#/because three piece with piano is just four piece with two guitars (you can hit twice as many notes with piano compared to guitar lol) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sprnklersplashes · 3 years

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songwriter!janis fic (unrequited crush, no-very-happy-ending)

also on ao3

It all started because she loved Taylor Swift when she was in middle school. Who is she kidding, she still loves Taylor Swift, but that’s where all this began. A middle school girl’s obsession with Taylor Swift. A confused, sad girl with a broken heart and smudged black eyeliner, finding refuge in lyrics about loneliness and anger and revenge. They became anthems for her, mantras to mutter when the warzone of middle school became too much for her.

“Someday, I’ll be living in a big old city, and all you’re ever gonna be is mean.”

“Cause I knew you were trouble when you walked in.”

“I can still see you, this ain’t the best view.”

It amazes her. It’s honestly as if Taylor Swift has managed to look into her life and given her a bundle of songs for whatever she needs. For when Regina has thrown her one too many snide looks, for when she’s standing at the door of North Shore High on her first day, for when she eats lunch alone, for when her mom is the best mom she could have asked for, for when she and Damian are lying on the grass in her backyard, staring up at the sky, laughing at absolutely nothing. The songs become the soundtrack to her life, the chords and those raw, honest lyrics an emotional outlet she so desperately craves. Taylor, and her songs, become a confidant, almost a close friend who always knows what to say.

With all that in mind, perhaps it was only a matter of time before she asks for a guitar for Christmas. She’s fourteen, braces and a slight lisp, and jumps up and down like a mad woman when she sees it under the tree.

She practices for three days straight, until her fingers bleed, but Should’ve Said No is the first song she learns off by heart. She yells the lyrics with maybe a little too much passion, but her parents applaud her nonetheless.

Like she said, that’s how it all started.

Because that same Christmas, she realises that screaming her feelings while playing guitar actually feels pretty cathartic. And that if it worked for Taylor Swift, it could work for her. So she writes stuff down, plays around with chords and strumming until the beat on the guitar matches the one in her head. She grabs a page and a pencil and writes and re-writes her innermost thoughts and feelings on the page until they sound the way she wants them to. She plays around with rhyme schemes and structure and everything she’s been taught about in English class, and a thrill runs through her as she does so. It’s the same breathless high she feels when she paints or draws, the rush that comes from creating something.

Her parents sit on the other side of her bedroom door, no doubt exchanging worried glances as she repeats the same verse, same chorus, with only a word changed. She watches them when they think she can’t see, peering through the crack in her door. The conclusion they seem to come to is ‘well, as coping mechanisms go, it’s pretty good, and she’s happy, so who are we to stop it?’.

It takes her four days to finish her first song. And it sucks. But she keeps it, writes down the lyrics and chords in one of the few empty notebooks she has, and there’s no going back from it now. She writes, and she writes, and she writes, near enough every day. She likes to think she gets better with each one. She learns more chords, buys a cheap ukulele the summer after freshman year, tries her hand at piano during a particularly difficult few weeks. She doesn’t plan on doing anything with them. They’re just her little pieces to hold on to. Her therapy sessions outside the carpeted office.

No-one knows about it. She has a reputation to keep up, after all. The loner-by-choice, too-cool-for-school, aloof art freak. Everyone has their roles to play in the ecosystem that is high school and, much as she hates the entire system, that is hers to play. And she plays it well, if she may say so. The fact that hardly anyone knows her past that facade suits her just fine. After all, if people think she doesn’t care, she can’t get hurt. No-one needs to know that Janis Sarkisian actually has feelings.

Even less need to know that she writes songs about said feelings.

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By the time she reaches her junior year, she’s onto her third notebook. She keeps them tucked away in her sock drawer, expertly hidden so only she can find them. Damian teases her about it, calling her “the protagonist of a Disney Channel Original Movie”. She just rolls her eyes and reminds him that “if either of us is gonna be Disney’s first openly gay character, it’ll be you”. He can’t argue with that.

It should be noted that when Janis said that no-one knows about her songwriting, Damian was the obvious exception. He found out just weeks after she started. There’s no keeping secrets from him.

Between all her notebooks, she’s written around forty songs.

Then she meets Cady Heron one day. The human embodiment of a labrador puppy, complete with wide, lost eyes. She likes her instantly, decides to take her under her wing because Lord knows the girl needs it. Cady’s smile is infectious, her laugh like a summer breeze. She has dimples and caramel-coloured hair and really likes maths.

She meets Cady on a Monday.

By that Saturday, song number 41-titled “Dimples and Curls” is more or less complete.

She plays it for Damian, hands only slightly shaking as she changes chords, the strumming short and upbeat, the melody strangely happy for such a bittersweet song.

He applauds her, but the subject of the song hangs in the air even after she’s played the last chord and the music fades. Unsaid, but not unknown. Just like her songwriting, Janis couldn’t keep a crush from Damian if she tried.

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“Hey, check it out.”

Cady drops onto the seat across from Janis, the whole table shaking as she does so. Like a small meteor just hit Earth. Janis looks up from her lunch, pretending like she had been doing her own thing and not watching the door until Cady came in. Pretending like her stomach doesn’t do little flips at the sight of her crossing the cafeteria. She pulls the flyer towards her and hums in amusement.

“The winter talent show,” she reads before chomping off a carrot stick. “Oh, is it that time of year already?”

“Seems like only yesterday we was welcoming the young’uns into this brave new world during the harvest season,” Damian sighs, putting on a delightfully over the top Southern Belle accent, no doubt influenced by their reading of Streetcar Named Desire in English class. Janis cackles, and nearly chokes on her lunch as she does.

“And now the cold winds of winter are descending upon us,” she replies, her accent equally heavy. She bats her eyes for good measure, because she can and because it makes Cady laugh. “Oh but I pray the children will survive this season, it is often rough for them.”

“I am never showing you two anything winter related ever again,” Cady says.

Janis just shrugs and runs her hand through her hair before her eyes go back to the flyer. Clearly, whatever sophomore they got to design it this year did their best; found the prettiest looking snowflakes on Google Images to put on the cartoon stage, decided to write in some swirling, slanted font rather than the start-studded block lettering they usually went for. It’s still the same as it is every year, meaning just as mockable, but she’ll give them points for tying.

“Well, anyone here going for it?” she asks. She looks from Damian to Cady and back again, a teasing smirk on her lips. “Last year and all that.”

“Not sure I can,” Damian sighs. “I mean, I’m booked up with Spelling Bee rehearsals and spring cabaret auditions happening next semester.” He drums his fingers against his throat. “Gotta give the little vocal chords some rest, you know?”

Janis’ response is to sing the lowest note she possibly can before turning to Cady and giving her a pointed look, the corner of her mouth quirked up.

“Who? Me?” Cady’s cheeks turned crimson and she shakes her head so much that the caramel curls bounced around her shoulders. “No way. Damian can take the stage, I’m fine with my calculators and textbooks.”

“You could always solve equations in front of everyone,” Janis says. “I could call out college-level questions from the audience and you solve them in under 30 seconds.”

“I think I’ll pass,” she giggles. She leans forward slightly, eyes glittering, and Janis does her best not to squirm. The effect Cady Heron’s eyes have on her should be studied by scientists. “What about you, Janis?”

“I don’t know.” She thinks back to when she helped on stage crew last year, as well as helping out (or taking over) with the set design. It had been fun, the kind of challenge she needed to keep her mind off the slowly-going-off-the-rails plan. And she was told it looked good on her college applications, because all people can think about apparently is college, college, college. “Maybe. They might need another genius stage manager.”

“And you’ll step in if they can’t find one?” She digs Damian in the ribs for that comment.

“But not performing?” Cady asks, and Janis freezes. Performing had never even crossed her mind before. She’s used to backstage, hell, she likes backstage. It’s not that she has stage fright or anything, and if she had, her stunt at Ms Norbury’s little healing session would have squished it. She had just never thought about it.

But Cady had, apparently.

“I-No, I-I don’t think so,” she stammers out. “Um, I might do backstage again, but not actually doing something, you know, talent related.” She bites her tongue and clamps her lips shut before anything else can come out.

“Okay then,” Cady replies slowly. She gets up from the table, her little empty water bottle in her hands. “I’m going to go for a refill, save my seat.”

“No problem,” Janis says, but Cady’s already jogging away.

She doesn’t know if it’s good or bad that Cady’s known her too long to think of her as cool, and so this kind of awkward babbling isn’t really surprising to her. Instead of thinking about it, she just sets her head on the table and lets Damian rub her back.

“You were nowhere near as bad as you think you were,” he assures her.

“Title of your sex tape,” comes her murmured reply. Damian chuckles and runs his fingers through her hair, like she’s his pet cat. It helps.

“So you’re definitely not going for the talent show then?” he asks.

Her first instinct is to say no, because of course she isn’t, because she never has before and she sees no point in breaking a three-year streak, but the answer catches in her throat. At the same time, something begins forming in her brain, pieces of a melody she’s already known, words filling in blank spots in her brain, and her fingers twitch involuntarily, playing the chords on an invisible guitar. Without a word, she grabs a notepad and pen from her bag and scribbles the words down before she forgets them, quickly becoming breathless just by sitting there. She forgets, for a moment, everything else, the talent show, Cady, even Damian next to her, and just revels in the task and the quick buzz she gets just from writing. Just like that she has one eye on the clock, itching to get home and put her notes into the rest of the song.

But with those notes came an idea, an idea so completely out of left field she almost laughs at it.

“Janis?” Damian asks, just slightly unnerved by her. If anyone else were at this table, even Cady (especially Cady), she would have had to excuse herself and run to the bathroom, or just hope the words stayed in her head long enough for her to get a quiet moment. “Did the Goddess of Music just possess you again?”

“Maybe,” is her response. He doesn’t know it, but she answered both the questions he asked in the past minute.

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She sits on her bed that night, her homework half-done and strewn across the desk, abandoned in favour of the guitar sitting in her lap and notebook open on her bed. She’s been working on his song for the better part of a week, inspiration and motivation seemingly striking and then fading whenever she gets a free moment. Abandoning it has crossed her mind-she’s no stranger to abandoning things that aren’t working-but for some reason she hasn’t quite been able to shake this particular song off.

Maybe it is Euterpe, the Goddess of Music, descending upon her because this song has to be finished, it has to be, Olympus willing it so.

Or maybe it’s because this song is one of the most personal things she’s ever written, a love letter she’ll never send, and the idea of it sitting unfinished drives her crazy.

She plays another chord and sings the line again, changing the ending slightly, and makes the adjustment in her notes.

She’s crazy. This is already crazy, her secret double life as a wannabe T-Swift, but now she’s gone beyond that. Thinking of actually playing it. On a stage. In front of people. She doesn’t care what people think of her, she stopped caring about that a long, long time ago, but holy shit what will people think of her after she does this? Life isn’t like the movies, she knows that much. It won’t be some pretty, softly-lit moment where the crowd sits with teary eyes, Cady runs onstage and kisses her and she’s offered a deal by some big shot producer, and they all live happily ever after the end. What could happen is people think she’s even more of a weirdo than they do now.

Or she gets tomatoes thrown at her head and she’s booed off the stage. That’s a possibility.

She calls Damian, because that’s the only way she sees out of her little thought cul-de-sac. She puts the phone on speaker and props it up against a pillow, keeping her hands free for her guitar and her pen. He picks up on the third ring, just as she’s strumming out a G chord.

“Oh, is someone prepping for her Grammy?” he asks. “You’re still taking me as your date, right?”

“Only if my dog can’t go,” she replies. She taps her nails against the wood, the rhythm too fast and frantic to just be a habit. Yes, she can tell Damian anything, and being nervous in front of him is laughable, but sometimes her body forgets that. “So, I was thinking about the talent show.”

“Oh? You’re going for stage crew again? Cool.”

“No-not exactly.” She knows he can’t see the smile creeping across her face, but she’d wager he can hear it through the phone. A small swarm of butterflies flutters in her chest, leaving her just slightly out of breath. “I… I. think I’m going to try performing in it.”

A burst of laughter comes through the phone, slightly tinged with static, and Janis wishes he were here so she could slap him. Even if it’s not malicious in intent at all, and she’s laughing right along with him. Slapping is kind of a love language for them.

“Okay, okay cool. What’re you going to do?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” she says, and then she plays the opening chords to her latest experiment. She doesn’t add in the lyrics, not yet. Still, she sits back and basks in his applause when she finishes, cackling into her hand. He might be one person, but he’s got enough enthusiasm to match a packed auditorium. “What do you think?”

“I’m into it,” he tells her. “So… that’s the one you’re doing?”

“Think so.” She tosses the pick between her fingers. Like he could feel her smile, she can feel his raised eyebrow through the phone, the elephant in the room poking her with its trunk. “Yes, I know.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it,” she tells him, and he doesn’t deny it. She looks back over the lyrics she’s written and re-written. Despite some adjustments, it’s still in essence the same. Still about a girl with pretty hair who smells like vanilla and cinnamon, who has a boyfriend and is unknowingly breaking the heart of a girl with black eyeliner and paint stained fingers. Because her boyfriend is pretty and clean and smells like soap and can do math, and how is the poor art girl even meant to compare to that?

“Yes,” she says after a while. “It is about Cady.”

“Aw, my poor lovestruck songstress,” he sighs. He shifts then, and the air shifts with him. “You sure that’s the one you want to sing? I mean you have dozens of other non-Cady related songs. I’m sure Mr Duvall would love to hear Angry Teenage Lesbian Anthem.”

“First off, I gave that one a title, it’s called Shattered,” she reminds him. “And-” She freezes, the rest of her sentence catching in her throat. He’s right. She could perform one of her other songs, that are already finished and therefore removing the pressure to have this one finished, polished and stage-ready. And of course, it would mean she wouldn’t be standing in front of her entire grade and telling them all how badly she’s in love with her best friend. Showing her deepest secret to the people who have already driven her out of school once. It’s a far safer, potentially less traumatic option for her.

But…

“No,” she says. “I know it sounds crazy but I feel like… I feel like I need to do this.” She swallows thickly and picks softly at the guitar strings. “It’s like… like this way at least I’m telling her, you know? Even if she doesn’t know it.”

Of course, Damian gets it.

“That’s beautiful, babe,” he tells her. “So you’re actually doing this?”

“I’m actually doing this,” she replies firmly. “And tomorrow, I need you to make sure I don’t chicken out before I sign up.”

“Got it. I’ll just order you to do it as Senior Co-Chair of the Student Activities Committee.”

“That’s an abuse of power.”

“Then consider yourself abused baby.” He laughs and she laughs with him, and then she hears something on Damian’s end. “I have to go. A certain little sister of mine has a princess costume that needs attending to. See you later.”

“See you later,” she replies before he clicks off the call. She looks down at her paper, then at her guitar, and thinks about what she just committed to. “I’ve got some work to do.”

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The song goes through four rewrites in the weeks leading up to the talent show. The whole first verse is changed, the chorus scrapped and replaced with a new one, then that one is scrapped and she goes back to the old one. She sits hunched on her floor with a pencil in her mouth, wondering if what she’s written is too personal or not personal enough. If it’s too obvious that Cady, smart cookie that she is, will work it out and that’ll lead them down a new, scary path. She cuts some lyrics that give the game away, opting to replace one about love for numbers with love for learning, because that opens up the pool to half their grade. She writes about Cady’s blue eyes rather than specifically those double dimples that make her melt. Maybe she’s compromising her artistic vision, but it might be worth it if it’ll keep her crush a secret. She keeps the old lyrics tucked in the back of her notebook, just to have them.

Meanwhile, she’s also dealing with the fact that people know she has signed up for the talent show. That Miss Too Cool For School Loner Art Freak Janis is actually performing at a school event. And she doesn’t even get extra credit for it. They’re surprised, and curious, and none more so than Cady. The other girl appears at her side almost instantly after first period, skinny little arms wrapped around her bicep and blue eyes alight.

Oh, the things those eyes do to her.

“Janis!” she squeaks. “I saw-on the sign up sheet-your name! Oh my God, is this a joke? Did Damian put you up to it?”

“No, no, I signed up of my own accord,” Janis tells her. That only makes Cady bounce more, ponytail bobbing up and down.

“Oh wow, that’s amazing!” she says. She stops then, her mouth freezing in its place and her cheeks turning pink. Slowly, she comes down to Earth, like a balloon that had the air let out of it. Janis can almost hear the wheeze. “I mean um, it’s pretty cool, I guess.”

“It’s pretty grool,” Janis replies, and just like that Cady bounces back up again.

“Oh my gosh, what are you going to do?” she asks. “Or do you want it to be a surprise?”

“You think I have some secret knife-throwing talent?” she grins. She hesitates for a moment, looking down at Cady’s excited face, because even if this isn’t telling her… it’s telling her. “I’m… I’m going to sing.” She pulls on the strap of her backpack and avoids Cady’s eyes. “Something I wrote.”

“Okay,” Cady says. “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”

“Hey!” she laughs. “I can write stuff. I can be deep.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about it,” Cady says, bumping her arm against Janis’. “But for real, Janis, I can’t wait to see it. I know you’ll be amazing.”

Warmth spreads across her pale cheeks, a pink blush no doubt colouring her face, and she somehow manages to choke out a “thanks” as her brain turns to static. Her only thought is ‘Cady thinks I’m going to be good’, and it’s written in glitter pen across her brain.

“This is going to be great,” she goes on. “Oh, wait until I tell Aaron. He’s got a break in his schedule that week so he’s coming up to see the talent show! Isn’t that great?”

And just like that, Janis’ good mood falls. Her face stays the same, because she’s trained to do it, but everything behind it crumbles.

“Yeah, that’s great,” she replies. Cady squeezes her hand, oblivious, and drags her along the hallway, chatting away about some lion documentary she had watched last night.

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She finishes the song that night. She arrives home with a heavy chest, so full of complicated, messy feelings, and her conversation with Cady still so fresh in her mind, her ears still ringing from the emotional whiplash. Her parents barely get a ‘hello’ as she enters and bolts up to her room, her hands shaking, the thoughts swirling around her brain desperate to be let out.

And let them out she does. She writes so quickly they look more like smudges than words, her fingers flying over rapidly changing chords, her voice broken and panting as she sings. The words almost write themselves, like the song has taken on a life of its own and she’s just along for the ride. She barely remembers to pause, to breathe, so wrapped up in the storm she’s created with just her guitar and pen.

It’s only when she finishes and falls back on her bed that she notices the tears in her eyes. She blinks them away and pulls herself up, her notebook in her hand. It’s done. The perfect blend of her own honest feelings and just enough smokescreen to keep people from knowing who it’s really about.

There’s no backing out now, she thinks. Her stomach drops, like she’s on the top of a roller coaster about to go down. A laugh bubbles up in her throat and leaves her breathless, her head spinning while she’s still laying there.

If holy shit were am adjective, she'd use it to describe how she feels. Because holy shit.

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Being backstage when she’s not on crew is a strange experience. She stands with her guitar slung around her body, in the middle of a current of students moving around her, half with the clunky microphones and walkie-talkies she’s used so many times before. She asks five of them if she can do anything to help-because they’re her people and she needs to do something to occupy her time-until she finally takes the hint and leaves them to it. Stagehands are the most efficient parts of any production, as she told Damian once. They’re a well-oiled machine at this point.

“Yo!” For a second, Janis thinks she imagined the whisper, just one in a jumble of backstage noises, until Damian appears at her side. A tiny ‘shit’ escapes her mouth, her body jerking. Barely anyone bats an eye at her, except him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.”

“Don’t worry. I think at this point a small breeze could knock into me and I’d crumble.”

“The great Janis Sarkisian gets nervous?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“Only when she’s doing something incredibly personal and scary in front of her entire grade,” she whispers back. She swallows past the lump in her throat. “Aside from that I’m a beacon of confidence and unshakable will.”

“Hey.” He taps his knuckles against hers. “Remember how scared you were at Norbury’s assembly?”

“You mean after I had my picture all over the school with the d-slur written underneath it?” she mutters. “Yeah, I was shitting myself.”

“And yet, look what you did there,” he reminds her. “You were amazing. And you’re going to be amazing here too. Once you get on that stage, all those butterflies are going to make you fly, kid.”

She smiles, her heart warm, and pressed her face into the crook of Damian’s neck.

She doesn’t know how she got so lucky to have him, but she knows better than to tempt fate.

“Janis Sarkisian?” She lifts her head to find a freshman girl with a headset around her neck looking at her. “You’re up next.”

“Okay.” It’s only now she becomes aware that the last minute of Fairytale Of New York is playing, the notes will soon fade out, and that’s her cue. She turns to Damian and lets him straighten her black cardigan and fiddle with the collar of her shirt. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it.” He drops a whisper of a kiss to her nose. “But good luck.”

She holds her half-heart necklace as he goes, the twin to the one around his neck. It’s as close as she can get to having him with her. Her chest tightens as she makes her way to the stage and she tries to breathe through it, because the next thign she knows, Mr Duvall is announcing her name, and she’s being greeted by a blinding spotlight that thankfully obscures most of her peers’ faces.

“Uh, hi,” she says into the microphone placed out for her. It’s just people , she reminds herself. Somewhere in that crowd, second row, seat 14, is Damian, and she breathes easier. And next to him is Cady, the girl this song is about, and for some reason that straightens her spine and irons out the shaking in her voice. She takes the pick out of its holder and tosses her hair back. “This is a song I wrote about being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back.” She blinks and hopes no-one sees the tears in her eyes. “So sing along if you get into it, because we all know it’s a shitty ass feeling.”

She plays the first chord, and then any and all doubts she had about this flee her. As cliche as it sounds, the song takes over her, and she blows through the nerves in the first verse. The experience becomes cathartic instead, like releasing a pressure valve on her soul. Even with the little diversions she threw in, she hasn’t felt this open and god damn free since last year, paraded on her peers’ shoulders with both middle fingers up. Except now she’s not flipping anyone off, or proving a point, she’s just finally telling someone how she feels, and holy shit, it’s amazing. Whatever the aftermath of this is, she won’t care, it’s worth it just for this feeling.

As she sings the last word, and that final note rings in the auditorium, her hands are shaking, her cheeks wet with tears and her hair sticky with sweat. She touches beneath her eye and her fingers come away stained black. She hasn’t cried in front of people since middle school. She doesn’t care.

The cheers of her classmates ring in her ears, Damian’s whooping the loudest of all, and as she takes her bow, she hopes she’ll remember this moment for a long time.

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“Oh my God!” she’s barely into the auditorium when Cady launches herself at her, arms wrapped around her neck and legs circling her waist. Janis nearly topples over, digging her back leg into the ground just in time, and hugs Cady with the same ferocity. “You were amazing!” she yells into her shoulder, the sound muffled by Janis’ hair.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” She sets Cady down, but the other girl keeps a tight grip on both her arms. Janis wonders if it’s to keep herself from flying away, given the amount of bouncing up and down she’s doing. “I can’t believe you wrote that! It was so good! You need to record it, Jan. Do you have any other songs?”

“Just a few,” she says. “And I don’t know if I’m in the business of making an album any time soon.” She swings her guitar case a little. “This might have been a one-time thing.”

“Well, even if it was, it was awesome,” she says.

“Thank you, Caddy,” Janis replies. “That means a lot.”

Her mouth runs dry as Cady smiles, all baby pink lipgloss and sparkling eyes and full cheeks. If this were a movie, she thinks, this would be the part where they kiss. No need for talking, or an explanation. Because Cady would have just known. The music would turn soft and twinkly, and the lighting would match it and it would look like they’re in a dream and they’d just kiss, and it will fix all of Janis’ problems. Maybe a single tear will run down her cheek. And then they’ll run off into their new lives as the end credits roll.

How sweet that would be.

But her life isn’t a movie. If she wants anything, she has to go for it herself.

And that includes-

“Caddy.” Her name is delicate on her lips, handled with care. Cady looks at her, giving a simple ‘mm-hm’ in response, and Janis’ heart beats out of control. “That song I just sang, it-”

“Hey, guys.”

Also if this was a movie, Cady’s sweet, lovely, nice boyfriend would not be barging in right now. He’d either be a douchebag who she doesn’t feel bad about hurting, or he’d be nonexistent.

Unfortunately, this is not a movie, and Aaron Samuels exists and is the human equivalent of a squishmallow.

“Hey Aaron.” He slings his arm around Cady’s shoulders, and she leans into his touch almost instinctively. “Janis, you were great up there. I didn’t know you wrote songs.”

“It’s a bit of a new hobby,” she says, her voice hoarse. She clears her throat, and finds a bottle of water being handed to-thrown at-her.

“Hydrate those chords,” is Damian’s greeting.

“This is what I get for being friends with a theatre kid,” she sighs before she takes a drink. She hadn’t realised how dry her throat was until now.

“Okay, so we’re all going for pancakes,” Aaron says. “I take it you two are coming?”

“How can I say no to pancakes?” Janis asks. “Uh, you guys go ahead, I have to get my stuff from the green room.”

“Okay, we’ll wait for you,” Cady says. “Aaron brought his car so he can drive us.”

“Grool.” Cady and Aaron turn around together, Aaron spinning his eyes around his finger and Cady lacing her fingers through his, talking about something she can’t hear. It’s like watching them through a sheet of glass.

Not a movie. Not unless it’s one of those really, really sad movies. Sad homophobic movies.

“You okay?” Damian asks. She snorts at the question. Nothing has changed, so of course she’s okay. But then, nothing has changed, so she’s not really okay.

“I did it,” she sighs. “It’s out there. I told her, unofficially. Whether or not she works it out…” She runs her hand through her tangled hair. “That’s something else entirely.” Damian hums in agreement, a sympathetic look on his face that soon morphs into a grin.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks Mom.” They snort, Janis caught between a laugh and a sob, and squeezes Damian’s hand. She’s not optimistic about any romance in her future, at least where Cady is concerned. She and Aaron are still rock-solid and she’s happy for them, whenever she isn’t angsting about it. It’s a weird combination to have.

And at least she’s done this now. Despite a future for her and Cady not being in the cards for now, she’s glad she did it. The secret isn’t out, not entirely. Just written on the walls in invisible ink.

“Come on,” she tells Damian. “I actually do have to get my bag, and you can use this as an opportunity to double check the ghost light is on.”

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Cady and Aaron keep their promise and wait for them, waving off their apologies as they jog across the parking lot. Cady lets Damian take the front seat with Aaron and slides into the back with Janis instead. Janis frowns, confused as to why she isn’t taking her normal seat up front, and Cady rolls her eyes.

“There was a draw on the way here, and we lost,” she explains. “And now Damian has control of the aux chord,” She gestures with her head to the passenger seat, and Janis turns just in time to see him open his Spotify and scroll through his playlists. As the opening notes to Waving Through A Window fill the car, it’s met with three loud groans. Damian only turns it up louder, and adds in his own backing vocals.

“So, that song you sang,” Cady asks, leaning back in the seat. “Was it about anyone in particular?”

Janis looks down, her hands pressed together in her lap. If this is the moment the universe decided to give her, it’s a really terrible moment. Not only is Cady’s whole boyfriend sitting an arm’s length away from her, but she left her nerve back in the auditorium. Clearly, her and fate aren’t on each other’s wavelength.

“You wouldn’t know her,” she says. “She doesn't even go here.”

“Oh,” Cady replies. Her face falls, but she’s not too put out by it. Why would she be? She nudges Janis’ shoulder, a proud smile on her face, and squeezes Janis’ hand. “Well, if she has someone like you into her and she hasn’t taken the chance yet, then she doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

Janis only thanks her, and quickly changes the subject.

Someday she might tell her for real, but for now she'll stick to the songs.

#mean girls broadway #mean girls fanfic #cadnis #janis sarkisian #cady heron #cadnis ff #cady x janis #space safari #mean girls musical

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hansooyung · 3 years

Text

haikyuu + music [episode 24]

this is basically just a list of observations but the music in this episode was actually super cool and subconsciously helped the viewer get into the feel of the show so here y’all go lmao

at the beginning, you’ve got this ominous and techy sort of beat, during the super quick rallies between inarizaki and karasuno. this has actually been a recurring theme throughout the season, although i can’t say i recall hearing this throughout seasons 1-3. if it has, it’s been way more noticeable during the inarizaki match. it makes you kind of nervous, but mostly leaves you in anticipation.

during kita’s speech about geniuses, the drumset and guitars come in, leading their way into a funk/rock beat. the addition of crashes on the set + chords on the guitar let you know kita’s gonna have a badass moment something cool’s going on/going to happen in the match

the next piece of music that plays is inarizaki’s fight song, which is a masterpiece in and of itself. the underlying rudiments on snare + repetitive hits on bass are at a pretty fast tempo, and it contrasts perfectly to the trumpets coming in.

the upwards ascent of the notes played by the brass instruments build anticipation as atsumu raises his hands to cut the band off

the next piece isn’t until atsumu scores his service ace, and it’s a repeat of the theme that played in the beginning with the rallies, with the heavy bass line.

after that, there’s a theme change when karasuno scores a point, which can possibly indicate that the previous theme was a signal that inarizaki was in the lead?

the piece the taiko drummers play is very beautiful and so is tanaka saeko. i love them.

you’ve got this slow melancholy piece with a focus on piano (forgot the technical term lol) waIT NO I DIDNT ITS CALLED MELODY

anyways the theme with the melody on piano is played when there’s a focus on tsukishima, and how he trusts hinata to be there behind him. it’s soft, and gentle. then, when hinata receives, you’ve got a fucking AMAZING drum fill for a measure bringing in drums and other brass instruments. it’s kind of like an interlude for tsukishima’s thoughts.

you’ve got strings coming in during hinata’s internal thought process of the receive, and i firmly believe if i looked at the sheet music for violin right now the direction would say “majestic” to show hinata and tsukishima’s personal growth

all the instruments continue in harmony as daishou explains teamwork in volleyball, which i personally think is pretty fuckin cool

whenever inarizaki shows up on screen, or when karasuno is receiving, electric guitars fill the sound. when karasuno is launching an attack with inarizaki receiving, string instruments are playing.

there’s another majestic theme playing during asahi’s internal thought process as he goes up against the three man block.

during the tiny dateko interlude, you’ve got bass instruments playing in a steadily increasing tempo, and a reprise of the asahi’s majestic theme as they show the flashback from the practice game against date tech! (gonna start calling this asahi’s theme lmao)

tHERES A REALLY BADASS THEME WITH GUITAR PLAYING DURING OSAMU’S INTERNAL THOUGHT PROCESS I LOVE IT

not music but kageyama is so pretty

as aran scores another point, the music gets more powerful and you can tell it’s in the middle of the piece, with percussion going full force in the background (the piece that led into this was the inarizaki fight song, which could possibly b a signal that they were going to score the point, because the transition was gradual)

all music stops after a sudden crescendo for kageyama’s setter dump, making the viewer get ready for something important and causing shock when the music stops exactly as the ball falls

kageyama’s smirk.

tsukishima’s smirk.

tsukishima has a pretty badass theme playing after his serve, which leads into a more majestic piece from earlier during the rallies

it’s not very noticeable, but as the speed of the plays quickens, the music does too. the brass and percussion sections work together to increase the tempo, which helps increase the tense feeling of “shit this is going too fast

this is also where the vignette comes into play and hinata brightens

all music stops as hinata receives the ball and sends it (?) high, giving the players time to breathe.

a slow piece with strings at the core starts playing as hinata smiles, similar to the one from before when he received the ball from tsukishima’s block

as kageyama sets the ball for the synchronized attack, a new theme comes into play. i really need to use more words than majestic, but that’s exactly what this piece is. it’s beautiful and repetitive, with crescendos as tsukishima and daichi struggle to receive

AND HERE’S WHAT I THINK IS AMAZING:

THE SECOND AFTER THE FLASHES OF THE KANJI FROM INARIZAKI’S BANNER SHOW, THE SECOND AFTER ATSUMU SETS THE BALL, THE MAIN PIECE THAT IS REPEATED THROUGHOUT ALL FOUR SEASONS PLAYS. THE PIECE THAT PLAYS WHENEVER KARASUNO WINS. WHENEVER THEY HAVE IMPORTANT MOMENTS. WHENEVER HINATA GROWS.

it speeds up as gin and akagi rush to receive the ball, and a quieter version of the melody plays as kita watches the ball fall.

this main theme continues (the one of the entire shows) at a tempo that’s at least 30 bpm quicker than it’s normally played

it quiets down a bit during the cheers as karasuno wins and tsukishima’s thoughts, but comes back in full force

as the screen shows the miya twins, there’s a measure every now and then with two notes from inarizaki’s fight song mixed in with the main karasuno theme

that’s the end of the episode, but i think that music was really fucking beautiful and helped the plot progress immensely

i had to cut six bullet points for length and it still ended up being this monster. what the fuck.

tagging: @tangerinefluff and @suckishima hope y’all don’t mind skjdfhsd

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catharrington · 4 years

Note

I'm so in love with your Catboy!Steve pieces! And now because of them I can't get out of my mind the idea of Billy teasing Steve by calling him 'Kitten' and Steve hissing and showing his teeth at him, demanding Billy to stop calling him 'that' so serious and offended that Billy, in fact, stops but. The problem is that. Secretly, Steve loves it. It just make him feel too vulnerable to admit it. But he misses it sooooo much that one day he climbs up Billy's lap, hides his face into the crook of his neck and whispers, so close it's barely audible, "Will you call me Kitten again?" and Billy will basically melt and pet at his ears "Of course I will, Kitten"

I just love so much the idea of Billy calling him all kinds of pet names and Steve secretly loving it 😻😻

Thank you so much for enjoying my cat boy content!!! And yes. Oh my gosh yes you are correct!! Billy so loves to tease:

Pretty cat, the words hang in the air gentle like soft pieces of lint floating through the windows of a sunny morning. Steve doesn’t hate them, lays in the sunlight of those words and lets it soak into his fur a little.

Billy said them with so much authority, so much fondness, that he can’t help but to believe him.

Steve loves those words. In that order. Some others he has mixed feelings about.

It’s been a week since the aforementioned kidnapping, and Steve has taken a habit of burrowing himself into Billy’s sheets and blankets as soon as he gets up to head into work.

Four days out of the week it’s early in the morning, as soon as the sun comes over the horizon. And then late nights bring Billy home in heavy workboots stomping out dusty clouds. On fridays it’s a later start, and he comes home sooner. Just as dirty. Takes a shower, or sometimes a bath.

Steve curls his long fingers around Billy’s pillow. Brings it close to him, nuzzles his nose into the soft with time cotton so just his eyes and pointy ears follow Billy as he paces the room to get ready for work. Collecting his clothes before stepping into the bathroom, winking over his shoulder ain’t gonna expose myself to ya, don’t worry, kitten.

And Steve just thumps his tail with a thoughtful flick, rhythmically hitting onto the comforter. Thinking to himself he wouldn’t mind.

Doesn’t say anything like that, of course, the only words Steve ever mutters is a stilted bye. And this sunshine bright day, he mutters a soft don’t call me that.

Billy’s closing the door behind him, his words almost lost even to himself as he starts to head out. He pops the door back open with almost a perfectly timed three second delay. What did you say? He asks expectantly.

And Steve, who followed him to the living room. Followed him to the kitchen. Lingering by the now empty coffee pot as it had all been poured into Billy’s to go cup. Just smelling what Billy’s breath must taste like during all his rushed good mornings. Maybe his off to work kisses would be bitter as the black coffee.

He turns his head almost absentmindedly. Don’t call me kitten, he repeats quietly.

Billy scoffs, thinks it’s a joke. Says alright, sugar, before closing the door again.

He calls him it again as they are lounging around that Saturday. Billy’s work books parked at the doorway. And his hands busy stirring and stirring a wooden spoon around a tall pot of sauce. Steve flicks across the pages of one of Billy’s books he keeps on a small shelf by his bed. Well loved and broken spines. Steve doesn’t want to read them as much as he wants to see where Billy’s loved them.

He can barely hear the word over the noise of the album playing. Loud crooning of guitars and drums, even louder voices. But he hears that word again. Billy’s voice sounds like a song as he calls how spicy do you like it, kitten? And Steve would love the thoughtful question dearly if it weren’t for that word.

And repeats himself, a little louder, don’t call me kitten.

From the kitchen, Billy turns over his shoulder. Levels Steve with those crystal blue eyes and his half smirk. Says alright, sugar, then he’s back singing again.

Sounds terrible, sounds like music Steve wouldn’t listen to by himself, but he does enjoy the way Billy uses the red saucy wooden spoon as a microphone to sing into. Really enjoys the way his hips sway with the motions of his silly dancing. Steve flicks the page to the next and let’s it slide.

The thrid time Billy’s following him with those heavy boots, that thick cowboy stride, missing everything but the spurs jingling. Not missing his lips rolled over his white teeth in a warning snarl. This apartments not big enough for the both of us. He’s following Steve into the bedroom when he says that word through his snarl.

Steve matches one right back. A sharper one, a whiter one, one with teeth that come to cruel points. Repeats what he said before. Don’t call me kitten, this time seriously.

And Billy seems to finally get it. But he doesn’t stop. Waits at the doorway while Steve shrugs off his jacket. He just got back from walking home from work, the library in town he was lucky enough to get a job at. Some places have no intention of hiring a cat boy at all. Some places had laughed at his face.

And Steve’s tired of it. Throws his jacket with enough force it make it bounce off the soft comforter. His voice comes out a mean dragging hiss, don’t talk to me like that. I’m not some thing for you to order around. I’m here because I want to be. And he turns to glare right at Billy. Meaner even than the night he scratched up his biceps getting tugged into a bath.

Billy doesn’t get it this time, seems to get angrier about it. He throws his hands up and spins. Like he wants to grab at something. Like he wants to wrap his meaty fingers around and choke something. Instead he settles on pounding two angry fists into the doorframe.

You don’t get it, he shouts, pretty kitten like you is a target for guys, okay, they would love to just chew you up and spit you right back out. Take you home and chain you to a fuckin’ wall, do you get it? And he turns from the wall to jab a finger at Steve’s face. To make sure he gets it. To make sure he’s afraid of the men who can take advantage in the night. Like how Billy’s trained himself to be such a light sleeper— because he knows.

But he stops his next words in his throat. Swallows them back down into his gut and lets them burn themselves out.

Because Steve’s face is glossy with tears down his cheek bones. His brows almost touching in an angry, furrowed scowl. His ears pressed flat back across his limp hair. He looks angry, and afraid. All at the same time.

And Billy hates himself more feverishly than he’s ever hated himself before. He chokes out an I’m sorry, hey, I’m so fuckin sorry I didn’t— I’m just worried— but that gets caught too.

Because Steve’s pushing past him with his fists held at his sides, a strong shoulder shoved into Billy’s shoulder so he can get by, and then the bathroom door is slamming closed. Steve spends the whole night in the bathroom.

Spends the night curled in the cold tub with his tail wrapped around his ribs. Taking shallow, wet breaths.

Billy spends the whole night awake looking at the bathroom door. Remembering the way Steve’s old collar looked when he took it off that pretty skin. How it left a branding almost of its cruelty. It’s abuse and, and Billy’s stomach feels a lot like the mold on that old leather.

He doesn’t use the word again.

Presses a soft kiss to Steve’s head when he finally sees him one work shift later. The first thing he does when he gets home. Before he gives him a worn out bottle of pepper spray he had kept stashed in his glove box. Says, I know it ain’t as strong as your nails. Or your teeth. Or you damn bull-headedness. But could you carry this? If just for me?

So Steve takes it. Clips it to the inside of a zipper in his work bag. Tucks it behind the books he’s borrowed from Billy’s shelf to read in the break room.

It wouldn’t be until later, when Steve decides to try letting someone else in. Letting someone close enough to hurt him. To hit him. To love him. That he decides to try reclaiming that word.

There’s plastic gnarland flowing across the living room and right into the kitchen. There’s a vinyl album playing but it isn’t Billy’s. It’s his family’s, he says, surprised the old thing still works, but this is Christmas to me. And the needle scratches along old carols played on a piano. There’s a thin, sparse, half dead tree sitting by the window. Lit up with steady red and green lights. Some pretty ornaments hung with care. A handful of hand wrapped gifts collected under its low branches.

Steve crawls onto Billy’s lap. And his kiss might not taste like black coffee, but it does taste like hot chocolate. And his hands are soft snd clean as they pet through his hair. Pet across his sensitive ears so gently. Steve lays his head down on Billy’s shoulder just to hear the steadiness of his breath.

He gulps. Then he whispers you can call me kitten.

And Billy exhales shaky-like, like he couldn’t believe it. Laughs low in his chest that Steve can feel rumbled over into his own chest. Feels so good. Then Billy whispers back of course I will, kitten.

#harringrove #cat boy Steve #I’m here and I’m queer for soft piano music #thank you so much for these asks!!! I am getting. to them. slowly but surely!!!!

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shinsorokiri · 4 years

Text

UA Idol | Chapter Thirteen

Hitoshi Shinsou x Reader

Word Count: 2,414

Warnings: Language, dense Shinsou and (Y/n) (the usual)

A/N: Hey I finished it! I’m sorry again for having to change the upload day, I’ve just got lots going on but this is honestly a way for me to let off steam and kind of relax so I don’t want to put it on a hiatus. Besides, after the show that I’m in is over in October it’ll be easier for me to start posting again! Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I wish I could have made it a little longer, but it is kind of a filler full of fluff. Hopefully the next one will be super long since it’ll be the performances. Enjoy!

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By the time you two had finished piecing your song together, it was literally the next morning. To be fair, you had decided on what lyrics would be sung when along with adding some beat to it and decided you were both going to play the piano and alternate with each other. When you sang, you were playing, when he sang, you were playing, and when they two of you were singing together, you were both playing. It was wild. And you couldn’t wait to perform it. “Do you think Mina and Denki are still up?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Hold on, I’ll text them,” you say, pulling out your phone and sending a text in the little group chat the four of you have. Surprisingly, Denki texts back almost immediately. “Uh… why did Denki just say ‘is that you god? please… save us… we’re in the stairwell… we’d do anything,’?” Shinsou asks, and you laugh. “I think it means he didn’t sleep and he wants us to go visit him and Mina. I could be crazy though, I don’t know,” you say and Shinsou rolls his eyes. “Let’s go, it’s time to see what these two dramatic assholes are doing.”

You and Shinsou make your way to the stairwell, immediately spotting Mina and Denki hunched over on the steps. “You two have to deal with this every day?” Mina groans, spotting the two of you. You look at each other then back at them, shrugging. “Yeah, when I was about fourteen I got used to it,” Shinsou says. “This is Hell,” Denki groans and you and Shinsou sigh. “I think you can survive this one, tiger,” you say and he gives you a smirk. “You should not have called him that, look at his smug face, look what you did,” Shinsou says, motioning furiously at Denki. You chuckle, shrugging while he huffs at you. He was cute when he got annoyed. Especially when he was being lowkey jealous, even if he knew that you and Denki would never amount to anything but friends. He couldn’t help it, I mean his basically perfect best friend who just so happened to be smirking at his basically perfect crush I mean seriously, if you two got together it would literally be painful how perfect everything would be. “Tosh, bro, stop glaring at me, I’m not gonna steal your girlfriend,” Denk teases him, and you both turn bright red. “SO UH,” Shinsou clears his throat, trying to play it cool and not like he just screamed, “Why did you want us to come here?” “Tell us if this sounds good,” Denki says, sitting up and pulling Mina up along with him. “Well hold on, what are you guys about to sing?” you ask, sitting on the stairs and taking up the spot they were just occupying. “Well we didn’t wanna do a love song because I mean, I’m not into… his kind, so we decided on something hot that both of us could sing about and have it be okay,” Mina says, and you grin. “And what would that be?” Shinsou asks, plopping down right next to you. Weird how his lavender scent always made everything hazy around you. Guess you just like it that much. And it’s not like you couldn’t pay attention to what was happening, you could. In fact, everything was just better when you were seeing the world in lavender. “We settled on break up with your girlftiend, i’m bored,” Denki says and you and Shinosu make a “makes sense” face at each other. “Sounds very you two,” Shinsou says, and Mina blows him a kiss. “Thank you!”

“Sing the damn song.”

“Okay, okay,” Denki says, and then he begins strumming the beginning of it on his guitar. You grin, the way he was picking and strumming it was very satisfying and fitting to the way they wanted to perform it. And of course, the two of them singing together was gold. I mean, they just sound good together, and the fact that it kind of looked like Denki and Mina were trying to get the same girl to break up with her girlfriend because they were bored was truly a work of art. It was also nice to just see them perform a song together and have fun with it. “I, for one, think that’s the perfect song choice and way to play it,” you tell them, and they grin at you. “Thank god. If y’all didn’t like it, I don’t know what the hell we would have done,” Mina says, and Denki nods, setting his guitar back down. “It’s a very sitting song choice for the two of you, not to mention you sound great together. So there’s that,” Shinsou says, giving them a thumbs up. “So what did you two come up with?” Mina asks, and you look at each other. “Should we tell them?”

“I don’t know, maybe we should just keep it a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Mina asks, her eyebrows furrowed. “You realize you have to sing a song on the list for this one?” Denki says. “Yeah, we know.”

“Who said we weren’t?” you ask, and Mina and Denki give you a confused look. “If you were, then just tell us what it is.”

“Who said we were just singing one,” Shinsou says with a shrug, and Mina and Denki look back and forth between you two. “What the hell does that mean?” Mina asks, and you laugh. “You’ll see, it’s unfair to know and not be surprised like everyone else, now is it?” you wink at her, and she sighs. “Whatever, you two are fucking weird. When do people start singing?” Denki asks, and you glance at the time on your phone. “Well, it’s six in the morning and the first group goes at three in the afternoon. So, you have nine hours, however if you want to sleep it would probably take like five to ten minutes for you to get a ride back to the hotel and fall asleep and then there’s soundcheck for everyone from two and on and I know that the both of you probably need an hour and a half to get dressed and do your hair and–”

“It actually takes me two,” Mina interrupts. “Yeah, and it takes me two and a half. This hair doesn’t get styles perfectly by nothing happening to it,” Denki says, and you sigh. “Okay whatever. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. You both have around, oh I don’t know, like four hours of sleep before you would need to be back here and ready to perform.”

“Okay! I’m down, by guys, see y’all later,” Denki says, immediately sprinting outside. “WAIT FOR ME YOU MAN WHORE,” Mina s c r e a m s, chasing after him. “The two of them are very… interesting,” you say, earning a laugh from Shinsou. “Yeah, that’s certinaly a word to describe them.”

“You know, I would say we should get some sleep, but if I’m being honest, I don’t know if I can. Like, yeah, I’m tired but I mean… I’m still anxious about this next performance,” you say, and he nods. “I get it…” he says before dropping off. He begins thinking before he stands up and pulls you back to the practice room the two of you had been at all night. “Shinsou, I don’t think we need to practice anymore; our voices could get hoarse and shot and it would be bad for–”

“We’re not practicing, we’re getting some sleep. If you’re tired, then you’re getting sleep,” he says, turning the lights off and locking the door. You stare at him as his phone light illuminates his face. You know he’s only setting an alarm, but the way that the light is hitting his features is beautiful. He somehow looks like an angel even when the light is coming from underneath of him and just barely illuminating him. The way you felt about him was not good, you had sworn to yourself that you would never catch feelings like this for anyone ever again. Love is a dangerous and painful chase, and you were tired of trying to keep up with it. But you couldn’t deny that you thought he was a very attractive man with a very attractive personality. And you also couldn’t deny the urge you got to kiss him every so often. “Alright, I have the alarm set for noon, that gives us a chance to be up and ready for when Denki and Mina get back here. I texted them to bring us some clothes, so we look presentable and don’t have to run back and forth to the hotel. Now, lay down, the producers gave us this pillow and blanket and I think you should use it,” he says, handing them over to you and turning his phone off, enveloping the two of you in darkness. “Uh, no you deserve it,” you say, shoving it back toward him. He sighs. “(Y/n)… I can’t use these when I know you could use them. I would feel too guilty,” he says, literally throwing them back at you. Now it’s your turn to sigh. “Alright… so… I have an idea, but if we do it, it doesn’t leave this room and we do not turn the lights on so the producers can see us.”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay so… there’s only one blanket and pillow so how about we… y’know… share…?”

He stares at you for a moment through the darkness, and you can’t necessarily see him, but you can feel the intensity radiating off of him. “…Share?”

“Yes. Like… I don’t know… cuddle… I guess?”

Thank god it’s pitch black. You’d probably die if he knew how red you were right now. You absolutely cannot stop blushing. This was 100% something you wanted, but you didn’t want to admit that outloud. Little did you know, Shinsou was in the exact same boat as you. He was just frantically trying to get his heartbeat to calm down before you would be able to hear and feel it from close range. “Uh… yeah, yeah sure. Okay. Good thinking,” he says, performing his signature neck scratch. But you couldn’t see it. Did you visualize it though? Oh absolutely.

You laid, down placing the pillow under your head. Before you could place the blanket over yourself, you felt another head hit the pillow, and suddenly you felt someone else’s breath hit your face. Damn, he was literally so close. What the fuck. What the fuck. You feel the blanket being placed over your body, as well as an arm. A really strong arm that you know is Shinsou’s because even though he hates going to the gym, he’s literally trained in karate which is really cool and also really hot because he’s really in shape and yeah, uh, stop thinking about that right now. You’re too nervous about him feeling your heart about to beat out of your chest to realize his is beating just as fast. You tried to push back these thoughts, and in doing so you were reminded of some aspects of your past relationship. But no matter how long you tried to dwell on those thoughts, you always came back to Shinsou. And his warm smile. And his embrace. And his scent, and his demeanor, and his humor, and, well, him. And just thinking about him and feeling his warmth had your eyes slowly shutting. And you were craving more warmth from him. Or maybe you were just craving him. And as much as that thought would scare you, right now you don’t care. You just know you feel safe and comfortable in his arms.

But the fact that he actually has you in his arms right now is crazy to him. It’s lowkey a dream come true, but he knows he can’t really comment on it. This was just a way to ensure you were both comfortable. Obviously. No other intentions behind this. And he may not be able to see your face right now, but he can feel your breath hitting his nose, and it causes him to smile. He could only imagine the look on your perfect face right now. He wished he could see it, but the lights had to be off so no cameras could spy in on the two of you and try to get some juicy gossip for the episode. The two of you lay like that for quite some time, and he only hopes you fell asleep. He has intense troubles with it, and even though he knows that you struggle with it too, he’s worse. But somehow, knowing your with him is way more comforting than any of his cool down rituals, or any of the sleepy time tea he drinks or even the melatonin he takes when his insomnia gets really bad. And he feels himself getting tired. Crazy the affects you have on him.

Before he starts drifting off, he feels you bury your head in his neck. Of course, it surprises him, but when he feels the steady breathing coming from your body, he knows you’re asleep. He can’t help but smirk knowing that you wanted to be closer to him in your sleep. He wanted you to be closer too, so that’s why he tightened his grip around your body and closed his eyes. He could get used to this feeling.

Of course, he also had the nagging fear in the back of his mind about falling in love again. He was afraid that with you, that would be possible. Now yeah, he’s had shitty relationships, but the relationships weren’t the thing he was scared of. The majority of the people he loved, and even loves, in his life had all left. And he didn’t want that to happen with you. He never planned on it to happen with anyone ever again. But right now, with you asleep in his arms, that fear was pushed to the very back of his brain. All he could think about was how happy he was in this moment. And for the first time in a long time, he fell asleep with a smile on his face. You two were able to sleep long enough that you both had dreams.

Too bad neither of you will ever tell the other that they were about each other.

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bloodybells1 · 3 years

Text

ON SCORDATURA

When I was eighteen, I was really into heavy metal and had been practicing the electric guitar for four years. I was devoted to music theory and looked up to guitarists like Steve Vai. I played loudly and fast, emulating the popular style of playing when heavy metal was at its apex of popularity. You might say that I was a “shredder.”

My passion for technique took an unexpected turn, however, when I became fascinated by the classical guitar. I don’t exactly remember when it hit me, the inspiration to explore this type of playing. It might’ve been born from reading the name of Andres Segovia in the magazine interviews of my favorite guitarists. (Also, I listened to a lot of Jethro Tull, and the intro to one of his songs is a quotation of a popular classical guitar score by Bach, the “Bourée in E Minor.” I started teaching it to myself by ear, but soon realized I needed help adjusting to the new technique).

One day I made the decision that I wanted to take the plunge into the classical world. I purchased a cheap nylon string, looked for a tutor and, once I found one in Chapel Hill, NJ, I started taking lessons and practicing every day.

I was enthralled by the new possibilities in this style of playing. I was discovering a wealth of textures and styles I’d had no previous idea about. My parents had not listened to classical music, so all of this was foreign to me. But I fell in love with the genre all the same.

I loved how old this practice was, how its provenance dated back to before there was electricity. I loved the deceptive simplicity of paper scores, how the mere act of sight-reading might open up varied worlds of expression, limited only by the player’s willingness to learn the technique and the player’s ability to perform.

My tutor included Renaissance lute scores in his homework for me. These scores contained instructions for alternative tuning arrangements of the strings. This changes the whole grid of the fretboard. Each string has been tightened or loosened to different notes, so all the note relationships are changed. If you wanted to play the same material you would have to relearn it with new fingerings.

But that wasn’t the point. The scordatura was designed to make available new sonorities. These lute pieces dating back to the Renaissance had a “harpier” texture, with open notes ringing out in different keys and mixtures of notes in registers I didn’t often hear in guitar music with traditional tuning. It was rather exotic, like the simple act of turning a screw on a taut string had turned this plain old Spanish guitar into some new, esoteric instrument.

My experience with classical guitar, and specifically the scordatura my tutor taught me, was a factor later in life when I played bass guitar professionally in the mid 2000’s. Not only do I think that it made me flexible enough to feel confident learning to play another stringed instrument, but it also influenced my tuning. I utilized what’s called Drop D tuning, a simple type of scordatura that lowers the heaviest string by two notes. It gives you two extra lower notes you wouldn’t normally have with the standard tuning—where the lowest note is E.

Heavy metal guitarists love this tuning because of how much heavier it makes the music sound and because it ends up making power chord configurations a one-finger job instead of two, and you can play those heavy power chord riffs much more quickly with just one finger.

Drop D was useful to me, however, because of how it enabled me to interact with the songwriting. My band’s music was dark and a lot of the songs were in D minor. So having a lower D available permitted me to create pedal tones and deeper support functions for chords and textures that were already using that scale a lot. It added depth and character to the music because of this sort of flexible shadow figure moving around underneath the guitars and the keyboards.

I had a profound experience with scordatura later in 2014, while I was in acting school. One of our school productions was a kind of fantasia on Nabokov’s Pale Fire. The novel is already a bit of a fantasia itself, so the production was very post-modern.

The director, Alex Harvey, staged it brilliantly. One of his ideas was that my character would play passages on the piano between scenes. The score was from a series called Revelation by composer Michael Harrison.

Harrison had contrived a bespoke scordatura for the score. An assistant, a specialist who could interpret unconventional concert pieces like these, was hired to transform the school’s simple upright Yamaha, an instrument more often used as accompaniment for students singing from the American Songbook, into a piece of avant-garde machinery.

I had already begun learning some of the passages before the piano had been prepared. They sounded ok, but not extraordinary. Once the tuner was finished and the specific tuning had been accomplished, however, I began learning the pieces in earnest and it was, well, it was a revelation.

Harrison’s scordatura was wild. Some keys adjacent to each other were tuned only fractionally sharper than their predecessor on the keyboard, thereby creating a tonal cloud or wash between the two that sounded a little like an untuned guitar, but in a shimmery, beautiful way. Other keys were tuned a whole fifth from their predecessor, thereby jumping up very far between two adjacent keys. The two extremities canceled each other out to create a distinct sense of balance and harmony, a kind of timbral mist floating in the ether.

As I worked on the score I had a sense that I didn’t know what was happening. It was difficult for me to anticipate and conceptualize the piano with this exotic construction. Yet, reading through the score and performing it, the idea was actualized. A whole new musical sensibility was borne out of this tuning. It was thrilling to put into action such a strange and beautiful arrangement.

What would a trumpet sound like if one could alternate its tuning? It’s a ridiculous notion: it would require bending metal, destroying the instrument in the process. Scordatura is likewise impossible for woodwinds. Ditto, percussion. A timpani, the most obvious exception, is in fact quite flexible and can even be tuned during performance. The percussionist puts their ear to the skin and lightly taps so as to enable them to change the tuning without disturbing the performance of other orchestra members. But you can’t do that with, say, tubular bells.

Stringed instruments and the piano are different than all the other instruments. The oscillators, the strings themselves, are adjustable. Coupled with the fact of their polyphony, it’s plain why these instruments, especially the piano, are so popular. They are great adapters. They can be brought back to their mean and reset for future use in other circumstances. The ubiquity of these instruments, across genres, in barrooms and conservatories alike, is explained by their ability to avail themselves.

And what about the voice? How supple are the cords? Can they be stretched or loosened like the strings of a guitar? Is there a scordatura possible for the human vocal mechanism?

It’s debatable: vocal training, primarily through work in breathing, does fortify ones range by bolstering the lower and upper parts of the register with more support. But your vocal cords are your vocal cords. Even on a guitar, you can’t detune the strings too much. It affects the timbre: the fretboard is designed with a natural state of tension and that string that is being detuned is only thick enough to perform in a certain range before the slackening of the string makes it flap against the fretboard—or before the tightening warps the fretboard.

Vocal cords are similar in this way. Just like with a guitar, once you start “detuning” your voice, you invite corruption of the sound. Your voice cracks when you try to go too low.

When Olivier tackled Othello he tried to lower his voice through vocal training. Obviously, considering all of the other garish and offensive effects—the blackface, the funny walk, the stupid dialect—he should’ve known better than to engage in minstrelsy, but he also should’ve known about the corruption of his voice. Not all instruments have that level of flexibility.

He should’ve known that not everything is available.

What about the human being itself? Can it be construed as an instrument? one that might likewise permit a certain scordatura?

My feeling is that in this case the change is permanent. And, like with a trumpet, one risks destruction. The human being is not a stringed instrument.

I can attest to a certain kind of “permanent” scordatura of the body and mind. It was possible for me to “detune” myself, but it was a commitment to a new state. I won’t ever be able to “go back” to my original tuning. It involved deep structural shifts and I came close to collapse—and in fact did collapse—many times. The instrument—the body and the mind—was constantly at risk of crumbling and warping under the stress of the transformation. Slackening a string is one thing. Shortening or elongating a valve is another.

What is therapy but a type of spiritual scordatura? The patient comes in with a limitation in place and leaves with that “bar” set somewhere else. Thresholds are repositioned. Pain that was once unbearable can be stomached. New life experiences are permitted because the mind has been opened to their possibilities. It is a fact that the change is permanent, but after we recognize the evolution we would never want to “detune” back to where we were.

I have a long history with therapy and it is without question the source of all of the appetite for change that I’ve experienced. In teaching me about healing, it motivated me to seek out other forms of healing. I credit it with helping me gain acceptance to the prestigious MFA program in Acting which I entered in 2012 at NYU, the beginning of three years wherein this process of permanent scordatura would be hastened.

I had many illnesses. Some would find treatment through the program’s vast assortment of exercise techniques addressing body misalignment and spiritual imbalance. Yoga classes, Feldenkrais, Alexander technique, chakra work, these were all deployed to “tune” the bodies in class.

Voice and speech exercises as well helped bring awareness of lifelong limits, expressed through the mouth and in the breath. It was unnerving to encounter these intimate facts about how one walks, how one talks, how one moves, how one breathes.

Most people would never submit themselves to this level of scrutiny. A fellow alumnus with additional experience in the military often jokes that an MFA at NYU Grad Acting is actually more oppressive than boot camp because at least in boot camp you let your anger and hostility grant you relief—you can growl and yawp and hunch over and adapt to battlefields—whereas actors, despite undergoing similar rounds of abuse, must look smooth and collected and relaxed in order to perform well on stage. It really was a double whammy of having my being constantly interrogated in various invasive manners, all while being denied any permission to sublimate the tension.

I had my own motivations to undergo this training. I was desperate to have a classical training in the theatre. But I was also subconsciously motivated towards healing. Despite the horrors of these ordeals, the modalities that are therewith deployed are part of a healing experience that, having undergone them, I wouldn’t trade for anything. Had I known what I was getting myself into beforehand, I don’t know that I would’ve jumped in the pool. But I’m glad I didn’t know because I cherish the experience.

I had a problem with keeping my mouth only partially open which our singing teacher was constantly bringing my attention towards. She had taught me that this was a defense mechanism, a strategy of containment, a means of keeping the world from having access to my heart. (Of course, keeping your mouth closed is also a problem for sound projection on stage, but that’s more technical).

During one afternoon class, singing “Lonely Room” from Oklahoma, I broke down into tears as the teacher kept coaxing me to open my mouth more and more. There I was, a man pushing 40, with tears streaming down his eyes, opening his mouth wide, not even singing the words, just the vowels, but doing something that was so psychically threatening, something that I could never bring myself to do, something simple, like opening a mouth. The limit had been expanded.

There was an element of bodily restructuring to all of this as well. I had done a number on my body during those years of my professional musicianship, when I toured the world in a famous band. And so by this point, I was aware that a shift was needed from the effects of years spent in front of cameras and abusing drugs and traveling and losing sleep. Alice Miller’s book, The Body Keeps the Score, is instructive in this regard. Somatization of traumas explain a great deal of certain physical ailments. In my case, they played out structurally, on my bones and on my muscles and in my central nervous system.

These changes are subtle to the layperson. But they are profound for the student. When I look at how I held my body in old photos, it is obvious to me that there was something wrong. On the stage, with a heavy instrument hanging from my shoulder, it wasn’t perceptible. The lights and the postures have a way of masking the truth. But in the more candid and private shots—the Polaroids and the exposures from my disposable camera which my friends and I took in our apartments—I see evidence of a lot of tension. Shoulders crept upwards towards my ears; chest muscles held; an exploded solar plexus; a chin pointing up. It was a mixture of a lot of holding, a lot of somatization in the fibers, with a learned posture organized to communicate the persona I wanted everyone to see: a demiurge or rockstar.

I came into grad school as though off an assembly line, where the factory had riveted and hammered onto my body and psyche its lessons. It was a capitalistic factory but it was also a societal one, one that bore the hallmarks of the dogged problems which elude solution: childhood trauma, dog-eat-dog meritocracy, bullying, etc.

So now I was this product getting recalled, but I was going to another factory for refurbishment. One that also had rivets and hammers, but ones which were designed to break open the right parts.

I stretched and stretched. By the end of the three years I was essentially exiting with a new body. The myth about the seven year cellular regeneration in one’s body is instructive here. For it truly was the case that new grooves in my brain and muscular and skeletal patterns had taken hold. One of my teachers said during my final evaluation that I had come in to school looking like a clothes hangar with legs but that I now looked graceful.

Even my scoliosis—a condition I was born with and which I will contend with for the rest of my life—was discovered in acting school. I had had no idea about it before one of the teachers told me that I persisted in leaning downwards to my right. My spine curves in the shape of a sidewards C. It’s a genetic condition. Of course, hanging a ten-pound instrument off my shoulder and letting the weight pull me down to the ground so that I could look cool every night didn’t really help either.

The modalities in the movement and vocal training classes in acting school are designed to build awareness and flexibility in the body and the mind. The purpose of this is to permit the actor to be resilient enough on stage so as to be present and believable. So it has a practical purpose and a real-world application.

I had other problems which these modalities could not fix, but which their steady application, encouraging honesty and reflection, revealed. There were addictions and mental illness issues which I’d had no idea about before entering grad school but which were inflamed by the pressure inside. I then had to deal with them. Immediately, since they threatened the goal of getting my MFA.

The cocaine abuse of my years in the music industry haunted me in the form of paralyzing panic attacks and circadian disruptions which complicated my ability to perform in school. The years spent pursuing rampant and anonymous sexual congress created inappropriate obsessiveness with orgasms and romance. Naturally, given that my peers were all considerably younger than I was, this last part wasn’t all that abnormal. But it interfered nonetheless. I was no spring chicken but I was acting like one. I had to double down on sex addiction meetings and on therapy.

It all came to a head inside the cloistered walls of the conservatory. It came to a head when Alex Harvey, the director of the Nabokov rendition, had to massage my shoulders backstage as I collapsed in tears during one of many nervous breakdowns. It came to a head when in a movement class, during an unfamiliar physical exploration, an early painful memory of abandonment that had long been forgotten had been recalled and sent me to the floor sobbing.

I’m grateful that I had the means to address the issues. I had to juggle that with the demands of the curriculum. It was not easy. But I’m proud of my accomplishment and I’m proud of the new person this all made me become.

It is possible to “detune.” I think a better way of looking at it is “retuning.” It is a permanent scordatura and it therefore should not be taken lightly.

#conservatory #scordatura #alternativetuning #movementclass #voiceclass #mfa #nyu #nyugradacting #feldenkrais #yoga #alexander technique stretch and breath classes #classical guitar #heavy metal #dropd #renaissance #michael harrison #alex harvey #revelation

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mybiasisexo · 4 years

Text

Oh, Brother

Genre: Angst | Fluff | College!au

Pairing: Kai x Reader

Length: 7.5k

Warning: Unfinished | Language | Love Triangle (I know, but hear me out!!)

Summary: You’ve finally started college and are getting the full freshman year teen romcom experience and it’s not as great as you though it would be, but a certain ballerina (ballerino? I googled it and its ballerino in Italian [quote unquote] but in French they are a danseur and im rambling) might be the calmness you’ve been needing...that is until you meet his brother....

Author’s Note: I plan on turning this into a scenario??? Question marks cause idk if I want to turn it into a chaptered fic instead??? Anyways I wrote this back in like 2014 so its kinda dated but it is what it is yall.

MASTERLIST

credit

With the arrival of the bell came the flood.

You got caught in it. Dragged into the depths of the sea that was the main hall. You grunted and fought against the current, as students barged their way past you, slamming roughly against your shoulders as you clutched onto your books for dear life.

It seemed never-ending, it actually felt like you were moving backwards as more and more people rushed, trying in vain to arrive to their next class on time.

You didn’t think that college would be like this.

You thought it would be peaceful and calm, like a pond or a small lake.

Not the damn sea during a hurricane.

It was probably because it was the first day, and everyone was still trying to catch their bearings. Or because this hall was seriously the most used and classes held up to two hundred people. Whatever the reason, you felt a sudden panic attack crawling up your throat like a corpse clawing out of the grave. You knew that very soon you would lose it, and so you began to count in your head to calm yourself down.

“I…2…3…4—” push “—5…6—” shove “—7…..8….9….”

Before you could lose your cool, you broke the surface and felt the cold wind snap deliciously against your damp face. You closed your eyes and sighed with relief as you realized that you had won.

You battled against the human sea and you beat it victoriously.

But could you deal with that every other day?

You shuddered as the thought hit you and decided to ignore it for the meantime. You had to admit, despite that near death journey you had just trekked, your first day as a college student wasn’t as bad as you—and your parents, not to mention your little sister—had imagined. Today was Monday, and on Mondays, you had three classes: English 1102, Math 1143, and Introduction to Art.

You had just left the math department and now had a couple hours to kill before your last class.

You decided to call your best friend, Suho, and see if he had escaped his side of campus.

“Hello?” He answered happily—did he have any other emotion?

“I nearly died just now. This hallway is lethal, I don’t know if I’ll make it.”

“Well, I’m glad you made it out alive. When does your next class start?”

“In two hours. Wanna get lunch?”

“Absolutely, I’m starving. Meet me at the Student Union building?”

“Okay, see you then.” You hung up and tried your hardest to recall just where exactly the Student Union building was located.

Nearly twenty minutes later, you stumbled upon the holy land. You found Suho almost immediately and rushed over to his table.

“What took you so long?” He wondered, munching on a fry.

You plopped down in the seat across from him and let out an exhausted breath, “I forgot how to get here. I had to backtrack like four different times.”

He sighed, “You could have called me, I would have helped you.”

“I’m aware,” you dismissed, stealing a fry from his tray. He frowned, but didn’t do anything to stop you from stealing another one.

“It’s the first day, and I’m already beat,” you muttered after you had returned to the table after leaving him briefly to buy a cold sandwich, a bag of salty chips, and a bottle of green tea.

“And it’s not even over yet,” Suho reminded you with a smile on his face.

“Can you not? I don’t want to think about that just yet.”

“At least it’s art. You can unwind in your last class. My last class is Physics, there is no unwinding in physics.”

“You’re smart, you can literally handle anything.”

He cocked his head to the side and studied you. Once he caught your attention, you stuck your tongue out at him and drained your drink, smacking your lips obnoxiously when you were done.

“it’s a wonder we’re even friends,” he mused aloud around his sandwich.

You shrugged, “you still have time to run.”

He grinned, not missing a beat, “I wouldn’t even dream of it.”

You held out your semi-empty plastic bottle, “I’ll drink to that.”

He chuckled and lifted his own soda can, your drinks clinking exotically together, confirming your status as best friends for life.

Which Suho was. The two of you had known each other since you were five. Your fathers were childhood friends that lost contact after college, but somehow—when the two of you were five—reunited and stuck to each other like glue. Even opening their own music store together. Kim Junmyeon, who was lovingly addressed as Suho, and you grew up at the music store, learning how to play different instruments as well as the ropes to owning a business, and the chemistry between your fathers ultimately rubbed off onto you, causing yet another family-like bond.

“You are taking piano, aren’t you?” You asked him a few minutes later.

His attitude shifted instantly as his smile faltered a tad. It was barely noticeable, but you could read this young man in front of you like a book.

“Junmyeon,” You said warningly, using his real name to show how serious you were.

He sighed, “I want to. I just… so much is already on my plate, and I didn’t want to burden my parents with another credit and…”

“And you just didn’t want to,” You finished for him. You lowered your voice, “I thought you liked music.”

“Of course I do, but that’s something our fathers love. Music is their dream, not ours.”

You pouted. He was right, even you weren’t taking any classes related to music, but you were still planning on practicing the viola on your own time. Music was in your blood, it was just as unavoidable as Suho. You didn’t know what life would be like without it, and quite frankly, you didn’t want a life without it.

Suho adored music more than you did. When his father first taught him how to play the piano, he had to be forcefully removed from the bench. There was nowhere else he would rather be, and as he grew, so did his talent. He was so talented, that he won many competitions, and even wrote compositions for many popular songs heard on the radio today.

He was a prodigy.

You? Well, you just liked to play. You were nowhere near as good as Suho, despite the many things he had told you, and you knew that and was fine with it. For you, it didn’t matter if you won or lost, as long as you got to play. You learned how to play the guitar, clarinet, drums, and even the piano, but nothing called to you like the viola. It was an extension of yourself, and Suho once said that when you played, people could tell you transported into a different realm. You were in your own little universe, and would only return once the piece was finished.

“It can be both, couldn’t it? You play so well…” You could tell Suho felt uncomfortable and would rather not discuss the matter anymore, so you just let your sentence carry. Instead, talking about everything else and nothing for the rest of your time together. “Well, my class is about to start in ten minutes. Luckily, I know where the art building is. I’ve only been going there since I was twelve.”

You tried to laugh, but got nothing out of Suho. His smile still plastered on his face, but his eyes dull as he pulled himself up and collected your trash, throwing it in the trashcan and following you out into the crisp fall air.

The art building was very hard to miss. It was one of the bigger buildings because the college you attended focused mostly on the arts, and was painted a bright blue, while every other building was a tan brick color.

“Paint me something nice, alright?” Suho said once you both stopped outside the doors of the building.

You rolled your eyes, “You know I suck at painting, Su, I’m more of a charcoal person.”

He shrugged, “I still want a painting. Charcoal is so boring.”

You smacked his shoulder, “go. Before I lose my temper.”

He laughed and held his arms up in surrender, “We wouldn’t want that now would we?”

He sauntered away and left you to stare up at the intimidating building. Hesitantly, you pried the glass door open and scuttled into the structure. Noise overwhelmed you. You could hear many people tuning their instruments, and the noise of a teacher counting and the soft thud of footsteps. If you listened harder, you could faintly make out people singing.

It was beautiful.

The cacophony of sound settled around you in a somewhat numbing hum, beckoning you to walk even deeper within the building. Almost all the doors were open and you peered into each one, loving everything that you saw. A chubby boy wailing away on his trombone. A lanky boy with a mop top and a short thick girl with glasses singing a duet. What appeared to be an African dance class. A trio practicing on their violins. A boy twirling about in an empty dance room.

You paused once you glanced inside the dance room. He was doing barrel turns across the room, and when he reached the end, he pirouetted for what seemed like a long time, stopping smoothly with one foot resting in back of him and his arms held out in the perfect stance.

He was breathing hard as he dropped his position and ran his fingers through his dark hair, dragging the strands away from his face, only for them to return. He must have felt your stare, because he suddenly swiveled his head to meet you eyes.

He was gorgeous, to put it simply. He had slightly tan skin and perfectly shaped almond brown eyes and a straight nose, and lips that seemed to be the center of his face. He looked almost ethereal as he attempted to catch his breath and sweat slid alluringly down his lean frame and his eyes remained on you.

“Lost?” He asked. His tone wasn’t mocking, simply curious.

His voice was just as lovely as his features. You shook your head, “Just looking around.”

He walked up to the mirror where a drawstring backpack laid, and pulled a small towel out of it, wrapping it around his neck, “class starts pretty soon, doesn’t it? You might be late,”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s so easy to get distracted in this building. There’s so much going on.”

“First day?” He asked with an understanding nod of his head.

You returned the nod with a rushed one of your own, “I’m in sensory overload at the moment.”

“Happens to all of us.”

He turned around and headed back to the corner of the room. You stared at his retreating frame for a moment and then decided it was time to leave. “See you around then.”

He turned his head so that you could see the outline of his nose and raised a hand, “see you.”

You had to forcefully remove yourself from the doorway, and practically run to your classroom, making it in with thirty seconds to spare.

~*~

After your last class was finished, you headed over to the dorms.

You still could not believe you were actually living on your own, away from your parents and sister. And as you stepped into your new home, you couldn’t help but grin.

It was small, but cozy. With a living room that held a couch, there was one bedroom that your roommate and you would be sharing and you got your own bathroom which was nice.

You noticed that your bedroom door was open and you could faintly make out a voice coming from within. It appeared your roommate was in. You hadn’t met her yet, and was nervous. Would you like her? Would she like you? You carefully tiptoed towards the door and paused in the threshold. She was singing under her breath and it was beautiful. The words did not sound very familiar to you, but her voice was so lovely, you found myself creating notes to accompany her with in you head.

Finally, you grew the courage to gently knock on the wall and peek your head in.

She was sitting at a white vanity she must had brought with her, and was clipping something into her jaw length black hair. She spun around quickly, startled.

Once you were facing each other, you carefully examined the other. She was gorgeous, but seemed a bit rebellious with her black lace clothing and scruffy boots. With the light from the window on her hair, you spotted green and blue highlights in it. Her eyes were covered in kohl and her lips were set in a hard line, but you noticed the tips curled slightly in a mischievous grin.

After your slight stare down, she held out her hand, “Park Sunyoung. But I go by Luna.”

You smiled and marched in to shake her hand and introduced yourself as well.

“Like what I’ve done with the place?” She smirked, spinning around to face the mirror again.

The room was placed in such a way that each half was your own. Her side was crowded. The white walls were covered with posters. You spotted both movies and boy and girl groups respectively. She had a purple fluffy mat on the wooden floor, and clothes were strung there and about. She also placed a flat screen television on a dresser that she pushed in the middle of a wall so that it was between your beds.

You glanced at your side, You had only put sheets on your bed, leaned your viola case against the wall, and tossed your suitcases on your bed. It was—and would still be once you finished unpacking—bare compared to hers.

You nodded your head, “you just moved in?”

She nodded her head also. “Bout to grab a bite to eat. Wanna come?”

You bit your lip. You wanted to unpack and maybe practice your instrument for a while, but the need to make friends overwhelmed you, especially a girlfriend. “Sure.”

You watched as Luna hopped off her chair and grabbed a black homburg hat before snatching your wrist and dragging you out of your room.

You entered the cafeteria five minutes later, the building was bustling with life and you couldn’t help but to search around, looking at your fellow schoolmates.

There were a bunch of different stores to choose from, and after watching Luna tap her chin while glaring at each station, you both finally decide on Chinese. You grabbed your plates and then Luna pulled out her phone, dialing a number before she pressed it to her ear.

“Yah! Where are you?” She laughed. Your eyes widened. You were not planning on meeting other people. “I can’t see you! Oh! By the taco station? Mmm… Okay, on my way.” She hung up and glanced at you, tilting her head in the direction she was heading before walking off. You quickly tried to match her pace. You arrived at a round table with seven chairs and two girls sitting there in comfortable silence.

“Hey!” Luna sang as she pulled a chair next to one of them, you quickly followed suite.

The girl next to Luna had brown hair that she had cut really short, a pixie cut. While the girl beside her had straight black hair that cascaded down her body. The one with the pixie cut was sporting a guy tank top and khakis while the one beside her was wearing a black and white stripped dress and blood red lipstick.

“Who’s the stranger?” The girl next to Luna asked, studying you.

“This is my roommate,” Luna beamed with pride and you smiled shyly as she introduced you. “This is my cousin Victoria and our friend, Amber.”

“Nice to meet you,” you greeted.

“Are you a freshman like Luna?” Amber asked, giving you her full attention.

You nodded, “what grade are you in?”

“We’re both juniors,” Victoria supplied, taking a giant bite of her food.

“So… how was your first day?” Amber asked Luna, who rolled her eyes.

“Fine. I guess. All I had were generals today. I can’t wait till my fun classes begin.”

“Are you, by any chance, in choir?” You asked.

She stared at you with wide eyes, “oh god, no! What makes you think that!?”

“Well,” you began nervously. “I heard you singing when I entered the room…”

“Oh~~” The three nodded.

“I do love singing,” Luna informed somewhat sheepishly. “I just…”

“She just doesn’t like to do things when told to do them.” A girl who just walked up to the table finished for Luna, pulling the chair next to Victoria out and unceremoniously plopping down. She was tall and skinny and had long blonde hair. Just like Luna, she was wearing dark clothes and makeup, her expression unimpressed.

Another girl who was the polar opposite took a seat beside her. She had reddish-brown hair that went down to her collarbones and was wearing a pink skirt and shirt and a genuine bright smile. She instantly reminded you of Suho.

“Shut up, Krystal,” Luna barked.

“Make me,” the Krystal girl retorted, sticking her tongue out.

“Choir is just so stuffy,” Luna defended herself. “You have to sing three octaves higher than you normally do, have to wear hideous outfits, and have to move your mouth like this,” she began to open and close her mouth in a way that resembled a fish. “It’s horrible.”

“Plus, she never goes to class, so she’d probably get dropped,” Krystal grinned wickedly at Luna.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?!” The two began to bicker, and you locked eyes with the bright girl next to Krystal who was looking at you.

“What is your name?” She asked. You told her and asked for hers in return. “I’m Sulli. Sorry about my friends. They tend to not have manners.”

“I heard that!” Krystal screeched and smacked Sulli’s shoulder, causing her to wince. She then turned her gaze to you. “I’m not that bad, really. I’m Krystal, by the way.”

You introduced yourself to her and she boldly held out her hand for you to shake. Her hand was very soft.

“Are you a freshman?” She asked and you nodded your head. “Cool. So are Sulli and me. Are you Luna’s roommate?”

“Yes she is, so can you stop asking so many questions?” Luna asked, exasperated.

Krystal shrugged, sniffing a cup of fruit, “just curious. I’m surprised you’d invite her along. I know how much you hate new people.”

“I don’t—”

“YES YOU DO!” The four interrupted Luna, causing the whole table to laugh.

“You all suck,” Luna pouted, but a smile tugged on her lips.

“Welcome to our crew,” Victoria said to me, holding up a bottle of apple juice. You lifted your own drink and you all chugged the liquid.

It tasted like a long friendship.

~*~

Back in your room, all unpacked and exhausted, you laid on your bed. Luna was taking her last class of the day, which was at eight, and she wasn’t very excited about that, so you had the place to yourself. You wanted to play your viola, but was so tired, you couldn’t budge.

Vibrating caught your attention and you groaned as you felt around for your phone. Once found, you answered it without bothering to check caller I.D.

“I take it you’ve already eaten?” Suho asked you from the other end.

You grinned, “What makes you so sure?”

“Because you aren’t harassing me about how you will die any second if you don’t get any food in you soon.”

You sighed, “You know me so well.”

“That’s why I hold the title of best friend.”

“Sorry. Are you hungry?”

“Kind of.”

“Did you just finish your last class?”

He was silent for a second, “no. I, uh, finished it a while ago.”

“Well why didn’t you call me then?”

“I was…distracted. Come down. I’m at your dorm.”

“But, Suho!”

“You shouldn’t have unpacked all at once. That’s your fault. Hurry!”

He hung up and you had no choice but to get your lazy butt up and head downstairs.

He was outside the building, leaning against the cool brick.

“What is the rush?” You asked once you spotted him.

“It’s the first week of school, there is so much we could do!”

“Like…?”

“Like visit the art building and watch people.”

Your eyes brightened and you hurriedly pushed Suho, he laughed at your eagerness and you headed over to your favorite building.

“I should have brought my instrument,” you pouted as the doors opened.

Suho shook his head and you entered the first room you found.

There were a couple kids acting in this one. You watched for a minute, but you both knew which rooms you wanted to really be at.

“Let’s just go to the music room,” You ordered. You started running down the familiar halls, eager to enter the one room you had been in over the years.

Suho continued walking, and you wondered if it was because he didn’t want to go to this room after all.

You entered the room and took a deep breath, smiling widely as you were surrounded by all the instruments. You were in the string room, and you bowed to the professor before heading over to decide which instrument to play.

There were a few kids there in a small circle with guitars on laps, so you picked up an acoustic guitar and joined them.

You quietly tuned your instrument as two of the other boys were playing off each other. The music was very bluesy and you nodded along as they continued.

All music stopped and you heard a few gasps. Suho must have entered. You turned to verify his presence and tried not to laugh at his awkward smile. He hated the attention. Anybody who considered themselves piano players knew who Suho was, and anybody in this area who was aware of music knew who he was as well. He was kind of a big deal.

“Please, continue,” Suho said, motioning for the two boys to play. They stared at him instead, either too nervous or starstruck. With a sigh, you held your guitar on your lap and began to play a song you had made up a few years ago. The people around the room blinked over at you, distracted from Suho, which you knew he was grateful. You felt him sit down beside you, but you ignored him and continued playing. Your fingers gliding confidently over the strings.

“You think she’s good at this,” You heard Suho say. “You should see her play the viola.”

You missed a note and lost your train of thought as laughter bubbled up your throat.

“Please stop, Suho,” you chuckled, finishing the song quickly. Once you were done, everyone in the room applauded and you bowed your thanks and Suho and you sat silently and listened to the others play for a while.

“Should we go now?” he whispered in your ear after about twenty minutes and you nodded. You both got up and bowed to everyone before heading out.

“That was nice,” you grinned up at your best friend, his hands in his pockets and his smile somewhat strained.

“Uh… yeah, nice…”

You laughed, “You hated every waking minute of it.”

“No!” He quickly defended. “I just… you know I hate it when people treat me like that.”

“Like a celebrity?”

He sighed, “I hate that word.”

“But, I mean, you kind of are a celebrity, Suho.”

He groaned and covered his face with his hands, “don’t say that!”

You laughed again and dragged him out of the hall. On your way out, you passed the dance room, and you glanced into the empty room. You were somewhat disappointed to see how lifeless it was in there compared to earlier today….

~*~

Your first week went by smoothly. You hung out quite a bit with Luna and her friends and only got lost once. Suho and your schedules did not align very well, and you rarely got to see each other, which frustrated both of you, but you made time—as little as it was—to hang out at least once a day.

It was Monday again, and after a semi stressful weekend, you were looking forward to another week of college.

Your alarm went off and you chuckled as Luna groaned and tossed in her bed, “turn that off!”

She threw a pillow in your direction and you turned the alarm off, and with a whispered ‘goodbye’ you left for your first class.

After your math class ended, and you had once again fought against the ten o’clock rush, you decided to head over to the art building early to goof off for a bit and kill time.

You found yourself pausing in front of that damned dance room again. The door was closed, but you could hear the faint thud of bass coming from the speakers within, and you just knew that man from last week was in there. After a bit of hesitation, you finally pried the door open.

He was there alright. Wearing cut offs and a black wife beater. He was stretching on the center of the floor, leaning against one leg as the music played on. When he lifted his upper body he noticed you, “you’re back.”

You couldn’t tell if he was happy or annoyed by the fact, but you smiled at him anyway, “I told you I’d see you later.”

He laughed once under his breath and shook his head faintly.

“Mind if I watch?”

He opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything.

You deflated, “or…not.”

As you began taking a step back he let out a breath, “no! Wait.”

You glanced at him expectantly and he sighed, “You can stay if you want.”

You beamed and came all the way into the room, closing the door solidly behind you. You sat against the mirror and pulled your legs up to your chin.

“It’s nothing much,” the beautiful boy began. “I’m just going to be doing some stretches and going over some routines….”

“That’s fine,” You encouraged and he paused before nodding his head self-consciously.

After fifteen minutes of warming up, he began to dance. You knew he was not going full out, but even still he was captivating. He moved effortlessly, almost as if he were bored, and he made every move seem easy, although you knew it was anything but.

At one moment he attempted a leap, but couldn’t land right. He groaned with frustration, “I can’t get this jump right.”

You perked up, with him talking for the first time in thirty minutes. He was standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, eyeing himself in the mirror.

“I don’t even know why it is so difficult for me, but I just can’t get it. The teacher told me I was landing too hard but what does that even mean?”

You blinked at him and were silent for a moment. Finally you worked up the courage to speak, “may—maybe you can demonstrate it again? I’ll watch and see if I can spot the problem?”

His eyes flickered to yours questioningly, “you dance?”

“Uh… no, but I’m sure I’d notice if you weren’t landing right.”

He thought about it for a second, but must have seen there was no harm in it because he shrugged and started the music up again.

You watched him as he twirled around the room before going for the leap. He was flawless in the air, but once his foot came down, he was a stumbling mess. He had to hold his arms out to catch his balance and you figured out the problem.

“You’re not distributing your weight properly,” You informed him once he was at a standstill. “You put all your weight on the leg you’re landing on when you need to put it on both.”

“How do I go about doing that?” He asked, twirling the lid off of his water and chugging half the bottle.

“As soon as your foot touches the ground, stretch out your back leg and lift your arms higher.”

The dancer’s eyes wandered above him for a minute, probably imagining the actions he had to take, and then he put his water down and started the music again.

When it got to the troubling leap, you held your breath. He was up, up, up and then he came down. His foot touched the floor and he seemed to spring higher as he flexed his legs and raised his arms, not even wobbling.

“Perfect landing,” you breathed with a grin as he continued on with the choreography. You couldn’t help but to notice how dazzling his face looked graced with that triumphant smile that seemed nearly blinding.

He was now going all out, as if he were performing on a stage, and your heart was in your throat.

You had seen a lot of beautiful things. Watching your father play the trombone, watching Suho play the piano, listening to one of your friends, Yuri, sing, but this fellow in front of you took passion to another level.

Tears began to obstruct your vision as you watched him reach towards the heavens with every jump. Every flex of a muscle seemed to be a part of a story only he knew how to tell, but the story was magnificent and you could not look away.

It ended with him pirouetting before landing on one knee, an arm stretched towards you.

The music ended and the only thing that could be heard was his hard breathing.

“That… that was beautiful.” Beautiful could not cover base to how life altering watching him perform was. He was beyond that, he was something no word could yet define.

“Thank you,” he grinned and bowed humbly.

“No, I’m… I’m serious. I don’t think I have ever seen anything that passionate before in my entire life, and my father lives and breathes music. You are truly talented.”

You watched him bite his lip and scratch the back of his head before repeating, “thank you.”

“No, thank you,” That sounded so cheesy out loud, but you really wanted to thank him for showing you that. You wiped away the tears that had fallen from your eyes and laughed at yourself, “I swear I don’t usually cry watching people dance. Only if I’m moved enough.”

“I moved you?” He asked. You noticed the teasing tone in his voice, but also surprise, as if he didn’t believe he was that good.

“To tears,” You confirmed, holding your hands out to show him the salty wetness on them.

“Thank you,” he repeated yet again, and you blinked up at him.

“For what?”

“For helping me with that turn. Also for letting me know just how good I am. Sometimes you need other people besides those who are always telling you to realize your potential, you know?”

“Absolutely. I definitely understand. I remember when I was first learning how to play the viola, and my father was constantly telling me how good I was, but I felt like I wasn’t adequate. It took my best friend to finally make me realize that maybe I was worthy of the instrument.”

The sweaty ballerina just stared at you for a moment, and you grew embarrassed. Were you talking too much? You were definitely talking too much. This is why you only had two friends growing up.

“You can come watch me practice whenever you want,” he suddenly allowed. His smile grew at your shocked expression. “I realize now I enjoy the company, and you can probably help me on some things. So… whenever you want, if I’m here, don’t be shy.”

He said all of that without even glancing at you, but you could tell the sincerity in his voice. Plus, you found it endearing how he dug the ground with his toes.

It was your turn to repeat yourself, “thank you.”

~*~

You ran all the way to your dorm after art, eager to get this off your chest.

You felt kind of bad that Suho wasn’t the person you wanted to talk to about the matter, but this was strictly a girl thing, and you knew he wouldn’t understand.

“Luna!” You practically screeched when you finally slammed the door to your bedroom open, scaring the living daylights out of your roommate.

“Jesus!” she cried, throwing the magazine she was peacefully reading on her bed onto the floor. “What’s gotten into you?!”

“I’m in like,” You breathed, falling unto your bed with a longing sigh.

“In like?” she questioned.

“Yes. With a beautiful ballerina.”

“Ballerina?”

“It’s a guy,” you clarified, rising up to meet Luna’s gaze. She was grinning from ear to ear, leaning in closer.

“Well, spill it!”

You told her about the mystery dancer who just so happened to be drop dead gorgeous and wanted your company.

“Wow, that is so romantic! What is his name? Maybe I know him.”

“It’s…” Your smile melted off with the realization that you in fact had no name for the face you most definitely would be dreaming of later tonight.

“You don’t know?” Luna’s eyes widened and than she gasped, “that’s even more romantic! It’s like Cinderella! Does he know yours?”

You shook your head and she threw a pillow up in the air. It hit the ceiling before landing on the floor behind her, next to her long forgotten magazine. “Oh my god! The two of you are so mysterious! That is so hot.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. You’ve grown quite close to Luna this past week; she was someone you really needed in your life.

“You have to keep me posted on the development on your unfolding love story. And don’t forget who was there in the beginning when you have to pick a maid of honor for your wedding!”

“Oh, I will def keep you up to date.”

~*~

Sadly, there was nothing to report back to Luna.

Classes started to add pressure the rest of the week, and you were so swamped in schoolwork, that you had no time to eat a normal meal, let alone watch someone dance for a couple hours. you even had a test in art!

When Friday came around, all you wanted to do was relax, but Suho had other plans for you.

“Come on! We haven’t seen each other all week! I miss my bestie!”

“I miss you too, but I’m so tired,” you complained, rolling around in your bed for affect.

“We are all tired, we’re college students.”

“Why can’t you hang out with your roommate? I’m sure he will keep you company.”

“He is hanging out with me. I’m trying to expose you to more people,” You could hear the annoyance in his voice.

“I don’t need more friends. You’re like five friends put together!”

“Please,” Suho whimpered, muttering your name softly. You tensed, knowing what he was doing. “We haven’t seen one another in five days and I just really need my best friend right now. Is that a crime? Is wanting to see you such a bad thing?”

He sighed when you remained silent, “fine. I won’t bother you anymore. Take your nap and be a loser for all your life, but don’t call me when you finally want to settle down, because I would have moved on with a new bestie by then.”

“Fine!” You cried, hopping off your bed. “Jesus, Suho! I’ll hang out with you, damn!”

He chuckled and you heard a muffled ‘works every time’ before he was back in your ear, “you have ten minutes. Dress really cute, we’re going somewhere fun. You better be waiting for us when we get there.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” You hung up before he could guilt you into doing something else you didn’t want to do and slumped over to your closet.

Suho’s definition of really cute was a scary concept, and it made you wonder where he was dragging you. He loved heels and thigh highs. You always joked and told him he was a subtle pervert, and he would reply by simply shrugging, tilting his head to get a good view of the girl he had his eye on at the time.

You groaned and yanked the clothes you knew he was already picturing in his head before getting ready.

Six minutes later, you were standing outside the dorms in a thin pink dress, black tights, chunky black heels, and a glare.

True to his word, Suho was in front of the dorms ten minutes after your call ended. He stepped out of the passenger side of a very expensive looking black car, dressed in dark jeans and a sky blue button down, and you knew that you were dressed accordingly.

His grin grew into a full-blown smile as he took you in, “you never disappoint.”

“Shut up, you perv,” You retaliated. He just laughed, continuing walking up to you. Once you were right in front of each other, he pulled you into a hug and you soon felt a tugging at your hair.

Suho pulled away with a satisfied grin, “you look prettier with your hair down.”

“What is this?” You snapped, as he ruffled your brown hair that he had released from the ponytail you had it in seconds ago. “Are you trying to hook me up with someone?”

“I might be, but I just want you to have fun tonight. You have to dress good to feel good.”

“I mean, I guess?” You let him drag you over to the car. He opened the backseat door for you and helped you get in before crawling back to the front. There were two males sitting to your left, both incredibly handsome and one behind the wheel.

Suho called you and you glanced at him, really nervous. You usually felt at ease around the opposite sex, but Suho made you dress up, and it made you self-conscious, especially since all the men in the car were good looking.

Not as fine as your little ballerina, you thought suddenly, and you felt your cheeks heat up. They definitely weren’t that pleasing to the eyes.

You blinked, quickly focusing back at Suho. He had his hand on the driver’s shoulder, “This is my roommate, Kris, and those two sitting next to you are Kim Jongdae and Do Kyungsoo.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said, nodding towards them. They all nodded in return and you zoomed off to some unknown place.

“Jongdae and Kyungsoo are singers,” Suho informed as you continued driving. “And Kris here is an actor. They all have scholarships and are top of their classes.”

“Why must you talk us up like this?” The one furthest to the window whined. He had a cute voice and a cat like curve to his lips that you couldn’t help but stare at.

“It’s alright,” you began. “It’s in his nature. He’s like a proud father.”

“This girl right here,” he started, and you rolled your eyes. “Is one of the best viola players in the country, if not the continent! She also draws, plays other instruments, and sings.”

You shook your head rapidly, “please do not tell professional singers that I sing, Suho. That’s embarrassing.”

He simply shrugged, “how many times have you sung the lyrics to my compositions?”

“I’m not sure anymore, Suho,” you sighed, your gaze flickering to the singers beside you. They looked intrigued, and you wanted to shrink.

“Exactly, because it’s been too many times to count. If it had been up to me, I would have given you the songs to record. I write them for you anyway.”

“Gross,” you cried, kicking his seat. Sometimes he said things that made it seem as if you were closer than you actually were. It was a habit you were trying to get him out of.

It was around ten when Kris—who had been silent throughout the entire ride there—pulled into a karaoke bar.

“Damn,” you muttered under your breath. Suho was toying with you the entire ride there, the bastard.

“What was that?” The smaller boy beside you, Kyungsoo, asked. His voice was deeper than you had thought it would be at first glance and his wide eyes and plump lips made him seem older than you would have originally thought, more mature.

“I should have known we would be singing,” you said a bit louder to him, although you pushed your knee deep into the back of Suho’s seat.

“And drinking,” the guy near the window, Jongdae, winked at you playfully and you sighed with both content and relief, because he was really cute and you really needed a drink.

“Good,” you breathed as you all headed out.

You followed the guys into the bar, and was led into probably the biggest room you had ever seen in one of these places. It was already filled with about six other people, both male and female.

You felt pressure on your arm and lips at your ear. “Don’t be afraid to make friends, and maybe even get a bit touchy if you want,” Suho winked at you and you grimaced. What was up with him today?

There were only two other girls in the room, and you quickly ran to sit beside them, introducing yourself quickly. They were Hyeri and Hyorin. There was a guy singing a Super Junior song, and he was really good. You just sat silently as everyone got comfortable. Jongdae soon appeared with around four huge bottles of liquor, while Kyungsoo scuttled behind him with shot glasses.

“Whose ready to turn up!” Jongdae’s high-pitched voice rang loudly over the commotion of the room, and everyone—including yourself—cheered. Jongdae and another boy who you weren’t acquainted with poured the shots, while Kyungsoo handed them out. You were the last one to receive a glass, and he sat beside you with a shy smile. You returned it and waited for one of the shorter boys in the room to give the toast speech, “to freshman! To the beginning of the rest of our lives!”

You all held your glasses up high before tilting your heads back and downing the liquid fire with grimaces and coughs.

Liquor made you friendly, to put it simply. It also made you extremely confident, yet also very uncoordinated. You took six more shots of the strongest stuff Jongdae had to offer, and before you knew it, you were singing a duet with one of the boys named Byun Baekhyun. It was an intense balled, and you acted the part, even pressing against each other, his arm around your waist while one of your hands were on his cheek as you both shared his microphone.

You gathered hoots and hollers and you just laughed and laughed when the song ended. He gave you a wink and carried you off the small platform, making you sit on his lap back on the couch.

“You’re fun,” He yelled into your ear, his voice deep enough for you to feel warm from the compliment.

“You give good speeches,” you replied, remembering him giving the toast earlier.

“You sing very well,” he countered.

“Well… you’re very handsome.”

His smile was a million watts.

~*~

(Another lil snippet that I haven’t even gotten to plot wise but I had a Vision™ and wrote it down before I forgot, to give you better insight on what I'm trying to do here haha)

“Jongin….”

“Oh no, silly girl, I’m not Jongin,” his eyes remained piercing into your soul as he pushed a chunk of your hair back behind your ear just to whisper, “I’m Kai.”

You blinked up at him, “who?”

“Kai,” he clarified. “Jongin’s twin brother.”

It was silent for a moment and then you burst out laughing, pushing his shoulder. He looked at you stunned, “stop playing, Jongin. What kind of joke is this?”

He raised an eyebrow, “It’s not a joke, plus, Jongin’s sense of humor wouldn’t allow him to play such a prank. Maybe when we were younger and used to switch classes for the day, but ever since college, all that boy’s focused on is the art.”

“The art?”

“Dancing.”

“Oh… oh!” Your eyes widened as you remembered asking Jongin about his hiphop routine. Your eyes flashed up to the Jongin in front of you, “you were the one doing the hiphop routine!”

He smirked and nodded boldly, “That I was.”

“Shit, you’re telling the truth.”

“Duh. I’m not a liar. But, it seems like Jongin might be…..”

#kai scenarios #kai scenario #exo scenario #exo scenarios #kai drabble #kai drabbles #exo drabbles #exo drabble #kai oneshot #kai oneshots #exo oneshot #exo oneshots #kai

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etn-story-archive · 3 years

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Enter the Nomicon - Chapter 3: Awkward is the Word of the Day

“H-hey Howard. Our friend Nomi came by and we wanted you to come over and, uh, try out that new online version of Grave Puncher! You said the graphics were the cheese, so Nomi wants to play with us!" In a quick and desperate attempt for Howard not to raise any questions, Randy looped an arm around Nomi's neck and pulled him closer with a large nervous grin.

Of course, Nomi had to bite back the instinct to pull away, twist his arm behind his back and pin him to the ground like he had been taught to. He felt that they looked extremely stupid like this.

Fortunately, Howard had gotten the hint.

"Oh—yeah! I completely forgot! Heidi, I'm gonna go. Have fun cleaning the house while I bounce!"

Without waiting for her response, the three dashed out of the house in a blur while Heidi threw a tantrum.

...

"Alright Cunningham, who is this guy?"

The three slowed to a walk. Randy panted, trying to catch his breath as he replied in between inhales and exhales.

"It's...a really long...story...wait...my...room."

As they quietly walked to Randy's house, Howard stole glances at the red haired teen. He had to admit, the guy was pretty damn handsome.

Well, maybe not like Cunningham—

There he was again, thinking those strange, forbidden thoughts. He couldn't help it though. Love was a strange, morbid thing that blinded those with its sweet alluring song. And this was certainly no exception, as Howard found himself slowing just enough so he could stare at his friend's butt. When he looked up he realized he had been caught by their apparent new friend. His cheeks heated up, but the male simply looked away as if in deep thought.

There has never been a time where Randy was ever quiet. He was always chatting with Howard. He felt awkward, standing between the other boys, for some unknown reason, and it bugged Randy, so he decided to break the ice.

"So, Nomi, do you play any instruments? I m-mean, besides the flute?"

Howard turned to the other male who gave him a dark look, which unsettled him.

"Yes. My father taught us that music was as important as education. I learned on my own how to play most of the common instruments like the piano, violin, guitar, clarinet, and even the drums. I know a few pieces of certain songs, but the instrument I play most commonly, as you would have guessed, is the flute."

With that, the male pulled out the flute from his pocket and began to play the sweet, familiar melody. It created a calm, almost lazy atmosphere.

Howard felt an oddly natural sense of comfort.

Suddenly, Nomi stopped.

"Sorry. Got a little carried away." He muttered, but Randy stopped him.

"Nah dude, that was totally Bruce!!"

Howard simply nodded, still unsure of the stranger that walked with them. The redhead smiled before continuing to play the rest of the way to Randy's house.

...

As soon as Randy shut and locked the door to his room, he was almost literally mauled by Howard's questions.

"Okay Cunningham, who is this guy?!" The short chubby teen pointed at Nomi, who didn’t seem to care about what was going on.

"Howard, this is the Nomicon."

There was a moment of silence, before,

“WHAT?!”

"Yeah, it’s a long story. But apparently the Sorcerer is going to escape, which is why Nomi revealed his human persona to me and you. I guess it’s because he's going to fight the Sorcerer, while I take on Mcfist!" Randy had repeated the whole conversation between him and the human Nomicon in a single breath and was breathing heavily under his friend's stern look.

"Wow, you really are in deep now."

Randy groaned, flopping exhaustedly onto his bed and burying his face in his pillow. He screamed into it.

"Well, now that we're done with introducing each other, I'm going to meditate." With that, Nomi began to disappear into a smoky red mist before a book appeared where he had once been standing.

"Whoa-ho ho! That is the cheese!"

...

Time flew by and before the boys even realized it, the sun had gone down.

"Crud. Heidi is going to tell Mom that I’ve been out too late and get me grounded."

Randy barely heard his friend as he concentrated hard on the game in front of him. "Uh-huh. Have fun."

Howard grinned. "So, do you like ketchup and peanut butter sandwiches?"

"Duh."

"Are you in a porno?"

"I made it."

"Are you gay?"

"WHAT THE JUICE!?"

Howard nearly fell backwards as Randy stood up still, staring at the computer screen. "That’s not fair! I punched that grave to bits!" Randy turned to see his friend staring at him. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Okay then...oh, hey dude, it's almost nine. You better go or Heidi is going to get you grounded again."

Howard face palmed.

...

As Randy came back upstairs after walking Howard to the front door, he found the Nomicon was back to his human form. He was meditating in the middle of his room.

"Hey Nomi, my mom's gonna be here any minute, so you better hide again."

The redhead opened one eye lazily. "Okay. I guess I've done enough for today." He stood and stretched, but was cut off by the sound of Randy's stomach rumbling. He raised a brow.

"You haven't eaten?"

"Nope. I usually just eat an apple or something. Maybe chips I guess. My mom doesn't have time to cook. And I don’t know how to cook." Randy simply shrugged.

"Well then, I guess I can make you something really quick."

...

Randy watched in awe as Nomi sliced and diced a few vegetables in less than ten seconds, cook rice in record time, and slice a small salmon fillets into perfect slices.

Randy realized he was preparing him a small dish of sushi.

Suddenly, a small plate was pushed to him. On top was six salmon rolls sprinkled with sesame seeds. Nomi leaned casually against the opposite side of the kitchen counter from Randy. He watched him expectantly, almost eager to see what Randy thought of his cooking.

Realizing this, he picked up a roll and popped it into his mouth.

It tasted...amazing! Delicious! Flavorful! There was an endless amount of words that Randy could use to describe the little salmon rolls, but didn't care to say them aloud as he happily stuffed them into his mouth, barely remembering to swallow and thank the redhead.

"Wow! Thanks dude! It's really good!"

Nomi gave him a small smile. He was internally jumping up and down with pride. He smirked.

"Your first lesson is to close your mouth when eating." He gestured to his open mouth. The purple haired teen rolled his eyes before doing as his teacher had said.

Suddenly the sound of the doorknob jiggling caught both of their attentions. Nomi was just about to turn back into his book form when the front door slammed open to reveal an exhausted looking Ms. Cunningham.

"Oh! I had no idea you were spending the night, er—Nomi!"

Instantly he relaxed and gave a respectful bow. "Y-yes, I am, if that isn't too much trouble."

"Oh none at all! Hey, how come Howard isn't here, Randy?"

"Uh, he had to go home. Heidi busted him." It wasn't a complete lie at the very least.

"Hm. That's too bad." Just then, her green eyes landed on the single roll that sat innocently on the plate in front of Randy. Without question, she picked it up and put it in her mouth.

"Mmm. You’re not a bad cook, Nomi,” said Ms. Cunningham. “Well, I'm going to bed. Randy, you two better not stay up later than twelve or I swear I'll skin you alive, mister!" Ms. Cunningham made her way to her room.

The two looked at each other, even Nomi being alarmed, before darting upstairs. Unbeknownst to them, the woman poked her head out of her room and smirked before going back inside.

...

"That was inhuman dude, inhuman!"

Nomi nodded with wide eyes. How could she have known that he had made those rolls? He shook his head.

"That was...inhuman."

Randy laughed as he pulled out a blanket, pillow, and a large mattress. Nomi raised a curious brow.

"Uh Randy, you do realize I don't need a bed, right? I can just make myself a book again."

"No! I mean, no, you don't have to, dude. You made me food, so I wanted to return the favor. And besides, sometimes Mom checks in on me at night. She'll grow suspicious if she doesn't see you here asleep."

"Ah, I see."

Once again, Randy found himself searching in the sea of clothes for some comfortable pajamas for his teacher. He found a pair of shorts. He was about to continue searching for a shirt when Nomi stopped him.

"That's fine Randy. I usually sleep without a shirt."

"Oh. Okay." He handed Nomi the black pair of shorts.

...

Once again it was morning, and the powerful rays of the sun sliced through, hitting Randy's eyes. He groaned.

“I really need to get new curtains...”

He blinked and found that the extra mattress was gone, and only Nomi was left. He was sitting in the middle of his room...meditating.

A sly grin came upon Randy's face as he hopped to his feet with great stealth, marker in hand, but just as he was about to draw on him, Nomi spoke.

"Don't even think about it, Randy. Unless you want to be missing a few limbs."

Startled, Randy jumped and tossed the marker away. "What? I was just going to see if you were awake!"

"Well I am. Now let's get started on training."

Randy groaned. "Aw, come on Nomi, it's the weekend!"

"A ninja's duty is never not done just because it's the weekend, and besides, this will be fun. We're going to the woods to practice your stealth skills. Right now, you’re as stealthy as an elephant with four left feet."

"Hey! I have awesome stealth skills! I just haven't warmed up yet!"

"Alright then. Let's go to the woods and see just how ‘awesome’ your skills are."

"Fine."

...

The sweet scent of pine hit their noses the second they took a step into the small woods.

Randy dropped his gym bag, which was filled with bottles of water, a first aid kit, and his ninja mask. He reached inside, grabbing the said mask and briskly put it on, turning into the famous Norrisville High Ninja.

"Alright. So what are we doing first?"

In swift and quick movements, Nomi removed his casual clothing to reveal his ninja like suit. He pulled the strange black cape out of his gym bag and placed it on. The small green clip that rested on his chest glowed in the dim light of the forest. Randy was in awe.

"For one thing, we need to meditate for one hour—"

"Aw, that's so wonk, Nomicon!"

"It's necessary! You have to learn to be patient. A direct attack will only get you attacked—"

"Can you please stop using riddles? It's kind of unnecessary."

Nomi face palmed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Was this kid really that dumb? "Honestly Randy, are you seriously questioning me? I’m your teacher, you’re my student. I may be biologically your age, but that doesn't mean I’m a child like you. You have to listen to me. Now, I'm very patient, luckily for you. If not, I would have twisted you into a pretzel, or whatever it is you call it. So, without anymore interruptions, let us get on with the lesson, yes?"

“I’m not a child,” Randy muttered, before agreeing to let the lesson start.

They began to meditate. Sort of. Most of the time, Randy wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.

"Are we done yet?"

"No."

"How about now?"

"No."

"What about now?"

"No."

"Now?”

"Dammit, Randy! NO!" Nomi finally stood up. "You know what? Fine. Yes, we’re done.”

“YES!”

Nomi shook his head. “Let's begin with the warm ups."

Randy grinned. “So what are we—"

Suddenly a fist flew towards Randy. He managed to dodge it just in time. He snapped his head towards his teacher, who held a sly smirk.

"Now the real fun begins."

Randy gulped. Uh-oh. "Uh, hey Nomi, w-what are we doing?"

"Warm ups. When you successfully land a punch on me, we will begin the true lesson."

Randy's eyes widened in sudden fear as a barrage of fists came flying at him. The fists barely missed their target. Randy tried to desperately dodge, duck, and zip past each and every one of them.

"Oof!"

Randy fell on his butt. As he got punched in the stomach, he quickly got up and jumped away, barely escaping Nomi's deadly left hook. Finally, Randy boldly ducked and threw a punch, only for it to get blocked and thrown right back at his face. "Ouch!"

He looked up to see the deep concentration written all over his teacher's face.

“I have to break that concentration!”

With renewed energy, he bobbed and weaved under and over.

"You look like you're getting tired there." Randy teased. The two kept aiming and dodging punches. "Tired!?"

For a brief second, Nomi’s concentration seemed to drop so much that the left hook that was certain to have hit Randy missed and punched the tree behind him. Their noses were so close they could feel each other's heavy breathing.

Realization hit the two as Nomi had pinned Randy against the tree. It took Nomi a second too late before suddenly Randy's fist hit him hard in the chest, knocking him off balance.

"Gah!"

Nomi fell on his butt. He stared up in surprise before it melted into a smirk.

"Well, you caught me off guard. I guess you win. Now on with—"

"Ahaha! I got you! I just punched the ninja book! Haha! Wow!"

"That maybe true, but I did get you at least a dozen times."

Instantly, Randy's boasting ceased, and a pout replaced the victorious grin upon his face. Nomi chuckled at the quick change of demeanor on his student's face.

"Shall we begin the stealth lesson, Ninja?"

The mocking tone did not go unnoticed by Randy.

He bitterly replied, "Yes."

...

"Uh, where exactly am I?" Randy had been blindfolded.

"You see, Ninja, stealth has different aspects to it. Today we're going to practice sight and hearing. You will be blocking my attacks without knowing where I'll be coming from. After you, it will be I who will be blocking your attacks. Understood?"

"Yup."

Unknown to Randy, they were standing in a small clearing hidden and surrounded by tall pine trees. Nomi smirked as he pulled out his bamboo flute. He placed his hands on each end before pulling it, causing it to extend into a long wooden staff. Oh yes, this was going to be so Bruce.

There was a rustling sound in the bushes. A pause, then the sound rejuvenated in another area. Randy's left hand shot out, ready to block the oncoming attack, only to be hit on his right side.

"Ah!"

Suddenly, a barrage of attacks came out of nowhere. He successfully blocked some of them, but most of the time he was getting smacked around like a ragdoll.

"Gah! Okay, time out! Time out!"

"There are no time outs, Cunningham. The Sorcerer is a relentless enemy and will be hell bent on killing you. Be happy that this is just training and not an actual battle."

"I don't care! Timeout!"

Nomi huffed as he finally ceased fire. Randy removed the blindfold.

"C'mon, I know the Sorcerer is all tough and shit, but seriously, do you have to beat me with a stick?!" He gestured to the long bamboo staff in Nomi’s hand.

"Well, what would you like me to do then? Throw rocks and boulders at your head? Because if you want—"

"NO! No way! I think I prefer the stick!" He snatched the staff from Nomi's hand. "Anyway, it's my turn!"

An entire hour passed with Randy swinging and flailing the stick at the other male. With ease, Nomi dodged each slow and exhausted swing.

"I...I almost got you that time..." Randy said, panting pathetically. "Almost..."

Finally, out of pure luck, and the fact that Nomi was getting bored, the end of the bamboo staff tapped his arm rather softly. Randy collapsed onto the forest floor with Nomi hovering over him with an amused and concerned look.

"Are you okay?" He almost felt guilty for tiring him out this much. Almost.

"Y-yeah..." Randy moaned pitifully.

Nomi sighed, almost relieved. "Well, that's enough training for one day."

"Wait, how are you not tired!?"

"I have a lot of endurance, something you human beings don’t have. Even with the ninja suit, it doesn't mean you have the endurance to go on forever. I guess we're going to have to fix that. Tomorrow we're going jogging around the entire block. Also, I'm technically a book. I don't need all the necessities you need."

"Like going to the bathroom?" Randy got up with the help of Nomi. Nomi gave him a curious look. It was obviously a question that has been on his mind for a while.

"Yes...I don't really need to go. I can hold it for...a hundred or so years."

Randy stared at him. Nomi shrugged as he picked up the gym bag, pulling out a bottle of water and tossing it to Randy, who barely managed to catch it. Nomi pulled out one for himself and began to chug it down. He wiped his mouth and let out a small sigh.

"But, there are things I still need. Like water."

Suddenly, a small rumble was heard. Both Randy and Nomi looked down at Nomi's stomach.

"And food...I don't really need it like going to the bathroom. I can go almost an entire one hundred years without a bite to eat."

"When was the last time you ate exactly?"

"Err, 1920? Yes, somewhere along that time."

"What the juice Nomi! Yeah, no shit you're hungry! C'mon, maybe Mom's home so she can make you something to eat!"

In truth, Nomi hadn't eaten since 1816, but he felt it wasn’t important to bring it up. Nomi was, however, surprised by Randy's concern for him. After all, the past ninjas who he had revealed himself to simply shrugged it off and didn't seem to care after he said he didn't need food or any of the other necessities. That didn't seem to matter to Randy as he pulled off the ninja mask, placing it in the old gym bag along with the bottle of water.

Nomi was actually touched by Randy's kindness.

Randy grasped Nomi's hand as they took off in a brisk jog and in less than a couple minutes they arrived back at his home.

"Crud! If my mom sees you in your ninja suit she's going to ask about it. You think you can take it off?"

But of course Randy wasn’t perfect.

Nomi rolled his eyes. “Why didn't you tell me in the forest?"

"Err, brain fart?"

"I can tell."

Sighing, Nomi dug out his casual clothes from his bag in Randy's other hand before going into some bushes to change. Randy rubbed his neck and turned away. About a minute later, Nomi came out of the large green shrubs, sporting his casual clothing and his ninja clothing in his arm. Leaves and twigs were poking out of his now messy hair. Randy stifled a laugh.

"What?"

"Your hair...” Randy said in between laughs. “...dude...your hair..."

Nomi blinked. With his free arm, he felt his hair, realizing the mess that was now in his hair. He furrowed his brow and plucked them all out of his hair. He walked past Randy, who couldn’t stop laughing.

"Oh god...I'm sorry!...Haha! Okay, okay I'll stop...” Randy snickered loudly. He was trying very hard to stop laughing, but it took a minute to get himself together again. “Okay, now I'm done." Randy wiped at a stray tear as he let out a sigh before opening the door and letting Nomi in.

As fate would have it, Randy's mom wasn't home.

"Hehe, whoops." He gave Nomi a small nervous shrug. Nomi gave him a dark look before plopping down onto a chair by the counter. His stomach growled, reminding the two why they had left the woods in the first place. Randy looked through the wooden cabinets before pulling out two Mcfist's Cup-O-Noodles. Nomi raised a brow before remembering that Mcfist owned literally everything besides the city and the people themselves in Norrisville.

He watched with curiosity as Randy opened one cup and poured water in from the distilled water machine. When he was done, he opened the black microwave and placed the cup in the center, typed on the control pad three minutes, and closed it shut. Instantly, the microwave came to life and began cooking the noodles, rotating it. Nomi watched in silent awe, but was caught off by Randy.

"So uh, Nomi?"

The redhead blinked and turned to Randy, who was eyeing something on his cape. It was the green ninja head shaped relic.

"Yes?" He watched as he rubbed his finger over it. He would never tell Randy, but as he rubbed the relic, Nomi felt it was soothing and strange, very strange.

"What is that thing?" He was oblivious to his teacher's emotions, never taking his eyes off the relic.

"It's my life essence. It binds me to the book and my other belongings, so when I turn into my human form I come out wearing clothes."

Randy nearly dropped the said relic, but before he could reply back a ding was heard, interrupting their suddenly awkward conversation.

"Uh, your soup is ready." Randy pulled out the cup, which was hot. The smell of the cooked noodles filled their nostrils. He placed the cup in front of Nomi before grabbing a fork and handing it to him.

Randy quickly went to work on his own soup, putting it into the microwave.

"Oh, careful with the soup, Nomi. It’s really hot."

Nomi could sense that Randy was slightly uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything about it. "Thank you." He focused on the noodles, taking a hesitant bite, but soon finding that it was at least good and edible.

Silence. The two didn't say a word as Nomi silently ate his meal.

Ding!

The silence was over as the chime-like sound cut through the deep awkward silence. Randy walked over and pulled out his own noodles and began to eat it, not caring that it was burning his tongue. He paused and went to the fridge, pulling out some juice boxes, handing one to Nomi and one for himself before continuing to eat.

Nomi finally paused in his eating, swallowing before talking.

"You know, I understand why you were curious, and I apologize for not telling you in a more appropriate manner." His accent made his apology sound so formal.

"No, it’s fine."

The two looked at each other briefly before going into a fit of laughter. They were cut off by the familiar sound of the door knob jiggling slightly. Randy's mother stepped in, humming.

"Oh Randy, you won't believe it! I got promoted, and I got a raise! I'll be working less hours now too! I'm officially second-in-charge of Mcfist and Weinerman Industries! Isn't that great?" The tall woman opened her eyes and was surprised to see that Randy was not alone. "Oh, why hello again, Nomi! I think I'm going to have to make more cookies! Where's Howard, hon?"

"Uh he's at home. He got in trouble."

"Ah, I see. Heidi?"

"Yeah. And congrats on the promotion, Mom! That’s great!"

The woman smiled, blushing lightly. "Well, I don't mean to brag, but I'm just so happy! Now if you’ll excuse, me I have to finish some important paperwork. See you boys later!"

With that, she walked past them and darted into her room.

Once again they were left alone.

...

The night came and the two sat tiredly on the couch long after Randy convinced Nomi to go to the bathroom. I mean c'mon the guy holds his bathroom for up to a hundred years the poor guy probably needs to go.

"I'm going to call Howard to see if he's still alive. I haven't talked to him all day."

Nomi nodded as he turned his attention back to the TV. The movie was about zombies. Although Nomi thought it was a stupid idea for humans to come back to life after death, he still found the movie rather intriguing. Well, at least the characters were. Back then the tough, buff males were usually the heroes, and yet here was this movie. The hero was a scrawny male, and then there was this rather feisty female, and they were both fine on their own. They were looking for survivors, forming a large group, or family as they called it, thriving despite their slim chances of survival.

Nomi couldn't help but smile. “That's how life should be. That’s how it should always be.”

While Nomi continued to watch the movie, Randy chatted with Howard on the phone.

"So, Heidi didn't tell on you then?"

"Yeah. She said if I helped her with her stupid online show then she wouldn't say a word."

"What did she make you do exactly?"

Howard grumbled.

"I'm sorry, what?"

More grumbling.

"What?"

Another series of grumbles.

"Howard, c'mon dude, I can't—"

"I SAID SHE MADE ME WEAR A STUPID DIAPER FOR HER PARENTAL SEGMENT! GEEZ!"

By then, Randy had burst into laughter, dropping his phone before picking it back up. "Haha, okay. So can you come over, dude?"

Howard grumbled. "Yes. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Randy grinned. "Alright. Don't forget to change your diaper—"

"CUNNINGHAM!"

Randy burst into another fit of laughter as he hung up on Howard, who was yelling a loud string of swears. Nomi turned to him, having heard only fragments of the conversation.

"May I ask what is so funny?"

Randy finally calmed down enough to tell him. "Heh, Howard's sister made him wear a diaper on her online show."

"Oh, you mean that hideous creature you two call a girl?"

"Yep." Randy didn't even bother to hide the grin on his face.

After about ten minutes, Howard came in without even bothering to knock, startling the two and causing Nomi to nearly karate chop him in half. After a heated argument between Nomi and Howard, they finally sat back down onto the couch and enjoyed the rest of the movie.

"So, the book told me you got pwned in training," said Howard.

"I didn't get pwned!" Randy shot a glare at the redhead, who gave him an innocent look. "When did he tell you this!?"

"When you were in the bathroom. Dude, it took you an hour and a half to punch him? And two hours just to poke him with a stick? While he was blindfolded!"

"Hey, you try it and you tell me if it's easy!" Randy slumped in between the two with a pout on his face.

The night had carried on and soon the movie was over. Howard left, leaving Randy and Nomi asleep on the couch.

At around ten, Randy’s mother came in the living room to wake up the boys and to tell them to go to bed. They quietly obliged.

….

It was night again. That meant tomorrow they would be going to school.

It would be Nomi's first day of school in over eight hundred years.

Nomi sighed, staring at the ceiling. He was only a little uneasy. He knew school had changed a lot since the last time he went to one. But how much different could it be? He basically knew everything they were teaching in the school, since when he had nothing better to do, he snuck into libraries of the school and the school itself to read as many of the subjects as he could. School definitely wasn’t going to be that hard.

Nomi looked over the sleeping figure of Randy.

Nomi didn't need sleep. He could go weeks without it. Yet as he watched Randy sleep, he couldn’t help but think that it looked almost fun to sleep, or something.

Nomi felt an odd ache in his heart. Most of the time his situation just didn’t hit him. He had been so busy being the Nomicon, being the teacher of several teenage ninjas, and nothing more, that he was too busy to even think about his life.

Sometimes Nomi wished he could have everything back. His family, his friends, his home, just everything. At times like these, Nomi wished he wasn't the Nomicon. He wished he was his normal self again, Nomi Conikos Norisu, the middle child of the famous Norisu Nine. With his five other siblings, Mei the little butterfly, his youngest sister, Ming, his clever also his youngest brother, they were the troublesome twins as his family would say. His brother Naru, who was a year younger than him, was bold and was his best friend, sister Yui, who was one year older than him, was the caring and motherly one of them all, and his eldest brother Daiku, the brave warrior and the more loved and respected of his siblings.

“And I the pathetic excuse of a brother, ninja, and Norisu.”

He recalled the events that had destroyed his family. He had been arguing with his grandparents a lot before the fire. Their parents had died, making them the Norisu seven.

Daiki had argued that Nomi wasn't fit to be a true ninja. He claimed that he was too immature, lazy, stupid...the list went on.

The scene became even clearer to Nomi. His brother, who looked like an older version of him, with the exception of his ponytail and golden eyes, arguing with their grandfather, and him tearing up and running off. Then there was the fire that had engulfed the entire village. The one that had wiped out his entire family. There was also his struggle to find the ninja suit and the original Nomicon. Then he had found his grandfather, dying, his last words a request to defeat the Sorcerer and to not put on the Ninja suit and to instead keep on the one he had on.

Back then he had not known why, but now he understood.

After the whole battle and becoming immortalized (and kept alive because his family gave a piece of their soul to bind him together), he had tried to search for his family until he was told by the surviving villagers that they had all perished.

He had made it his mission to find a ninja to defend the new village, which later became what it is now.

Norrisville.

Nomi blinked away the tears and soon realized it was early morning. He sat up. He was covered in a thin layer of sweat. He got up, putting away his blankets, pillow and mattress back where they belonged before going to the bathroom to shower. Randy had showed him how it worked, since he wasn't all too familiar with the modern method of bathing. He stripped himself of the pair of shorts and boxers before stepping into the shower. Instantly, the warm water made him feel refreshed.

When he was done showering, he realized he hadn't grabbed his clothes for the day. Nomi stepped into Randy’s room.

The day before, Randy had washed his clothes for him in the washing machine and had left them neatly folded by his dresser. Nomi felt slightly self conscious, walking around in Randy’s room naked. At least he had thought to grab a towel so he had something to cover himself with.

The purple-haired teen was still asleep. Nomi eyed the alarm clock next to the computer. It read 6:59 AM.

"Oh shit."

#Enter the Nomicon #ETN #Chapter 3 #story repost

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lifeonashelf · 3 years

Text

COLDPLAY

Let’s get this straight right off the bat: Coldplay is fucking terrible.

We all know this. Designating Coldplay as terrible isn’t a statement of personal opinion, it is an easily demonstrable fact. Just listen to them; Coldplay’s music proves the existence of Coldplay’s terribleness the same way that breathing proves the existence of oxygen. Surely, even the band’s staunchest supporters understand that their songs are pretentious, monotonous, and unimaginative—they’d kind of have to; I assume these people have listened to Coldplay, too. If you like music as superfluous as Coldplay’s, that’s totally fine. I’m not here to tell you that you shouldn’t, nor to convince you to stop listening to Coldplay (you can’t stop listening to them, anyway; no matter how hard you try to escape, wherever you go, Coldplay will find you). But they are unequivocally fucking awful, and I need to make that clear before we continue in case I end up saying anything courteous about them later. And, who knows? I may indeed find something positive to say about Coldplay—I mean, nothing comes to mind right now, but it’s going to take me a few hours to write this piece so it’s possible something will at some point.

Okay, so we’re all clear on Coldplay being fucking terrible, right? Great. But that isn’t the main reason I hate them. I appreciate plenty of terrible bands just as I appreciate plenty of terrible movies. Listening to a really shitty group is sort of like watching a cast of really shitty actors—though they clearly suck at what they do, there’s something oddly appealing about the charming naiveté they demonstrate by giving it the best go they can anyway.

For instance, since I was still filing most of my Warped Tour emo discs in my punk section when I began this venture, I never got around to writing about a band called Adair. If you’re not familiar with them, don’t worry about it; they only existed for a few years in the mid-aughts and their diminutive discography merely consists of a self-released EP and one full-length album, The Destruction Of Everything Is The Beginning Of Something New. Sonically, Adair were so amusingly prototypical of every baby t-shirt screamo band that was thriving at the time, they essentially sounded like they were parodying the style of music they played (although, to be fair, a lot of those squads did). But, Adair were absolutely serious, regardless of what stridently nasal heights the vocals reached, regardless of how faithfully their compositions adhered to their genre’s textbook page by page, and regardless of the sublimely ridiculous realms some of their allegorical angst lamentations ventured into (the line “lock me up in Guantanamo Bay and throw away the key” from the song “I Buried My Heart In Cosmo Park” may very well be the lyrical apex of their entire genus).

Adair’s music is so inane that it makes me laugh out loud when I sing along to it—but here’s the thing: I do sing along to it. I have probably played The Destruction Of Everything Is The Beginning Of Something New a hundred times from start to finish since my copy was sent to me to review for some website back in 2006, and I have cued up individual high(low?)points like “The Diamond Ring” and “Folding and Unfolding” even more times than that. As silly as they sound—and trust me, they sound very fucking silly—I still sincerely enjoy their tunes and have spent enough hours listening to TDOEITBOSN for it to possibly qualify as one of my favorite records ever. Shit, even writing about it right now makes me feel like hearing the disc, so I’ll probably end up blasting it in my truck tomorrow (ed. note: I actually did). If they ever decided to do a reunion tour, I would absolutely go see them, and if vocalist Rob Tweedie did that whole “hold the microphone out toward the crowd so they can finish the lyric” thing which every frontman in every band that sounds like Adair does at least a dozen times per show, I would totally be able to fill in each of those blanks and enthusiastically do so.

Sorry, we were talking about Coldplay. To recap, they’re fucking terrible.

Unlike a frivolous whimper-core ensemble like Adair, the most off-putting thing about Coldplay isn’t their music. They’ve actually managed to excrete a few tracks that I grudgingly enjoy over the years. However, sporadically releasing songs which don’t sound like they were specifically written for Gap commercials actually works against Coldplay in this instance. Sure, most of their output is noxious twaddle, but since they occasionally come across as a marginally decent band, their work isn’t awful enough to at least ironically appreciate it for being awful.

In fact, there’s absolutely nothing ironic about Coldplay—other than U2 and Radiohead (more on them in a minute), I can’t think of another band that seems to take itself as dreadfully seriously as Coldplay does. There isn’t a single lighthearted number in their entire catalog, and the demeanor of their music is so staid and cheerless that it’s hard to imagine the dudes ever cracking a smile while they’re making it. Their approach to songwriting is rigidly Pavlovian—when the music gets louder, ring ring ring, that signals the listener the *really* poignant part of the tune has arrived and cues them to emotionally salivate in kind—yet despite their calculated use of sonic dynamics to manufacture sentiment, the vapid and unspontaneous nature of the delivery saps their tunes of anything resembling genuine soul or passion. Even when thrusting through the more energetic tracks in their litany, the musicians in Coldplay always sound like they’re actively striving to not play their instruments too hard. The result is that they consistently deliver some of the safest and least edgy rock ever created, shaping their ethos around a formula so willfully tepid and cuddly that they barely qualify as a rock band at all. Coldplay aren’t quite the musical equivalent of plain yogurt (that would be Jack Johnson, an artist so comprehensively flavorless that even his name is fucking boring) but the granola in their mixture is always judiciously distributed so as not to agitate anyone’s tastebuds.

And at the center of this slow-motion kaleidoscope, you have Chris fucking Martin (I find it difficult to cite his name without including the “fucking” in there; he’s just one of those guys—like Jason fucking Mraz, Blake fucking Shelton, or fucking Bono). Coldplay’s music may be stagnant, but you’d never know it from beholding the practiced arsenal of slinky paroxysms their vocalist bursts into while that music is playing. In performance and in their videos, Martin’s appendages are incessantly in motion, his hands ever-swaying gently through the air like he’s waving a pair of invisible cigarette lighters or finger painting on the goddamn sky, ostensibly so deeply lost in his band’s reverie of sound that he simply can’t help himself from moving his body in a cadenced pantomime of the way their music is meant to superficially move your spirit.

For the three non-ballads the group has written in their career, Chris usually switches things up by crouching in an incongruous bobbing panther-stance like a battle rapper delivering a diss track about fucking his opponent’s mama in the mouth, until it’s time to freeze in the tried and true messiah-statue pose as the number’s final notes chime into the ether. But it is in the quiet moments when Martin truly shines—which makes perfect sense given that he’s the leader of a group so systematically anodyne they probably should have actually named themselves Quiet Moments. These are the obligatory interims where the frontman takes the stage on his own to sit down at the piano, resplendent in the spotlight, and perform an intimate solo rendition of one of his most tender hits to show everyone in the audience that Chris fucking Martin is a bonafide fucking musician who, if he really felt like it, could totally do the whole Coldplay thing without the other three dudes whose names no one knows. His soaring falsetto croon is custom-feigned for the arenas the band was destined to coldplay from the moment they dropped their breakthrough single “Yellow” and caused a nation of book-sensitive sociology majors eagerly anticipating the arrival of their generation’s U2 to cream their Dockers in unison. When Martin opens his pipes to summon those indelibly contrived choruses about birds and stars and other monosyllabic nouns, it hardly even matters what words he’s singing—the leitmotifs in most of the tunes are basically interchangeable anyway. What matters is that Chris sounds like he really, really, really means it when he says he will try to fix you.

That analysis probably makes it seem like I hate Chris fucking Martin as much as I hate his band. I actually don’t—he’s too benign a character to elicit such a fervid response; hating Chris Martin is like hating turtleneck sweaters, or actual turtles. In fact, I suspect he’s probably a really nice dude. At least, I’ve never heard any creepy stories about him showing his penis to under-aged fans on Skype or anything like that.

Regardless, while I don’t specifically despise either Martin, Dude Who Plays Guitar, or the other two anonymous members of Coldplay, I do gauge their collective as the fourth or fifth worst band of all time. And the reason I loathe them more than any of their neighbors on that list is because they aren’t the kind of prodigiously abysmal group you can just ignore until their moment in the spotlight inevitably passes—which is how I dealt with Five For Fighting from September 2001 through February 2002 and how I’ve been dealing with Twenty-One Pilots for the last four years (seriously, are you fuckers done yet?). Coldplay is a far cagier nuisance because they are massively popular and have been for a ludicrously long time. I’ve been patiently waiting for them to go away for two decades now, yet they continue to pop up every third summer or so to drop a new album and remind us that, yes, they’re still here assiduously mining the middle of the road for new ways to write more tunes about clouds being pretty.

Even worse, I can’t disregard their music because it’s everywhere. I hear “The Scientist” while I’m shopping for cereal at the grocery store, I hear “Talk” when I sit down to eat at any chain restaurant, and I imagine I’ll be viewing that idiotic video for “Adventure of a Lifetime” with the posse of animated dancing monkeys on an infinite Clockwork-Orange-eyes-gaping loop for the rest of eternity when my mortal essence exits this world and I am cast into the fiery pits of Hell. I can’t even watch football without encountering Coldplay, as I discovered with horror in 2016 when they took part in the most fatuous jumbled fucking mess of a Super Bowl halftime show the NFL had ever presented (a zenith of suckery which seemed impossible to eclipse until this past February, when Adam Levine showed up covered with prison tattoos and said, “hold my beer”).

The pervasive level of esteem Coldplay has reached dumbfounds me. This is a group that has sold millions and millions of albums worldwide, even though I have never once heard a single person utter the phrase, “man, that new Coldplay song kicks ass.” I’m sure their most dedicated fans have favorite hits, tracks that are significant to them in some way, etc. But their remarkable success is patently disproportionate to how patently unremarkable the work which garnered that success really is. Nobody ever describes the band’s music as “awesome”, just as nobody ever describes a glass of pinot gris as awesome—the term simply does not apply to their province; actually, in this case, describing the mouthfeel of Coldplay tunes and recommending cheeses they best pair with is probably more relevant than discussing how they sound. Coldplay is as universally popular as they are precisely because they aren’t awesome. They’re not beloved because they’re extraordinary; most people love them because they’re innocuous, functional, and suitable for almost any occasion—Coldplay is akin to a pair of cargo shorts, and no one thinks cargo shorts kick ass. Coldplay isn’t an alternative band (on the contrary, almost every good band is an alternative to Coldplay); they are a lowest common denominator band, undemanding and ubiquitous and safe to like because everyone else likes them. Their work is specifically geared toward people who think appreciating music demonstrates sophistication, but don’t ultimately give enough of a shit about the artform to put any effort into finding music that is actually sophisticated or appreciable. You may assume Coldplay is erudite because they’re British and they cite books you’ve never read when discussing the lyrical themes in their work, but they’re merely recycling the same emotional territory as every other pop act that writes tunes about finding love, losing love, missing love, and the 18th Century French peasantry.

The best thing about being a Coldplay fan is that it’s easy. You don’t have to buy their records, go see them live, or make any concerted effort at all to receive their music. If you listen to the radio for any extended period of time (or eat at an Applebee’s), you will eventually hear one of their songs; all you have to do is not hate it and, voila, you’re officially a Coldplay fan. There, don’t you just love the security of venerating a critically and commercially acclaimed band that will never challenge you or be unpopular?

Okay, I do strive to be fair—even in this arena where I can say whatever I want and no one can argue with me. I gave this a lot of thought, so here are four things about Coldplay that are not terrible:

1) “Clocks”: I resisted it for many years, but I finally had to concede that it’s kind of a pretty song. Notes of red currant and blackberries, and it goes superbly with a nice aged brie.

2) “God Put A Smile On Your Face”: It doesn’t put a smile on mine, but that’s why I enjoy it. Most Coldplay songs sound like they’re aiming to evoke what being hugged by a koala bear feels like, so I appreciate Chris fucking Martin delivering a darker number that seems intent on making me feel depressed instead. Well played, sir.

3) Viva La Vida, Or Death And All His Friends: I sincerely respect their effort to broaden their palate a bit by working with Brian Eno and making Dude Who Plays Guitar buy a distortion pedal to use on one song. This is still an archetypal shitty Coldplay record, but at least it sounds a little different than all of the other archetypal shitty Coldplay records.

4) Nah. They’re still fucking terrible; they were lucky to get three things.

There is one additional facet of the group’s career which has fascinated me over these past several years, even though it relates more to bands that are not Coldplay rather than the band that is Coldplay. Earlier I dubbed them the U2 of their generation, and recent events in particular have coalesced to underscore that comparison. See, when Coldplay came out, the tributes to their Irish brethren in choreographed affectation were far from subtle. Chris fucking Martin’s warbling was plainly modeled after fucking Bono’s, Dude Who Plays Guitar served up an endless cycle of repetitive but hooky high-register licks that were striking similar to the distinctive methodology of The Edge, and both bands’ workmanlike rhythm sections held things down with competent yet discreet backing tracks which militantly fulfilled each song’s basic requirements rather than showcasing the musicians’ dexterity. I don’t think anyone ever disputed the collective homage in Coldplay’s dogma, and no one was terribly bothered by it either; at the time there were a lot of people craving a band that sounded just like U2, because U2 didn’t sound like U2 anymore.

When Coldplay’s debut album Parachutes was released in July 2000, fucking Bono and company’s career was on a downward arc after they largely vacated their signature approach to instead craft a couple poorly-received discs dominated by insipid rave-lite tunes that not even the members of U2 listen to anymore. Though they would temporarily rebound later that year with “Beautiful Day”, the last honestly excellent song they would ever record, U2 had left a gap that needed filling. And the most obvious inheritors of their kingdom, Radiohead, had grown tired of anthemic guitar rock; they were hunkered down creating their demanding but exceptional opus Kid A, which sounded nothing like U2, nothing like Radiohead, and indeed nothing like any other music being made on planet Earth. Kid A still had some anthems, still had some guitar, and still had a little rock, but its oblique delivery clearly demonstrated that Radiohead was chasing a far different muse and had little interest in claiming the crown (of course, this would be abundantly clarified in hindsight when they subsequently slid further down their rabbit-hole, gradually abandoning the anthems and guitars and rock altogether, until finally settling upon their current songwriting formula, which seems to mostly involve Thom Yorke masturbating on his laptop, naming ten of his climaxes, and calling it an album).

So while U2 were busy trying to figure out why they weren’t relevant anymore and Radiohead were busy doing whatever the fuck they were doing, the lads in Coldplay stepped up and said, hey, why not us? They seized the ersatz-earnest arena rock mantle with A Rush Of Blood To The Head and never looked back. Now, 17 years and seven multi-platinum albums later, they can ruin the Super Bowl, collaborate with the Chainsmokers, and even make the same kind of lameass dance music that essentially buried U2’s career with impunity. Even more significant, they have come full circle. A group that started out playing second-rate U2 facsimiles under the moniker Pectoralz (this is absolutely true, by the way) is now one of the hugest pop institutions in the universe, beloved by millions of music and wine connoisseurs across the globe. And the student has eclipsed the teacher; U2’s desperate efforts to play catchup have made their modern work sound unmistakably like second-rate Coldplay facsimiles. Chris fucking Martin and those other three guys are no longer pretenders to the throne—they are Coldplay, and this is their empire now, bitches.

These days, U2 has to reprise their old records in their entirety on nostalgia tours to get anyone to come to their concerts, and Radiohead continues to release unlistenable albums which their fans claim to love while sheepishly casting them aside to listen to OK Computer for the thousandth time instead. But Coldplay has strategically situated themselves for an eternity as the undisputed emperors of rock mediocrity. I think they’ve got another two decades in them, too; I have no doubt that long after Twenty-One Pilots is (finally) relegated to the county fair circuit where they belong, Chris fucking Martin will still be promising sold-out crowds that lights will lead them home and having a series of polite, gently-articulated seizures while he sings “Speed Of Sound”.

It seems I respect Coldplay a little more than I suspected. You know what? I’m going to amend my original valuation right here and now. As of this moment, I am formally designating Coldplay the sixth worst band of all time.

Your move, Godsmack.

May 15, 2019

2 notes · View notes

sfiddy · 4 years

Text

So Bad

For @academialynx , who made a donation to her local food bank in return for a fic! This is a college AU, moderately prof/student (though the theme is that they DON’T break the rules) boatloads of yearning, and janky building maintenance that leads to getting locked in a closet. She asked me to consider the Brandon Colbein song So Bad. Which I did. :)

Thank you, Dear! Here we go!

Rated T

On AO3

On FF

On Tumblr! (keep reading!)

Another champagne cork popped and a delighted cheer spread through the room. Glasses, plastic cups, and hastily drained coffee mugs were refreshed and the party carried on. Theirs was not a large music department, so to have attracted a fresh, exciting, multi-talented composition and collaborative piano specialist with a few international awards, one ‘early career’ grant and another from the National Endowment for the Arts meant their modest program was about to gain a little fresh clout at interdepartmental tenured faculty meetings.

“Congratulations again, Erik!” Dr. Nadir Khan hauled Erik into a vigorous handshake and pumped for a full three seconds.

Erik winced. He’d be hamfisting the keys tomorrow if they kept this up. “Thank you, Dean Khan. It’s an honor to join as a full professor.”

“I am Nadir to you, and don’t forget it.” Nadir refilled Erik’s plastic cup and tapped his department coffee mug against it, sloshing their champagne into frothy heads. “It’s hard to believe it’s been five years, Erik! You cost me a bet, I’ll have you know. I didn’t think you’d stay after you had to teach that semester of History of Rock and Roll for non-majors.”

The lantern-jawed oboe professor laughed. “Or the infamous Intro to Music Theory.”

“No, no,” disagreed Umbaldo Piangi, the portly voice teacher. “When I went on sabbatical to Teatro La Fenice and you gave him The Chamber Music Outreach Project and graduate tutoring. No warning!” Even the big man’s clucking tongue was musical. “But, Piangi is back, no? I will cut back my performance hours and take back all the lessons and weekends and let Dr. Erik Devereaux return to his writing!”

“Actually,” Erik said, and the room stilled. “The only part I disliked was the public part. I never minded the private instruction. If you would like to split the load, I’m happy to keep the instructional portion while you handle the tours, performances, and...outreach?” He suppressed the grimace well enough.

Piangi, Italian down to his fine shoes, let out a whoop and grabbed Erik in a hug so tight it pressed his ribcage and nearly dislodged his delicate porcelain mask from it’s fine wire and leather fittings.

“Ah, my partner now! I will call donors and show off the little tweeting songbirds with my lovely Carlotta while you teach them not to call for worms! A toast!” Piangi held up his plastic cup once again.

Erik accepted a toast that crackled the edge of his plastic cup and hoped for something new and shiny to distract them. Or for the lights to suddenly flicker and fail as they were prone to do, along with randomly closing doors in the terribly laid out office and work spaces. The college had access to talent pipelines that the underfunded and neglected department had not been able to tap. Their aggressive recruitment of him was a last ditch effort for change before the tiny group was relegated to a four piece for the university reagent’s cocktail brunch and a marching band for the far-better funded football team.

“To Dr. Devereaux!”

With a conspiratorial grin, Erik drained his cup and winked at Piangi. “To the songbirds.”

…

Tenure in hand, Erik started his campaign. Once he ditched the worst teaching credits to lecturers and adjuncts, he could focus on recruiting. Specifically, to score a few respected but not-yet-headliner talents. Emerging performers without a good gig had few options and the status and modest stipend to be a ‘visiting artist’ might be more attractive than the floating gulag of a cruise ship.

A few excellent but relatively unknown performers could teach and perform, receive some finishing, and get quickly farmed out into the world. The reputation-building move would be pricey, but no one gets paid dividends before investing.

His development grant would cover three such artists. He got more than fifty applications. Erik rubbed his eyes under the mask. It was a good thing he never had plans-- it would be a long weekend.

…

The old music labs building had settled over the years and gained what the senior faculty referred to as ‘personality’. Erik took this to mean ‘genially hazardous’. No amount of facility requests or complaints brought the doors and keys division to do maintenance.

He was a quick learner though, and only got locked in his workroom twice before catching the door with his foot became second nature. He even set a flaking brick, plucked from a neglected flower bed outside, in the corner by the door and kicked it against the frame as a doorstop. Every time he came to his workroom, a narrow converted closet with a work bench and packed with shelves of manuscripts, music, errant repair kits and recording equipment, he would hit the outside light switch, unlock the door, step in, catch the door, then kick the brick.

Switch, step, catch, kick. His shoes were gaining new wear marks.

After kicking the brick into place, Erik opened his laptop and went over the last files. He’d asked the department admins to strip out the audio files to just the audition pieces and remove identifying details from the fifty applications. If he was going to invite talent, their first hurdle would be their musicianship. Once he’d culled the herd to ten, he’d submitted his picks to the dean to select the three finalists. Now they needed invitations. Two vocalists and a classical guitarist made the cut and he spent the next few hours getting more acquainted with their files and ignoring the pings of his filling inbox.

At least it was just his inbox. No one came to the music labs and his closet if they could help it.

If he was honest, no one came to meet him in person if they could help it.

…

Most performers were beautiful. Entire websites and product lines were devoted to skincare for singers, makeup tutorials, look books and wardrobe consulting. Erik’s particular variety of deformity would stand out in any circumstances, but in an entire department stuffed with the striking, stunning, and unconventionally glorious, he bordered on eyesore. Even Piangi could command a room with his generous, rosy smiles and booming laugh.

The mask was the best combination of memorable and functional he could muster. Yes, surgery was an option but who signed up for years of unnecessary pain and the risk of infection? He had better things to do.

Like meet with his new visiting artists.

The classical guitarist had supple wrists and forearms like Popeye. His rolled cuffs drew the eye to the action while his cleverly knotted scarf kept you looking at his face, framed by artfully mussed hair.

“We’re looking forward to your first concerts and hope you’ll consider collaborations with local programs.”

The baritone had a one in a million voice. How he hadn’t been snapped up for opera yet was a mystery but Erik supposed it was his poor presence. When you had the goods, you still had to sell them, and the young man’s love of neon, bad hair, and questionable repertoire (pin the tail on a Hal Leonard page) needed polish. His work was shockingly precise and sounded like he had a cathedral in his mouth.

“Our faculty and staff are a rich resource for young performers and are always eager to assist. We often work in parallel with the communications department and local professionals to prepare our artists for the culture and community as well as the stage.”

The soprano was the risk. The recording had been largely boilerplate and her prior experience thin. The reason she got in was a one-point-two second pause in her audition tape. It was the silence that told Erik she had chops.

Imagine, a soprano unafraid of silence. It had been late in the weekend when he selected her and had not yet been able to examine the head shot.

“I… um...”

“Yes, Dr. Devereaux?”

“Welcome, Miss Daaé.”

…

The visiting artists would survey classes, provide demonstrations and guest lectures, and appear at university events, auditions, and generally get the word out that the department was shifting to a growth phase. That was the official description. Unofficially, there would be a mountain of effort to make each emerging artist a shot on goal for the department. Recording deals, major and paid appearances, and successful auditions all counted toward the tally.

Guitar was not Erik’s forte, and as much as he could contribute to the baritone’s look and polish, Erik had cultivated a far more… refined profile than the young man aspired to. Erik maintained collars sharp enough to cut bread and a spotless sheen on his porcelain mask. Right now, Dean Khan aspired to cut the young man’s mullet tail off.

“Excellent, Miss Daaé, right on time.” Erik slid the fall board up and they prepared to work. She understood how to modulate her tone, how to select the emotional pitch to match the song, to contrast with it for effect. She explored her range and willingly failed to find her borders. It all made for an excellent student.

It was the quiet that made her breathtaking. The anticipation of her. Tenths of seconds that tightened the chest and made a quiver run through the blood. Not often, only when it mattered, and only when it would matter enough to do so.

When he could stand it no more, he asked her about it.

“I’m sorry, I can try to stop.”

“I didn’t ask you to stop, I asked when you started doing it.”

She considered him, her ribbons of curling hair twisting as she shifted. “When my father was sick. I could feel the need for silences because he couldn’t talk anymore. It just felt… right.”

Erik nodded. “Again.”

…

She’d been a late bloomer. A ghost on the scene and at least five years older than the rest of the sopranos at her stage. It also meant she hadn’t spent her entire high school and college career belting Broadway in the recital rooms, building nodes on her vocal chords.

They finished late one night and he walked her to her car. “So what did you do for practice?”

She pinked under the parking lot lights. “I, um… waited tables at an Italian restaurant. You know, where your server might sing opera when they bring you breadsticks?”

Erik nodded. “Parmesan and Puccini?”

Bless her, she giggled. “Bellinis and Bellini. A few really knew when they were hearing but most just wanted to hear Nessun Dorma because they heard it on Youtube. I managed to get a few singing jobs out of it but I mostly just waited tables.” They stopped at her car but she hadn’t reached for her keys yet. “I was a bartender and the second understudy for a Gilbert and Sullivan society when I saw your announcement.”

“Their loss,” Erik said. He left off the second half.

“Thanks.” Christine hesitated. “I didn’t expect to be accepted, so… thanks.”

Something changed in the breeze. Something cool and soft in the night air mixed with the gold light pouring down from the lights. It highlighted the curls that spiralled out of control around her neck as she tilted her head just so.

It was just a moment, a funny thump that ricocheted in his chest at her upturned face, her soft smile. Maybe her eyes flicked down, maybe her sharp inhale had a little catch in it. Maybe it was the way her lip twitched, but a red flag suddenly waved in Erik’s head and he stepped back carefully. He had a powerful fear of heat and burns.

“Yes, of course. The, uh, department was very happy to offer the opportunity.”

She blinked. “Of course. Well, thanks for the great session and walking me to my car. Have a nice evening, Erik.”

Christine drove away and Erik stood in the parking lot for some minutes after her taillights had faded. He imagined it. Surely, he’d taken a friendly conversation the wrong way. She wasn’t his student, strictly speaking, but he had influence over her career, which would be just as bad.

Besides, he had completely misread the whole thing. Surely. Women didn’t look up at him like that-- like he would kiss them. After a walk after dark, telling him about themselves, and looking at him like that.

No one looked at him like... that.

Oh no.

…

She wasn’t strictly his student. He was her mentor. Even a brief thought made it obvious and completely inappropriate. Did she think it would improve her opportunities?

Erik swallowed. No, if that was the game she wouldn’t have backed off. Surely he’d misread the situation.

…

They brewed tea together. She remembered his favorite oolong.

…

He saw a cascade of curling hair on his way to the post office and his heart leapt.

It wasn’t her. The disappointment was too confusing to examine.

…

His mouth went dry when her sweater slipped from her shoulder. Then he knocked the music from the stand.

She smiled and helped him pick up the sheets.

There were freckles on her shoulder.

...

Five months into the visiting artist tour and Piangi had the concert hall packed for their first performances. Franco the guitarist, who preferred just the one name, would play a twenty minute set, followed by the baritone Burton Armstrong, as baritoney a name as Erik had ever heard, then Christine, and finally Franco would play again with accompaniment.

Erik was content to stay in a tiny box seat far to the side as Piangi introduced each performer. Franco had gained the stage he deserved, and Burton had been convinced to get a proper haircut and suit, and sang a particularly impressive Russian ballad set.

Christine was introduced and settled onto the stage. She was radiant in dark blue, and decorated her baroque set with agility. From his perch, Erik could as easily imagine her distributing bellinis as gracing an opera stage. It was not an insult. After her short set, she nodded and was joined by Burton. A duet?

She looked up and found him, up in his perch. She nodded, and the two launched into a series of excerpts from Semele, Handel’s somewhat neglected tale of a torrid affair between a mortal woman and the god, Jupiter.

Their gazes met as she sang.

O Jove! In pity teach me which to choose,

Incline me to comply, or help me to refuse!

The baritone thundered.

Too well I read her meaning,

But must not understand her.

If Erik’s ears heard the rest of the concert, he could not recall it later.

…

Dean Khan adjourned the faculty meeting. “Oh Erik, if you have a moment?”

They waited until the room was cleared and Nadir closed the door, then casually looked over the remaining pastries. “Excellent concert last month. The work with Burton is certainly paying off.”

Erik leaned against the table. “His socks were bright green, but we felt it was a workable compromise.”

“Franco is excellent in front of the crowd. Has he met the flamenco dancers yet?”

“I put in a call. I think he’s going to their weekly meeting next Thursday.”

“Marvelous. Let me know how that goes when you hear, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Erik felt his chest tighten the longer Nadir perused the snacks and chose to tear off the bandage himself. “Anything else?”

“There is, in fact,” Nadir did not look up from the muffins. “Christine’s performance was exceptional. Truly filled with passion.”

Erik tried to take a sip of coffee but his cup was empty. He faked it. “She’s a wonderful artist.”

“Yes. I couldn’t help but notice--” Nadir paused over the croissants, then passed them over to examine the cookies. “You two seem to have a unique and strong mentor-trainee relationship.”

“Thank you.” It had not been a question. There was nothing here… yet. “We work well together.”

“I’m glad to hear that. The program you’ve created is admirable for it’s transparency and integrity.”

“I agree. Thank you for noticing.”

Nadir looked up with a slight nod, then selected a macadamia cookie. “I’m sure the remaining six months will fly by, Erik.”

He had no idea how to respond.

...

Six months. There were six months left in the visiting artist term. There were more sessions, a mini tour, and a series of small concerts meant to showcase the new talent the department had ‘produced’.

Six months of lies, pretending he was misunderstanding something. Pretending he didn’t notice the way she was at his side and on his mind. Then she would leave him to the dull, overworked life he’d made for himself in the hopes of making a name for himself while simultaneously avoiding attention. More lies, but easier to swallow.

Her voice came from the hallway. “Erik? I’m heating up some water, would you like tea?”

“Is it the one you brought?”

A light laugh. Sparkling. “Of course.”

He dropped his work and grabbed his cup. “Be right there.”

…

A very successful fundraiser was wrapping up on the top floor of the performing arts center. It had a view over the campus, the nice side, and the glow of downtown caught the streaking rain on the tall glass walls.

The donors had been generous, delighted with the new features of the program and the willingness to be accessible. Erik stayed to the side, avoiding the center of the room where Piangi and his wife Carlotta took up residence. Nadir circulated the room, nudging him out from time to time for a refill and to participate. When forced to do so, Erik sloshed some middling red wine into his glass and let himself slip into Christine’s gravity for a few minutes before drifting away again.

He could feel her gaze.

The cocktail party was to end at eleven-thirty, and by then nearly all the guests had left. The last ones were rushed out and Piangi hurried to the bar.

“Open season!”

A quick crush to the bar and every open bottle was ‘liberated’ to the long-suffering exhibits. Christine topped off her glass and passed the bottle to a fellow soprano, hardly twenty years old, and the two laughed and kicked off their heels. Piangi and Burton laughed over an earlier flub and the cello player, finally able to pack his instrument and relax, demanded and received a full glass.

Erik tipped back a hearty, warm swallow and emerged from the hinterlands.

“Oh, hi Dr. Devereaux! Did you just get here?” teased Carlotta. “Your legend only grows the more you hide.”

“All part of my devious plan,” he conceded. Christine’s giggle mingled with the laughs of her peers. “If you’ll excuse me. Piangi, brilliant as always.”

“Same to you, Erik! We plan many parties now, no?”

Easing his way towards the mirth, Erik relaxed. There were plenty of others around, and this was just the after party to a long dog and pony show. Listen to the pretty songbirds and throw money at the program, invitation only. They all deserved drinks after three hours of that.

Christine was plucking a pin from her hair. She shook the curls loose. “Hi Erik! God, I’m so glad to see you.”

“Oh?”

She held up a bottle. “Yeah, you need a refill.”

It had been a long night. These events could be tricky to navigate. Sometimes there was politics, other times business rivals. More often, donors expected special privilege and access in exchange for their checks, as if the last hundred years of progress meant nothing. The way a few of them had looked at Erik, maybe it didn’t.

He let her pour some white wine over the dregs of his red. Improvised rosé. “Everything go okay?”

“Good enough. I think I have some auditions, and some stuff nearby might open up for me.”

“That’s great. Who with?”

A nice chorus. A solid baroque group. Both could springboard to bigger things. A few bigger things were here.

“What’s bigger?” She asked, her eyes dark and soft.

He had not meant to speak, and now he rushed his words. “Things! Choirs, operas. There’s a few small opera troupes and there’s churches that need choral directors that know how to work with organ and piano.”

She sniggered. “Organs.” The other soprano dissolved into giggles.

Erik pulled out his phone. Clearly neither was driving tonight. He absently tallied up his glasses and admitted he wasn’t either.

“Do you play the organ, Erik?”

“Yes.”

Christine stepped closer and, on pure instinct, Erik put his arm around her as she turned her head to speak.

“Can I watch?”

His collar was tight. He pulled up the app and ordered a car.

They ran through the rain, more than sprinkled, less than soaked. Plenty wet to shiver from the chill of the driver’s exuberant air conditioning, though. Between giggles and poorly composed directions, they dropped off the other soprano who wobbled successfully to her door before their driver sped away. Christine did not shift away to the other seat, but leaned into him, tucking herself against his side.

The driver glanced in the rear view mirror, then looked away.

She was cool and smooth. Her loosened curls had tightened from the wet and tickled his neck and brushed against his mask.

Her hand on his thigh. Erik said nothing. If he was silent there was a kind of deniability, or denial at least, of what was happening. If he could deny that her fingernails caught on the inner seam of his trousers, then she could deny that his hand was firmly planted at her waist, holding her close.

And if she could deny that, then she could also deny that her nose bumped his chin, her ragged breath loud in his ears. And they could both deny that their lips grazed, a not-kiss somehow more intimate than if their lips moved and pulled at each other. Like her singing, it was the pause that made your breath catch and your insides tug.

“What number?”

Dashboards lights reflected in her eyes. “That one,” she said, and cautiously settled. The driver pulled forward and Christine unbuckled.

“Good night, Erik. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Christine.”

The driver glanced in the rearview. Erik looked down. “Sorry.”

The driver shrugged.

One more month.

…

He was hiding. He’d been hiding for weeks; stopped looking for her, stopped even wondering where she was or if she was alone. There was no way to be near her without the pretense of a piano that wouldn’t leave him shaking. No way to think about her without wanting.

He was Erik, a composer, a conductor, performer, designer of auditory spaces and translator of music. He was a collaborative pianist and vocal specialist. He’d given everything to music and the service of it, the delivery of it. He didn’t need this. He’d never had this.

No one ever offered. So he’d found fulfillment elsewhere, until now.

Erik hunched over his work, safely tucked into his corner of the music labs building. Between grading, senior thesis submissions, revisions to his own publications, and a request for a letter of recommendation, he could be plenty busy late into the night with no need for anyone to--

“Hello? Erik?”

Erik snatched at his mask and settled it. He’d been found. Time to lie, except he can’t lie to her.

“Can I help you with something, Christine?” He gathered a stack and stood. She met him by his door.

“Well, yeah,” she paused, blocking his path momentarily before stepping aside. “I need your signature on my visiting artist release. And another on my endorsement for my new job.”

Erik hefted his armload to the work closet. “I’m sure they look forward to meeting you. Come on.” He unlocked the door and held it open, then followed behind her, hitting the light switch with his elbow before catching the door on his foot, then he kicked the brick into place. He had to hold the stack to keep it from spilling across the work table.

She handed him the forms. Erik moved to a span of clean tabletop and started scanning the release form. Government agency boilerplate to satisfy the grant was mixed with flowery language so no one would suspect they were anything but artists. Yesterday Franco had brought Burton’s form-- yep, this was Christine’s. So on and so forth.

Erik had just finished scratching out his signature when he heard a familiar scrape.

“Why on earth do you keep a-”

Click.

“--brick?”

Erik pressed the heel of his hand into his chin.

“Are we… locked in?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” A faint rumble vibrated in the walls. “I don’t suppose that was just… construction?”

Erik let out a mirthless laugh. “There were storms brewing earlier. Besides, does this building look like they work on it?”

“Not really.”

Another rumble, louder, and the light fixture jittered.

Christine finally took a deep breath. “Have you been avoiding me?”

“No! Yes. I don’t know.” He touched his hairline, recapped a pen. “We crossed a line. I had to get back behind it and I couldn’t if we…” His hands skated across the table top nervously.

“Is this about being my mentor?”

Erik barked an ugly, bitter laugh. “What else? God, you just, out of nowhere, with your smiles, and the way you look at me, and sing to me, and the Semele…” Erik’s skin grew tight as he recalled the cocktail party. He turned, face growing hot beneath the porcelain and his throat tightening. He was a ruin.

“--and the touching and wanting and you’re… you’re just going to leave! I’m a fucking idiot!”

On cue, an extended, throaty roar of thunder rattled the stone and brick until the bare bulb above could suffer no more. With a loud pop, the narrow room went dark. They both scuffled in the dark until they had hold of something sturdy.

“Erik?”

He was embarrassed. He was frustrated. “What.”

“You need to sign the other form.”

“Want to get away that bad? Fine.” He reached for a desk lamp and tried to turn it on. He flipped the switch furiously. The power was out.

“Here,” Christine held up her phone and lit the screen. Her screensaver was… them? Beside a piano together?

Erik snatched a pen from the table and slashed his name. “There. Just search for facilities or call the university police. They can unlock the door.”

“Erik, did you even look at it?”

“Why bother.”

She snorted at him. “God, you’re so blind.”

“The lights were out.”

“Fine, you want to be a jerk, be one, but at least look at where I’m taking a job before you decide to walk.”

She lit up her phone once more and he glared at the page like it was staring at his mask. He tracked the offer and terms until he reached the party names and…

“You took a job at… a middle school? Here?” He looked up into the dim light. “You’re not leaving?”

“Meet the new grade six to eight choir director. Go Scotties. And now you have no direct influence over my career.”

Her screensaver dimmed, and before it went dark, Erik could make out a flash of their faces, turned to each other. He wondered if Nadir had seen this moment, because they looked as passionate as lovers despite being feet apart.

The room went black again, and he could hear her moving.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That much has been apparent. What do you know?”

She was close. Close enough to feel the way she shifted the air. “I know way too much about motif design, lyric phrasing--”

Closer. “Go on.” Her hips were near his.

“Harmonic theory, vocals”

“Can attest.” Her fingertips were at his jawline, tracing his mask. “I thought it would be cold.”

“It’s been on my face all day. Early Romantic era competition and,” his voice scraped over gravel, “that I want you. So bad.”

Her kiss was her reply. Erik’s hands flew around her as she pivoted to the table with him, dragging his mask upwards. He gasped as cool air brushed his face, followed by light, curious fingertips and her hot mouth. Erik knocked over the stack of papers and files with a satisfying splatter.

“Is that light over there?” she asked, dragging her lips from his. “Around that cabinet door?”

“What?” he panted. “I thought that was a panel.”

She pushed him off gently, peering up at the wall. “Right there, see?”

Sure enough, there was a thin line of light. It was a hidden door with a magnetic latch.

“They can’t keep the regular door from locking you in but they put a trick door at the back?” Erik complained as he climbed through awkwardly. Very awkwardly. Her lips were red and swollen.

“Let me grab my things and we can get out of here.”

Erik checked his watch. “First, we’re turning in your forms.”

“It’s almost five!”

“We’ll make it if we run.”

Panting, they caught the dean just as he was packing up to leave.

“Erik, Christine? Are you alright? That was some storm we--”

Erik shoved the forms at him. “Yep. Terrible storm. Here.”

“Indeed, Erik. Why, your hair is a mess and I’ve never seen your shirt untucked.”

“Big wind. Yep. Almost hit by lightning. Here, time stamp?”

“Miss Daaé, you may want to adjust…”

“For God’s sake just take the stupid form so we can go!” Christine shouted.

Nadir laughed and scanned the forms. “I don’t want to see you until Monday, Erik. You better be late.”

He didn’t make it in until Wednesday.

...

#academialynx #poto fic #modern au #POTO college AU #e/c #yearning #So Bad

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dailytomlinson · 4 years

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At the stroke of midnight on January 31st, 2020, the music industry was single-handedly saved by just a young lad from Doncaster. We can all agree, in confidence, that the majority of artists won’t top the charts with their first LP, especially with little to no promo. “Walls” however, debuted at #1 on the worldwide iTunes charts, a feat not many will come by. Judging by its success, we can rightfully assume this album could be rather magical. Just over a month into the decade, I can happily testify that this may be one of the greatest pieces of work we’ll see over the span of the next 10 years. The only record I may allow to top it, will be Tomlinson’s sophomore album, which is fair to speculate will have a little less fan service and show a little more of the grunge britpop rockstar that Louis is dying to showcase.

Oh, this guy’s from One Direction, too. It’s a fact that doesn’t need to be honed in on, but in case you aren’t familiar with his older work, the UK-based band is where he found his origin story. Though hopefully after giving these tracks a listen, we’ll all be able to start celebrating him as the solo artist he was destined to become.

Kill My Mind

You hate me and I want more.

Perhaps I wasn’t alive during majority of the Britpop Movement of the 90s, but I can wholeheartedly say that if you played this opening track for anyone familiar with the genre, they would tell you it would feel right at home as a feature on one of Oasis’ final LPs or as a single brought to us by Blur. However, that is not to say it lacks originality. In fact, far from it. His thick Yorkshire accent demands your attention right off the bat. This song is confident, it’s loud, it’s sexy, it’s everything his loyal fanbase has been patiently waiting to see arise from the musician. It’s a different Tomlinson than the general public may be accustomed to, but it’s a perfect example of an artist finding their authentic self. The electric opener, Kill My Mind gives us a little tease as to what’s to come.

Don’t Let It Break Your Heart

What hurts you is gonna pass and you’ll have learned from it when it comes back.

After careful consideration, this may be the album’s weakest link. It draws on a bit of the pop-influence his previous audiences may be more familiar with. Previously, Louis released a single-edit and a piano version. The one featured on the album, is by far the most well mixed. It’s filled with beautiful harmonies and the layered vocals have a lot of potential. The message of this song is uplifting, about overcoming hardships with grace and allowing yourself to grow from them — A theme not uncommon in Louis’ writing or general life philosophy. Always the lyricist, coming from him, this message works and it works beautifully into the melodies of the song. My main issue comes down to production. The background vocals are choppy and make the general feeling of the song a little cheesy. Ultimately, it all just sounds forced. I can say however, experiencing this song live is a different story. Some songs are meant to be played live, and this just happens to be one of them.

Two of Us

We’ll end just like we started, just you and me, and no one else.

The lead single was one Louis himself proclaimed needed to be written, or else his other art would suffer from being insincere. “I just feel like musically, I almost needed to get this song off my chest,” He recently told Rolling Stone, “People say writing is a part of therapy and in a way, I feel like I’d been avoiding writing this song because I knew I only had one chance to get it right.” For those who may be unaware, at the start of his solo career, Louis tragically lost his mother, the person he was closest with, to leukemia. Out of respect to him, I won’t dwell on this, and it does feel fairly inconsiderate to put the piece under review, per say. I will, however, assert that it is a stunningly orchestrated song. You can feel the authenticity and honesty radiate from the words he’s singing, especially in the big build up of the chorus in comparison to the heart wrenching and softly sung outro. It’s rare we find artists who are proud to wear their hearts on their sleeves and speak with true openness. Each song is an example of this, but Two of Us broadcasts this vulnerability loudly, as he gives us an anthem of accepting that you’re grieving and reminding listeners to always hold onto hope.

We Made It

Nothing in the world that I would change it for, singing something pop-y on the same four chords.

Yes, she’s corny, yes her lyrics might not be up to standard with the rest of his work, and yes, she is my favorite song on the album. We Made It, is filled to the rim with nostalgia and embracing that although the tunnel was dark, there was in the end, a light. For anyone who has grown up with Louis and supported him through all the twists and turns of his decade long career, this song could be a celebration of us and our relationship with our favorite musician. There were always struggles along the way, but we, as fans, never turned our back on him. We were there for him when he needed us to lean on. The sentiment remains when reversed. Ultimately, whatever we needed, he was able to provide. It’s easy to see how much of a team Louis and his followers are, and this song is honoring that. If you’re less familiar with the singer himself, then this track is just a fun little guitar-driven song that reminisces those nights of getting smashed and blazed out of your mind with your young love, and what’s wrong with that?

Too Young

Face to face at the kitchen table, this is everything I’ve waited for.

Every album needs a song to cry to, and for Walls, this is the one. There aren’t too many complexities here, as Louis has said he generally likes to stray away from metaphors when he can. The calm strumming of the acoustic guitar, lends itself beautifully to the track, and never overpowers Louis’ voice. Vocally, this a huge example of a myriad of Louis’ strengths. It contrasts some of the heavily belted pieces we hear later on in the album, and focuses on the softness he’s able to convey in his killer range of a chest voice. His raspy tone demonstrates a certain intimacy. When the song is listened to through headphones with your eyes closed, it almost feels as if Louis is right there on your bedside, gently playing a personal piece he had just written and trusts you enough to perform it for you first. There’s a certain amount of emotional intelligence demonstrated in this song, as he never pulls the victim card, but instead takes the mature approach of admitting to where he’s gone wrong. This notion is used a lot in his writing, and is a sure telling of his character. This catchy little ballad wouldn’t feel out of place on albums of most genres, musically lacking some originality, which is made up for with the candor and polish in his vocals.

Walls

Why is it that “thank-you” is so often bittersweet?

Objectively speaking, this is the most well crafted track on the album. Perhaps even more Oasis-y than some Oasis hits, it even earned itself a writing credit from Noel Gallagher himself. By now, we are more than well accustomed to embracing Louis’ themes of overcoming barriers (or walls). It’s something he writes about often, and why shouldn’t he? He knows what it’s like to stand above what’s been dragging you down more than anyone. The most titular lyric opens and closes the tune, proclaiming, “Nothing wakes you up, like waking up alone.” As soon as you’re hit with this, you know you’re listening to a song which dares the audience to take the musician earnestly. Louis has always been the funny one who has chosen to never take himself too seriously in life. With his music, he had a hard time at the start, choosing to put out records which defined Top 40, but never himself. Walls forces us to accept the artist he’s become. It proves to every listener, that Louis Tomlinson is a musician, a lyricist, a vocalist; a true craftsman. He is a serious artist and this salient track forces us, for once, to accept him as one.

Habit

Took some time cause I ran out of energy, of playing someone I’ve heard I’m supposed to be.

Back in February of 2018, Louis teased this lyric on his twitter, sending fans into a frenzy of when and where this sentiment might come into play. In September of last year, he finally played it for us live. This live version of the song was a complete bore. Again, Louis’ biggest asset in his music may come from his lyrics. He wrote more songs for One Direction than any of the other boys, often partnering with Liam Payne who would work on the melodies, while Louis focused on cutting deep with his words. This is more than evident here, meaning any initial fondness of this song was independently due to the verses he was singing. When the album finally hit stands and we were able to hear the studio version, I have to say, my opinion on this absolute banger changed drastically. It may be a little controversial to say, but this song might have some “Yeehaw” vibes. If you played someone the opening, before his vocals take the forefront, it would’ve been fair to assume it was a Maren Morris hit. Country/Britpop/Indie isn’t exactly something I would ever even consider diving into, but let me tell you, this certified bop has been on repeat. Here’s to hoping him and his band can put together a new live arrangement before the world tour kicks off in March.

Always You

Waiting to wrap your legs around me, and I know you hate to smoke without me.

To be blunt, this song was a fan service. If it wasn’t for Louis’ persistent stans, this track may have been ditched months ago. However, when he gave us a glimpse of the songs upbeat opening lyric three years ago, we latched onto it. For years we bombarded Louis, telling him this song needed to stay on the record, and thank God he listened. He did realize partway through the writing process that this isn’t the sort of music he would like to put out anymore, so it may not resonate with someone looking for the more grungy side of the artist. Always You is almost pure bubblegum and it sounds like it should be radiating loudly off festival speakers. The tune will be a crowd-pleaser, and will surely bring the most hype for live audiences. It’s the sort of song you want to scream out while drunk on a rooftop in the summer atop the ocean in New York City, which is exactly what myself and approximately 6800 more fans will be doing this June.

Fearless

Cash in your weekend treasures, for a suit and tie, a second wife.

God damn is Fearless sexy. The slow and pulsing beat of this song, with the organic guitar, subtle production, and his sultry voice are a recipe for a great and sensual tune. The song was written with the inspiration of feeling youthful, and teaches what to center your sense of self-worth around. There’s a certain level of maturity that comes with a song of these intentions, and in that, Louis is able to showcase his ever growing wisdom. “What I wanted to try and capture with the song is the idea of feeling youthful and how important that is,” He recently said in an interview with Apple Music, “I’m at this age where I’m on the cusp — I’m definitely not a teenager, I’m not a young lad anymore, nor am I old, but I sit in this space where I’m aware of my age now. I hear it as a playground or going back to real youth.”

Perfect Now

Don’t you wanna dance? Just a little dance?

On release day, Louis did a signing, where he bravely asked a few fans what their least favorite track on the album was. Everyone said Perfect Now, earning them a high five from the man himself as well as his genuine agreement. While many look at it as a cheesy romantic love song, masquerading as a rejected early One Direction track, mirroring Little Things or What Makes You Beautiful, I wholeheartedly disagree. It’s easy to chalk it down to being “cheesy” when you approach it as being romantic, but if you look at it as, simply, a love song, that changes the perspective. Louis sings over an appealing and charming little guitar melody, and you can almost hear his smile. It’s easy to picture him singing this to his younger sisters as a piece of brotherly encouragement, or to a good friend who needs cheering up after a hard day. This darling melody invites you to dance around your bedroom feeling loved. Perfect Now proves that not everything has to be deep and serious; allow yourself to be open to simply feeling happy over the little things like a lyric that makes you smile. When in the chorus he prompts, “Keep your head up, love,” listeners can’t help but feel a sense of personal support from the artist, which is exactly what makes this song so special.

Defenseless

We’re sleeping on our problems like we’ll solve them in our dreams.

It’s understandable why Louis likes to stray from metaphors in his writing, because generally speaking, they simply aren’t good. This is proven with lyrics such as, “I’m running to you like a moth into a flame”. As well as this, the rhyming of “defenseless” with “fences” and then “defenseless” again, doesn’t exactly sit well. The song does grow to be much better than anticipated after the first verse. The pre-chorus has a strong beat, which you’ll find yourself accidentally clapping along to in public. The bridge allows Louis to explore his falsetto, which is something we’ve never heard from him before. It’s strong and poignant, and it’s a real shame that his old band never gave him the opportunity to use his voice in all its capabilities. The control Louis has over his vocals throughout this song is astonishing, and almost unheard of in most modern music outside of musical theatre. This track alone, proves that he is one of the most vocally gifted artists not only to come out of One Direction, but to come out of the last decade at all.

Only the Brave

It’s a church of burnt romances and I’m too far gone to pray.

The lyrics to this song are borderline poetry. Each and every word draws you in and leaves you speechless. It’s a short song, ending at one minute and forty-four seconds, and that works well. It leaves us wanting more, even when we’ve reached the very end of the whole experience. The tune feels like a mantra; something to sing to yourself as you prepare for something you’re nervous about or to congratulate yourself on completing a task you never thought you could accomplish. There’s no proper structure and his voice has a retro filter over top, giving the whole thing a bit of a wartime vibe. The most powerful moment is undoubtedly when he sings, “It’s a solo song, and it’s only for the brave,” as a way of patting himself on the back for where he is now in life and in his career. It’s the perfect way to bring home the album. After 12 tracks demonstrating it, it is proven to us that he doesn’t need his ex-bandmates, he doesn’t need a big production, he doesn’t need Simon Cowell, he doesn’t need other songwriters dictating what direction to go, because he is Louis Tomlinson and he is brave.

#walls review #keira millian #050220 #louis tomlinson

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excorcismic · 4 years

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❛ remember the time . . . in SAN FRANCISCO ? with me by your side , in SAN FRANCISCO ? you are such a s i g h t , the deepest brown eyes , my dear . . . ❜

❛ MISA MISA !! ❜ playlist . plotting call . listen as you read !

the mirrors surrounding you did as they were meant to, reflecting back a spitting image of HIRAI MOMO - but it’s clear something is wrong from the moment that a vision of VALENTINE’S DAY , 2011 strikes you. perhaps it was a passing daydream in the frenzy of the funhouse. you reassure yourself - you’re MISA AMANE ! , a TWENTY-FOUR YEAR OLD STREAMER / MUSICIAN whose virtue lies in your + LOYALTY & + OPTIMISM , although you’ve been told that you tend to be quite - NAÏVE & - IMPULSIVE , and you’re associated with BLACK PAINTED NAILS HOLDING A FOUNTAIN PEN , RUBY RED LIPS & EYES THAT MATCH , GIVING HIM YOUR EVERYTHING IN EXCHANGE FOR JUST HIS HEART by those around you. suddenly, however, you’ve found LIGHT’S WHITE JACKET on your person - was that always there? from the moment you leave the funhouse, memories from your life in DEATH NOTE have begun to return - leaving whoever you had been before in the mirror’s reflection behind you. you can almost hear SAN FRANCISCO by THE DRIVER ERA following in your wake. ( she/her & demigirl )

this is the story of a very lonely girl .

I . WELL , LOOK AT YOUR WATCH NOW !

born in alucard , pennsylvania - misa amane was the child of celebrity parents who settled down in the small town . as of course , a TEMPORARY break . a director father and a failed actress mother , they were determined their daughter continue the legacy and turn into a star . and after a few good , normal years ( if ‘normal’ involved going to school & playing during the day then coming home to intense acting , singing , dancing practice ) , she managed to get wrapped into the world of stardom .

first , it was through commercials . then , small parts in movies that called for cute little girls . then . . . a deal with a children’s network at age nine to star in a series about a child detective . affectionately called , THE MYSTERIES OF MISS MISA-MISA !

from nine to sixteen , she’d work tirelessly - becoming an instant hit the moment the pilot episode aired , selling merchandise all over the country and making appearances on other television shows .

but then there’s the inevitable - kids start to grow up . the childish charm is lost & the children start to realize they were deprived of so much for the sake of fame . such things , like friends . and misa . . . although initially asked for a sequel series that would tackle the child detective now as a high schooler , declined in favor of going back home to pursue her high school years as a normal teen . of course - to the chagrin of her parents . she’d go back home to live with an aunt in alucard for a year , finishing her sophomore year , then her parents would follow - she’d move back in again at the start of her junior . and . . . it was not at all easy . considering a , she already had a reputation as a child star - which was equivalent to a target along her back . and b , the lack of friends was obvious - and even when she smiled at everyone , complimented their styles , helped them out with work she could assist with . . . most of the time , she’d sit by herself at the lunch table . or , with people that she didn’t know if they were actual friends or not .

graduation comes , and misa amane stands to accept her diploma . there isn’t a graduation party ; she just sits in the back of her parents’ car , ready to go out to a fancy dinner she isn’t looking forward to .

II . YOU’RE STILL A SUPER HOT FEMALE !

BUT ALL HOPE IS NOT LOST ! graduation is the end of a chapter - and the beginning of the next rests in amane’s hands . three months pass , and once again the family puts pressure on her to go back into showbiz . it isn’t too late , you’re young & pretty - you’re meant for movies . but . . . misa , of course , refuses . she actually is looking into maybe making another name for herself . . . but in a very different way than her parents would hope .

it’s an argument . an argument about how misa has talent she’s ignoring & an argument about how her parents can’t control her forever . one friend she has sits in her truck in the parking lot as misa packs her bags , and the heated argument ends with the blonde girl slamming the door and her parents telling her to come back only when she has her head screwed on straight . but it’s fine . misa’s alright with this - she’s going to be a star in her own right , since a band she’s started playing in underground has just gotten noticed . YOUR FRIENDS & THE SKELETONS - a hard pop-punk band influenced by the likes of my chemical romance , paramore , two door cinema club , the 1975 , what have you .

alucard is left behind when the recognition comes since misa amane needs the change of scenery . but that doesn’t mean she is gone forever , as sometimes the pursuit of other things only lasts for so long .

III . YOU’VE GOT YOUR MILLION DOLLAR CONTRACT !

the next few years are kind . the band experiences a nice success that means misa gets to live her dream - but she realizes the burnout when she looks back on everything she’s accomplished . the constant moving around , always only talking to the same few people or never anyone she gets to know - it registers that she’s still in some sort of box . and maybe a break from said box is needed .

your friends & the skeletons goes on a touring hiatus , retiring back to alucard . misa does not tell her family she’s going back - she doesn’t give a shit , and she doesn’t think they do , either . she gets an apartment by herself , and starts frequently streaming to still connect with her fans even though she’s taken a step back out of the spotlight .

alucard is quiet . and alucard is home . but there’s a lot that misa again has to face .

she has a history here , yes - but nevertheless , there is still that feeling of loneliness . in every aspect - she never had many friends . little of her relationships lasted long , always ending with unrequited love , quick heartbreak , what have you . only her bandmembers did she have , even though she tried to throw herself at every friendly face she saw .

because she’s always been friendly . always a friend to everyone else , even if they aren’t a friend to her . only hoping maybe SOMEONE ELSE can see her as someone - begging to be somebody’s top-pick , somebody’s vip , somebody to someone . because her whole life she’s lived as only the bridesmaid , but never the bride in the eyes of those looking away from stardom . because it’s one thing to be adored by fans - it’s another to be adored by individual people .

IV . AND THEY’RE ALL WAITING FOR YOUR HOT TRACK !

nevertheless , amane is never one to give up quickly . because she believes that someday , maybe she’ll get what she wants . . . even though of course , when things go south , she still quickly accepts maybe she isn’t meant to be somebody’s someone .

but she always smiles .

misa amane is one of a kind . she’s got so much love in her heart to share - she’s sensitive , maybe she gets hurt easily . maybe she’s IMPULSIVE and naive to where she bites off more than she can chew and believes things she shouldn’t . she jumps into things without realizing how much she could get hurt . talks without thinking . but she is friendly - she’s kind , outgoing , and cherishes those she admires even if they don’t cherish her back . her heart is forever on her sleeve , and all she wants to be loved . she’s been lonely for a long time .

she’s talented ! not only fronting her band with vocals & rhythm guitar , but also taking interests in visual art , crafting . aside from streaming , she runs a little etsy shop where she makes jewelry and keychains of her own little style . she of course can act , but hates it at this point . she also knows how to play the piano & the drums !!

she regularly streams for her fans - whether it’s to watch movies or shows with them or to play video games she has with them . she’s social , in that she always loves to talk to someone . her batteries recharge through social interaction , as an extrovert’s extrovert .

i wouldn’t say misa is stupid . she’s clever - witty . but sometimes she’s a little ditzy and acts without thinking ; i like to thing she did pretty well in school in terms of her grades , but her tendencies to both act and speak without thinking and sometimes forgetting simple things can give the impression she isn’t too smart . but she is ; just in her own special ways . she’s not dumb at all .

she also knows no fear - courageous to some points where it’s even dangerous . she regularly likes to go on adventures in the dark to investigate possible haunted areas , always is the one to kill the bugs when everyone else is scared , heights and the dark are never an issue . she also lives and breathes for the occult , heavily believing in everything supernatural . she even practices witchcraft !

also she's hardcore pan if u think misa is straight U Are Mistaken

it is almost a certain guarantee that misa amane is perhaps one of the friendliest faces in alucard . the one that only hopes you like her as much as she likes you . and maybe one day she’ll find that - until then , she will never stop persisting . she goes everywhere and she smiles at everyone ; a shimmer of sunshine in black platforms & cross earrings .

WHAT YOU WAITING - WHAT YOU WAITING - WHAT YOU WAITING - WHAT YOU WAITING - WHAT YOU WAITING FOR ?? . . .

. . . holding on , i’m holding on to our story . . .

there is a girl . a very lonely girl . a very lonely girl that looks back at misa when she stares into the house of mirrors . and that lonely girl is a thought that misa can’t get out of her head , along with the newfound feeling that there is something - no , someone missing from her life that should be there . or was there . a missing piece that she doesn’t recognize . and the white jacket , a bit too big for her to fit , that appears on her person - the attachment she feels to it gives her security , like a safety blanket ; even though she has no clue where it came from , or who it actually belonged to . . .

god i fried my own brain writing this but anyway HELLO EVERYONE once again i am hylia and . . . i have finally finished . my monster of an intro for misa . once again if u want to look at my plot/connection ideas pls click the plotting call link at the top of this post !! i love this girl to death and i hope u guys like her too c: bc she is my BABIE and i ,,, am so stoked to write her here . I’LL SEE Y’ALL WHEN I GET OFF WORK !! <3

#i'm so sorry this got long and i hope . i am not forgetting anything .#i am just emotional abt miss misa misa god i ADORE her . . .#my bby girl...#again . quietly begs for more of the death note gang in the corner .#duality.intro #░ ★ abt . ❛ sʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡs sʜᴇ·ʟʟ ғɪɴᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ﹐ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ɴᴏᴡ / misa amane #long post

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x--daughters-of-darkness--x · 4 years

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HALESTORM's LZZY HALE On Use Of Backing Tracks At Rock Shows: 'I'm Not A Fan Of When I Find Out My Favorite Bands Do That'

HALESTORM frontwoman Lzzy Hale spoke to "Offstage With DWP" about her band's insistence on performing completely live — without the aid of backing tracks. "We do it more selfishly, not necessarily as a statement," she said (see video below). 'But it has kind of become this interesting statement. We're very proud of that. But also, just again selfishly, I don't think I'd enjoy myself. I've guested with people — I've dueted with people and got up onstage where they have those things and I can hear it in my in-ear monitors — and some of it is, like, 'Chorus in one, two, three, four…' I'm, like, 'Oh my gosh! This would drive me nuts.' And also, I would rather have us sound imperfect than have somebody figure out that I'm miming, or a shaker goes awry — 'Where's the tambourine coming from?'

"I'm not a fan of when I find out my favorite bands do that," she continued. "And, like I said, I'm not knocking anybody who does it — you do you. But for us, that's just not our M.O. And there's nothing more fun that going out on stage and knowing that you're responsible for either we're gonna be tight, we're gonna be loose, something's gonna go wrong, we're gonna have to pull the train back onto the tracks, but that's cause we're listening to each other.

"And also, if we weren't actually playing, we would just get worse as musicians," she added. "We've been to shows where somebody's computer went down — the tracks are no longer there — and then they don't play anymore. And we're, like, 'Can't you just plug the instruments in?'

"I honestly think you would get so used to kind of like doing a music video and just miming along that maybe you can't [play live] anymore. So we've become better musicians because we challenge ourselves in that way."

In recent years, more and more bands have been given a pass for using backing tracks, drum triggers and other assorted technology that makes concerts more synthetic but also more consistent.

This past March, SHINEDOWN guitarist Zach Myers said that "90 percent" of rock artists use at least some pre-recorded tracks during their live performances. He told Rock Feed: "I think it's all personal preference… We're gonna do it because, yeah, dude, there's some keyboard stuff. And it's not like piano. Everything you see us playing on stage we're playing. But you know what? Yeah, if there's a shaker on a song that adds an element of energy to the song, we're gonna put a shaker in there. Instead of having to pay some dude to play a shaker and tambourine and keyboards and guitars, even breaking it down to a five-piece string section, we're gonna do that."

Zach added: "It bothers me that it bothers people. I'm, like, 'Why does this bother you?' It's the way it is. People have been doing this since the '80s. And we want the sound to be the best it can be. Could we go up there, just the four of us, and put on the best rock show ever? Of course. But that's not how we wanna do it."

Former SKID ROW singer Sebastian Bach recently said that he is "one of the last people" who are still not using pre-recorded tracks at their live shows.

"I don't know how much longer I can say to you that I don't use tapes onstage, because I don't, and I never have," he told Consequence Of Sound. "And I still don't. When I have opening bands, and they're using tapes, and then I come out and I don't use tapes… sometimes, it makes me feel stupid, because I'm like, 'What am I doing, when all these kids half my age can come onstage and do all of my moves, but they don't have to warm up for an hour before the show, or weeks, before the first show?' Sometimes, I'm like, 'Why do I even bother, if the public is so used to this other way?' It's becoming very rare to come see a good band that's actually a real band — that's not miming or doing silly moves while a tape is running. It just becomes more rare as the years go on."

Last year, IRON MAIDEN guitarist Adrian Smith said that he doesn't "agree" with certain rock artists relying on pre-recorded tracks during their live performances. "I tell you what, I see it with a lot of younger bands, and I don't think it's a good thing at all," he told the New York Post. "I mean, the music is getting too technical now. You have computerized recording systems, which we use, but I think we use them more for convenience than because we need to. We've toured with a couple bands that use tapes — it's not real. You're supposed to play live; it should be live. I don't agree with using tapes … I think it's a real shame."

One musician who has been open about his band's used of taped vocals during live performances is MÖTLEY CRÜE bassist Nikki Sixx, who said: "We've used technology since '87." He added the group employed "sequencers, sub tones, background vox tracks, plus background singers and us. [MÖTLEY CRÜE also taped] stuff we can't tour with, like cello parts in ballads, etc.... We love it and don't hide it. It's a great tool to fill out the sound."

In a 2014 interview, MÖTLEY CRÜE guitarist Mick Mars admitted that he wasn't comfortable with the fact that his band used pre-recorded backing vocals in its live shows, claiming that he preferred to watch groups whose performances are delivered entirely live.

"I don't like it," he said. "I think a band like ours… I have to say '60s bands were my favorite — '60s and '70s bands — because they were real, like, three-piece bands or four-piece bands, and they just got up there and kicked it up. Made a mistake? So what? Sounded a little bit empty here or there? So what? It's the bigness and the rawness and the people that developed and wrote the songs and made them and presented them. To me, that's what I really like. I mean, I could put on a MÖTLEY CD and play with it all day long. I don't wanna do that."

KISS lead singer Paul Stanley, who has been struggling to hit the high notes in many of the band's classic songs for a number of years, has been accused of singing to a backing tape on KISS's ongoing "End Of The Road" tour.

Back in 2015, KISS bassist/vocalist Gene Simmons slammed bands who used backing tapes for not being honest enough to include that fact on their concert tickets.

"I have a problem when you charge $100 to see a live show and the artist uses backing tracks," Simmons said. "It's like the ingredients in food. If the first ingredient on the label is sugar, that's at least honest. It should be on every ticket — you're paying $100, 30 to 50 percent of the show is [on] backing tracks and they'll sing sometimes, sometimes they'll lip sync. At least be honest. It's not about backing tracks, it's about dishonesty.

"There's nobody with a synthesizer on our stage, there's no samples on the drums, there's nothing," Gene continued. "There's very few bands who do that now — AC/DC, METALLICA, us. I can't even say that about U2 or THE [ROLLING] STONES. There's very few bands who don't use [backing] tracks."

youtube

#lzzy hale #Halestorm

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angryinternetduck · 4 years

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Sunflower, Volume Five

a teeny bit over 2.2k words on writing music, first impressions, and peppermint. no warnings I can think of. this is part five of the Sunflower Series! happy reading :)

part one | part two | part three | part four

Only Angel was, in fact, fun to record, although it got quite a bit irritating after playing through six or seven times, as all songs seemed to do. They got through it, though, and Carolina too, before setting aside a day for just writing.

Harry worked with Olivia and Charlotte to finalize the melody for the song Olivia had come up with a few weeks before, which actually worked brilliantly, and they were finished with the melody and sound the night they started.

Charlotte decided to head to a bar with the others, but Harry stayed with Olivia to start working on the lyrics. He was sat at the piano, a pencil behind his ear and his notebook propped in front of him.

As soon as Charlotte left the room, Olivia grinned and jumped onto the lid of the piano, sliding across its surface to sit in front of Harry with her guitar on her lap. Harry raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged innocently. “What?”

“Charlotte would have a fit if she saw you like that.”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Olivia replied with a wink.

“Whatever you say,” Harry laughed. He handed her the notebook and asked, “Have any ideas, then?” Olivia sighed, slipping the pencil from behind Harry’s ear and fiddling with it. “Well, I was thinking about the whole…” She paused, tapping the eraser of the pencil against the piano before asking, “You know the whole, oh, it’s a sign of the times, thing?”

“Er - yeah, sort of.”

“What if we did something along those lines?”

“Yeah, it sort of sounds like that, doesn’t it? All sad and shit?” Olivia nodded, and Harry played the melody again. He frowned, playing it again, and then remembered, “Oh, and there was something Char and I were working on -” He started again, singing along. “Just stop your crying, it’ll be alright…”

“Yeah!” Olivia exclaimed. “It could be that and - and, uh - just stop your crying, and then, it’s a sign of the times.” Harry nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that works.” He played it again, twice, once with each ending, and then Olivia played the chords on her guitar and echoed softly, “Sad and shit.” She looked up. “Like the end of the world, huh?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“...just stop your crying,” Olivia sang, “it’s a sign of the times… now that it’s the - hope it’s not the final…” She frowned. “Welcome to the final show…” Harry nodded, playing the melody, and added, “Hope you’re wearing your best clothes…”

Olivia grinned and mimicked his accent, “Proper brilliant, you are.”

Harry scoffed, looking up at her. “I don’t sound like that at all!”

“Whatever,” Olivia murmured with a grin, picking up the pencil and writing something down in the notebook. Harry messed about on the piano, suggesting more lyrics, and Olivia added on.

They stayed up well past two am, just playing with words and phrases until the others came back from the bar. Olivia slid off the piano only after they’d gotten through a verse and finished the chorus, and Harry was tempted to kiss her when she said goodnight before walking into her room.

Instead, he told himself not to be a fool and went to bed.

♬♩♪♩

They finished Sign of the Times fairly quickly, but recording it took a while. The song Olivia had started eventually became Ever Since New York, which was recorded pretty fast. Jeff was pressuring them to finalize more songs, though, so they took off another day to dedicate to writing.

Unfortunately, Harry was pretty brain dead by then, what with staying up for hours with Olivia to finish both Sign of the Times and Ever Since New York, so he spent most of the day just resting and watching rom coms with Adam and Charlotte while Olivia and Sarah sat in the other room working on Comfortable Silence.

A few minutes into My Best Friend’s Wedding, a paper airplane landed on his lap. He glanced into the other room, confused, and Sarah was rolling her eyes as Olivia grinned and gestured for him to open it.

To Julia Roberts’s biggest fangirl in the living room -

Sooo I called my friend who just got dumped (heartbreak is the best inspo yk)...

I saw your friend that I met last year

They said you’re happy now

I see you gave them my old T-shirt

That really hurt like hell

They say it silently, no not with their words

But oh yes it’s written, it’s all over their face -

Comfortable silence is so overrated

Why don’t you ever tell me straight to my face?

Even my phone misses your call, by the way

Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry too…

idk about some of that but uhhhh idk

So. Thoughts?

From, the dining table

Harry read it over again and nodded, flashing her the thumbs up, but Olivia shook her head. She mimed writing, and Harry frowned, glancing around him for a pencil, and Olivia sighed, chucking a pencil at him.

Charlotte squeaked as it hit her in the arm, and Harry rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. “Sorry, Char,” he murmured, then scribbled out Like it before folding it back up and haphazardly throwing it back.

It didn’t quite work, but Olivia slid it towards her with her foot and opened it back up.

She wrote something down, and Harry watched her instead of the movie, and then Olivia threw it back. ur so boring, she’d written, and Harry scoffed, glancing over at her. He put a hand to his chest in mock hurt, and Olivia grinned.

Under that, she’d added more to the song.

I hope one day you’ll call me to tell me that you’re sorry too

But you, you never do

We haven't spoke since you went away

Comfortable silence is so overrated

Why won't you ever say what you want to say?

Even my phone misses your call, by the way

Harry grinned and wrote, You’re awful dramatic, Liv - it was two weeks. He threw it towards her, and she unfolded it, read it, and flipped him off. She whispered something to Sarah, who laughed, and Harry smiled and turned back to the movie.

♬♩♪♩

Harry was starting to wonder if Olivia ever slept.

He’d come out on the porch a few days later, unable to sleep after a day long nap caused by a killer hangover, and there she was, smoking a cigar and playing her guitar softly. “Hello,” Harry said, and she looked up. “Hey,” she replied, sliding over on the bench swing.

Harry sat next to her, taking the cigar when she offered it, and inhaled deeply. “‘s good,” he said. “Sweet.” Olivia nodded. “Mhmm. Toffee, apparently.” She leaned back, fiddling with her guitar pick, and stared at the water.

Harry breathed another puff of smoke, handed it back to her, and asked, “What’d you think when you first saw me?” Olivia raised an eyebrow. “Why?” Harry rolled his eyes with a smile. “You’re always asking these deep questions - give me a chance, hm?”

There was a beat of silence as she seemed to study him, and it took all of Harry’s willpower to keep eye contact as she tucked her lip between her teeth and her brow furrowed, lost in thought.

“I thought you were awkward,” she finally said, and Harry scoffed a laugh. “You’re joking.” Olivia quirked a smile, looking back at the water and lifting the cigar to her lips. “No, really.” She smirked. “Awkward and desperate.”

“Right, well, now you’re just bullying me.”

“Oh, please,” Olivia laughed. “You didn’t even say anything! You were like, hi, and that was it! I had to, like, scramble to come up with something!” Harry scoffed again, shaking his head. “If I remember correctly -”

“Which you don’t,” she cut in with a grin.

He shot her a mocking glare and went on, “You were the one who didn’t say anything at first, and then I introduced myself!” Olivia sighed and shook her head. “We were both awkward,” she concluded, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Agree to disagree.”

“God, that show sucked,” Olivia murmured, exhaling and trying to make a smoke ring before smiling at him. “Still can’t believe you wanted me in your band after that disaster.” Harry let his jaw drop dramatically. “You were amazing!”

Olivia scoffed, shaking her head. “I was awful! I forgot half the lyrics and fucked up all the chords ‘cause I was staring at -” She cut herself off, shaking her head again, and Harry grinned. “Staring at…?” he prodded.

“There was this band there that night,” Olivia said, “and one of its members” - she breathed a dreamy sigh - “oh, he was just gorgeous! I couldn’t take my eyes off him!” She grinned, mocking curiosity and propping her chin on her fist. “I can’t seem to remember his name…”

“Does it start with an H, perhaps?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow and mocking curiosity right back, but Olivia shook her head, fiddling with the cigar. “Nope,” she said with a giggle. “Think it was a Z,” she said. “Zach? Zeke? Ah - Zayn.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“Jealous, Styles?”

“You wish,” Harry replied with a grin.

There was a beat of silence.

Olivia leaned in a bit, her eyes flickering to his lips. “Harry?” she murmured.

“Hm?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t wanna be alone,” she whispered.

Harry smiled a bit, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to be, Liv.”

She met his gaze, her eyes wide and earnest. “Promise not to break my heart?”

“I promise,” Harry breathed.

And then she leaned forward, and Harry did too, and suddenly, they were kissing.

She tasted like peppermint, like toffee and vanilla and mint and smoke. She was sunshine and sugar, her lips fitting with his like puzzle pieces. She was smiling against his lips, and Harry smiled too, because she was perfect, because they were perfect, because everything was perfect.

♬♩♪♩

Harry woke up late again the next morning.

Olivia wasn’t next to him.

So Harry stood up, and stretched, and walked to the kitchen.

Olivia was at the table, on her mobile, eating toast.

“Morning,” Harry said.

“Hi!” she chirped.

“Where’re the others?” Harry asked, and Olivia sighed. “Went to the beach, according to Sarah…” Harry raised an eyebrow as he poured a cup of coffee. “Without us?” Olivia nodded. “I know. Ridiculous.” Harry smiled, stepping behind her and glancing at the screen of her phone.

“Ooh, dancehall,” he hummed, slipping the phone from her fingers. He clicked a random one, set it on the counter next to his coffee, and held out his hand. “Olivia,” he said, with all the seriousness he could muster, “may I have this dance?”

She slid his coffee towards her and took a sip. “Can’t. I’m drinking coffee.”

“Pleeeease?” Harry dragged. “I’m bored, Liv, and the house is empty. C’mon, then.” He began to dance as the music started and held out a hand. Olivia pouted. “I can’t dance,” she told him, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Prove it.”

She gave a reluctant smile and took it.

He spun her around, and she giggled.

They danced until Olivia somehow managed to end up on the kitchen island with Harry stood between her legs, snogging breathlessly, and Harry only realized the music had stopped when Olivia pulled back and murmured, “Gotta find another song…”

“Rather have a bloody song than me, hm?”

Olivia grinned, kissing his nose as she grabbed her phone. “Hey, it’s got a good melody,” she insisted, flicking through YouTube to find another video. Harry pouted, kissing her again, and said, “Want you more than any melody, Liv…”

“Fuckin’ sap,” Olivia giggled, finally finding a song and pushing her phone away to properly kiss him. Harry smiled, but Olivia sighed, pulling away again. “Others’ll be back soon,” she said, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t care,” he said, kissing her.

Olivia laughed, sliding off the counter. She held her hand out to him and, in a pitiful imitation of his British accent, she said, “Dance with me, Mr. Styles.” Harry grinned. “Only if you promise never to do that accent again.”

“Easy enough,” Olivia replied, and Harry took her hand.

And they twirled and laughed and kissed in the kitchen like it was a dance floor.

♬♩♪♩

Jamaica ended too soon.

Harry was on a plane before he knew it, heading back to rainy London.

It was good, though, he supposed. He was getting a tad home sick.

They’d written about sixty songs. Most of them were rubbish. Well, most of them weren’t even songs. More like notes mashed together that were sort of jokes but not quite. They’d gotten some good ones, though, and Harry considered the trip a success.

It was kind of strange being without the band, though.

It was very strange being without Olivia. She was going to come to London with him, but she was needed in America for something or other. But she’d given him a few cigars, and he smoked one when he got back home to London.

It was good. Tasted like peppermint.

♬♩♪♩

aaaannnnd there she is!!!! all finished!!!!! hope u enjoyed!

tell me:

1. your favorite song on hs1 2. your most recent dream 3. your favorite holiday or!!!! tell me anything your heart desires! feedback is always much appreciated :)

and if you like what you see, you can find the Sunflower Series’s masterlist here, Fine Line: Side A’s masterlist here, and my complete masterlist here!

sunflower, vol. 6

#aaaannnd that's a rap!#hope this didn't suck hehe #it's my first like....... long fic #so #here's this!!!!#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles #harry styles x ofc #harry styles series #harry styles story #harry styles writing #harry styles au #fine line #jamaica harry #sunflower

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ladylynse · 4 years

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um... you play instruments right? i'm trying to write characters that are going to put on a show together but i have absolutely no idea about music. i just wanted to ask, how long would it take/you give yourself to practice a piece that is like 5 minutes long? 15 minutes? 30 minutes? like... if you know how to play the instrument, how many days would you need to practice the music?? idk terms either oops... if not, just disregard this ask lol

Hey, Anon! You’re right; I do play instruments–a bit of piano/organ but mainly alto sax. (Also voice and handbells, as part of choirs.) That’s a more complicated question than you realize, though. It depends a lot on the person and the type of music/difficulty of the song as opposed to the length of the song.

The longer someone has been playing a particular instrument, the better they are at it. In a relatively simple piece of music–not too fast, not too many black notes (faster sections, since the white notes are held for a longer period of time), easy key signature and time signature that don’t change every few bars (not a lot of sharps/flats/accidentals which are sharps or flats not in the key signature and the counting isn’t )–some experienced people could sight read it without much trouble. That is, see it for the first time and play it through very well. Less experienced people would take longer, and how much longer would depend on how long they’ve been playing that instrument, how long they’ve been reading music (if it’s not the only instrument they know how to play, they might have been reading music for longer), and how complicated a particular piece of music is.

When most people practice, they don’t play the entire song over and over. They’ll work on the sections that give them the most trouble. They’ll play it slower, trying to get the timing right and then the notes right, and then they’ll work on playing it up to speed. (You can use a metronome to help you with this, to tick every beat.) The more difficult sections there are, the longer it will take. I’ve practiced two different sections in the same song (read: multiple bars of running sixteenth notes (which are quick), trying to get the right metering (the beat in the right spot) and the right emphasis and the right notes at the fast tempo we’re supposed to be playing it at) for two hours straight and felt like I’ve made no progress. With a different song, a much easier song, I’ve played through it three times with someone (my accompanist) and then played it for a concert.

There are also people who can hear a song and then sit down and play a close approximation of it–good enough that you as a listener might not be able to hear much of a difference from what you were expecting. This is called having a good ear. Some of these people have what’s called perfect pitch–hearing a note and being able to name it and mimic it exactly (with voice, or hit the right note on the instrument if it’s an instrument); a lot of them have what’s called relative pitch, where they’re still very good at knowing their intervals and getting stuff right or faking it if they get it wrong. The rest of us have to practice more to get to their base level. Even people who can’t play a song (even a simple one, like happy birthday or the national anthem) without music learn a lot by ear, though, especially if it’s something like jazz. Sometimes, what’s written on the page is not what’s actually played, depending on the style of music. (It’s the equivalent of reading between the lines.)

That being said, I know multiple musicians who cannot read music. It means nothing to them. They learn entirely by ear–listening to a song over and over and working it out. Most of these people sing, play guitar, or play the piano, but for those who play instruments like the trumpet, they’ve learned how to make a certain note on their instrument but have no concept of what that note would be on a different instrument, and they could not tell you that it’s an A or a G or a B flat or a C sharp, just that that’s how they play it.

Five minutes is longer than you think it is in music. Most of the songs I play run about 2-4 minutes, and in the longer ones–7 minutes? 11-15 for ones with multiple movements or featuring quartets/quintets with a band backup, but those are outliers for my norm–I have a lot of bars of rest where I don’t play at all. Some songs are slower and take longer; a one page song with multiple repeats and a slow tempo (say, quarter note = 70) could be the same playtime length as a more complicated song with three or four pages at a faster tempo (say, quarter note = 160) or which starts slower and then switches to a faster tempo. Some songs have a lot of repeated sections. Some of them feature solos. If you’re playing an instrument that requires you to blow air to sound it–woodwind, brass–then the more you play without getting a rest in the music, the more tired you get, and the harder it is (with brass instruments especially) to hit notes in tune. In longer songs that feature vocals, there are often instrumental breaks where the band plays and the singer gets a chance to rest, or different solos where a particular instrument is featured (piano, bass, guitar, sax, trumpet, depends on what kind of music you’re playing) as much to highlight the skill of that player as to give other people a chance to rest. With jazz music, a lot of solos are improvised. Some people are very, very good at making up a solo on the spot. They are at a skill level where they don’t need to practice to do this. Others (like me) cannot do that at all and need to write something out and try to follow that.

I know people who practice diligently for at least an hour every day, and then a three hour weekly practice with their band, to prepare for a concert in two-three months (somewhere between 15 and 45 minutes of music). I myself tend not to practice as much as I should on my own for the first month and then try to put in an additional 1-4 h/week on top of the 3 h group practice in preparation for a concert, usually practicing 1-3 times a week, depending on how much time I have and how prepared (or rather, unprepared) I feel. Most music groups will meet one night a week and expect their members to practice on their own time; depending on how busy people are and how prepared they are for something, there might be additional practices, but it can be difficult to free up more than one night a week for multiple people.

For one-off concerts that aren’t a regular thing with a regular group, I don’t tend to practice as much because that tends to be easier music. Maybe five times before the concert itself, for a single song, sometimes just playing that song once or twice with whoever I’m playing it with, sometimes working on it a little longer by myself if there’s a tricky timing/more difficult part I need to work out, but I wouldn’t spend more than half an hour on it at once. (So, with a song with a tricky part, maybe 1 h total by myself and 15 minutes total with someone else. If not a tricky part, well, maybe half an hour total. I dunno. I did a two minute song for a concert earlier this month and practiced it three times; it was a very straightforward song, and I had the melody, and I knew the melody.) That being said, I am related to people who practice once before the concert and call it good (for a song or two), 2-5 minutes, and who probably wouldn’t practice at all except they all collectively go, “I guess we should practice this once.”

tldr; different people will practice the same song for different periods of time. Some people might not practice at all on their own and just practice when they show up to the group practice, and if they’re skilled, this might not matter. If they’re less skilled, and the others practice, their lack of practice will be more evident. People can work on a song for months or for a week, depending on how easy it is and how good they are at music. Unless your characters are getting a specific song ready for a specific concert/show, they will be learning to play more than one song at once. Listening to a song they’re trying to learn will help them learn it faster, and they’ll hash out the more difficult parts in practice rather than play through the entire song with all the easy parts that they don’t need to really practice because they can already play it well. (Also, didn’t say this before, but learning the timing and rhythm is often more important than learning the notes; the notes come after.)

(tiny addition)

#ladylynse #music #asks #tbh my experience is mostly jazz concert band music and church music #with some folk and disney and pop and rock thrown in #so I dunno how much this helps #feel free to ask me to clarify #or to expand upon something #or to give you a quick run down on reading music if you think that'll be important #Anonymous

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