to his dream every time.
sometime between the pandemonium of going from a bar pianist to being scouted by an orchestra and playing at receptions (unashamedly, he needs to use his good looks while they last; it's a brunt of his resume for better or for worse), little bits of his past begin trickling in again, starting with inha and her recounts of therapy. she knows he's reading and it's fine if he never responds (ha), so he doesn't, not for the longest time. not until she mentions that she's passed her first accounting exam and he sends her a short 'congratulations,' back, which she'd responded rapid fire to with a bunch of curses he'd been more amused by than angry.
then it had been joon, with a candid 'how do you feel about being the pianist at my sister's marriage ceremony,' and inho had been fiercely tempted to throttle him from across the country. another bad joke to go with the many other bad jokes the kid had made over the short yet eventful year they'd known each other, but even that hadn't been a blow. it was an inevitable, wasn't it? following a perfunctory 'fuck off,' it'd surprisingly easily— or not so surprisingly, segued into an exchange of their past few years.
it's with a confidence that he's built from clawing his way up from the lowest rung that he sends out the invitations to his first return concerto in the area. jung and seol aren't the only ones in attendance, their folks are too. she's the only one that bothers or is patient enough to attempt to flag him down however, and call it reminiscent of the person he was (or still is), he's kind of curious how long she's willing to wait.
jung is nowhere to be seen and that's fine. he'd sat through his entire performance, which is more than what inho could ever ask for. as loathe as inho is to admit it, he owes a part of his success to jung; not that the asshole would ever believe it, coming from him. but, he would like to think that the fact that they'd crossed gazes and how he hadn't been met with an immediate scowl means something. like this, hasn't he proven that he's finally made it with his own merits?]
Yo, dog fur. [all too familiar words roll off his tongue as if they'd never left, the cant of his head slow yet purposeful. the answer to his question is: she's as clumsy as he remembers.] How long were you planning on standing there all starstruck? You look ridiculous.
[he breathes a short bit of laughter, raising his arms in an open gesture to beckon her over. flowers. really? he wants to snort, but decides not to. she always did have that bit of sentimentalism in her, and it's just another reminder of how awkwardly six years can hover in the gap of a decade when this part of her— when this part of their relationship— hasn't changed.
briefly, he wonders if it seems rehearsed with how natural it is; god knows he's thought about what to say and what to do enough times to be mortified by his own incompetence. it turns out, it doesn't matter. and that it's never mattered, it seems, if their track record were any indication. his heart is beating at the same pace as it has been: slightly elevated, typical after an outstanding performance and an equally as outstanding applause. there are no butterflies, no words stuck in his throat— if anything, he feels more like himself than ever, as though unaware he had been holding his breath from the start.
at this point, the hustle around him has quieted and their attention shifts razor sharp to where inho's has, brimming with needless curiosity. here he'd been hoping that they'd have the sense to dismiss themselves, it takes a wry jut of his jaw towards seol's left hand for them to come to a silent understanding and shuffle several steps back. they could do better than that, but whatever, exchanging pleasantries so publicly has its benefits too.]
Edited (you can really tell I didn't want to look at this anymore) 2020-04-02 15:39 (UTC)
[what startles seol isn't the sudden croon of his absurd nickname for her, or even the way the crowd parts so readily for him, as if he were some conductor in front of an orchestra, and not a man who, only a few years prior, could barely piece together a letter of misconduct without her help. for one, this is exactly the sort of greeting she'd anticipated from him, hoped for perhaps, just to give her a sign that she hadn't bought these flowers for a stranger. and secondly, well... inho always did have a theatrical streak.
so, no, it's neither of those things. it's the familiarity of it. the feeling, fierce as a punch-gut, that maybe she's missed that cocksure grin of his a little more than she realized.]
Sorry if I'm interrupting. [she says, reigning her nostalgia in and remembering the flowers, the crinkly kraft paper tickling the underside of her chin. sheepishly tucking a stray hair behind her ear, she enters through the opening, shooting an apologetic smile to everyone who'd stepped aside (some of which she recognized as distinguished musicians themselves). if anyone has questions, she hopes that they'll leave it to inho to explain himself long after she's gone.]
Inho! [with his arms angled like that, it almost looks like he's inviting her in for a hug, but the notion is so ridiculous, it doesn't live past the moment its conceived. even back when they were still in regular contact with each other, they'd never had that sort of tactile-friendly relationship.] You were phenomenal out there. Really, really phenomenal.
[the praise she heaps on him feels somehow disproportionate to the performance he'd given... although phenomenal doesn't really cut it, seol's never had the mind for music, can barely sight-read any of her old piano exercises, let alone differentiate between the what pieces he'd played that evening. it's not as if she came prepared with a script in mind or homework done on tchaikovsky or chopin or whoever; she'd only come to see him again.
stopping just short of his outstretched arms, she hurriedly fluffs up the wrapping before transferring the bouquet to him. there's no way of telling whether the way she's beaming up at him is because she's running on the high of a first-time reunion in six years, or because she's happy to pass the weight on to someone else.]
From Jung and I. As congratulations.
[sure, she'd been the one to run into the florist's and select the arrangement of flowers, but jung had agreed to split the bill with her. clearly, this meant that it was a gift from both of them.]
Edited (cant sleep so here i am) 2020-04-07 21:18 (UTC)
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windfall2020-04-01 01:00 am
bye
opportunities come and go, competitions are won and lost. after already squandering so much of his youth, inho doesn't have the luxury of looking at the time or dwelling on whether he's going too fast or too slow. rather than having his passion carrying him this go around, it's desperation and a raw drive to succeed instead. passion is saved for when you could make strides and were producing things you could be wholeheartedly proud of; simply playing complicated pieces is nothing to be praised over when many others could do the same.
for the first two years, he wonders if this is how seol had lived— manic and frenzied, clinging onto what semblance of a future she could. he had made fun of her, then; looking back now, he hadn't struggled nearly enough, resigned and bitter at his luck of the draw. it gives him the strength to try a little harder on some days, whispers to him just one more day, week, month— on others, and eventually, it fades as his hard work between jobs and lessons is rewarded with a vacated pianist position at one of his bars.
naturally, life doesn't go on without its share of setbacks to go along with its boons, but… it's different. stability, that is. and the lack of excitement and clamor aside, he's learned to appreciate being able to go to the same job and return to the same flat, playing a little closer to his dream every time.
sometime between the pandemonium of going from a bar pianist to being scouted by an orchestra and playing at receptions (unashamedly, he needs to use his good looks while they last; it's a brunt of his resume for better or for worse), little bits of his past begin trickling in again, starting with inha and her recounts of therapy. she knows he's reading and it's fine if he never responds (ha), so he doesn't, not for the longest time. not until she mentions that she's passed her first accounting exam and he sends her a short 'congratulations,' back, which she'd responded rapid fire to with a bunch of curses he'd been more amused by than angry.
then it had been joon, with a candid 'how do you feel about being the pianist at my sister's marriage ceremony,' and inho had been fiercely tempted to throttle him from across the country. another bad joke to go with the many other bad jokes the kid had made over the short yet eventful year they'd known each other, but even that hadn't been a blow. it was an inevitable, wasn't it? following a perfunctory 'fuck off,' it'd surprisingly easily— or not so surprisingly, segued into an exchange of their past few years.
it's with a confidence that he's built from clawing his way up from the lowest rung that he sends out the invitations to his first return concerto in the area. jung and seol aren't the only ones in attendance, their folks are too. she's the only one that bothers or is patient enough to attempt to flag him down however, and call it reminiscent of the person he was (or still is), he's kind of curious how long she's willing to wait.
jung is nowhere to be seen and that's fine. he'd sat through his entire performance, which is more than what inho could ever ask for. as loathe as inho is to admit it, he owes a part of his success to jung; not that the asshole would ever believe it, coming from him. but, he would like to think that the fact that they'd crossed gazes and how he hadn't been met with an immediate scowl means something. like this, hasn't he proven that he's finally made it with his own merits?]
Yo, dog fur. [all too familiar words roll off his tongue as if they'd never left, the cant of his head slow yet purposeful. the answer to his question is: she's as clumsy as he remembers.] How long were you planning on standing there all starstruck? You look ridiculous.
[he breathes a short bit of laughter, raising his arms in an open gesture to beckon her over. flowers. really? he wants to snort, but decides not to. she always did have that bit of sentimentalism in her, and it's just another reminder of how awkwardly six years can hover in the gap of a decade when this part of her— when this part of their relationship— hasn't changed.
briefly, he wonders if it seems rehearsed with how natural it is; god knows he's thought about what to say and what to do enough times to be mortified by his own incompetence. it turns out, it doesn't matter. and that it's never mattered, it seems, if their track record were any indication. his heart is beating at the same pace as it has been: slightly elevated, typical after an outstanding performance and an equally as outstanding applause. there are no butterflies, no words stuck in his throat— if anything, he feels more like himself than ever, as though unaware he had been holding his breath from the start.
at this point, the hustle around him has quieted and their attention shifts razor sharp to where inho's has, brimming with needless curiosity. here he'd been hoping that they'd have the sense to dismiss themselves, it takes a wry jut of his jaw towards seol's left hand for them to come to a silent understanding and shuffle several steps back. they could do better than that, but whatever, exchanging pleasantries so publicly has its benefits too.]
come baCK!!
so, no, it's neither of those things. it's the familiarity of it. the feeling, fierce as a punch-gut, that maybe she's missed that cocksure grin of his a little more than she realized.]
Sorry if I'm interrupting. [she says, reigning her nostalgia in and remembering the flowers, the crinkly kraft paper tickling the underside of her chin. sheepishly tucking a stray hair behind her ear, she enters through the opening, shooting an apologetic smile to everyone who'd stepped aside (some of which she recognized as distinguished musicians themselves). if anyone has questions, she hopes that they'll leave it to inho to explain himself long after she's gone.]
Inho! [with his arms angled like that, it almost looks like he's inviting her in for a hug, but the notion is so ridiculous, it doesn't live past the moment its conceived. even back when they were still in regular contact with each other, they'd never had that sort of tactile-friendly relationship.] You were phenomenal out there. Really, really phenomenal.
[the praise she heaps on him feels somehow disproportionate to the performance he'd given... although phenomenal doesn't really cut it, seol's never had the mind for music, can barely sight-read any of her old piano exercises, let alone differentiate between the what pieces he'd played that evening. it's not as if she came prepared with a script in mind or homework done on tchaikovsky or chopin or whoever; she'd only come to see him again.
stopping just short of his outstretched arms, she hurriedly fluffs up the wrapping before transferring the bouquet to him. there's no way of telling whether the way she's beaming up at him is because she's running on the high of a first-time reunion in six years, or because she's happy to pass the weight on to someone else.]
From Jung and I. As congratulations.
[sure, she'd been the one to run into the florist's and select the arrangement of flowers, but jung had agreed to split the bill with her. clearly, this meant that it was a gift from both of them.]