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yoon-kooks · 5 years

Text

Witch Hazel- Pt.4

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: FanficWriter!Jungkook, Idol!Reader, College!AU, Angst, Fluff

Summary: There are two students in your art class with a secret: you and the quiet Jeon Jungkook. You’re a problematic idol singer, infamous for your ice cold reputation and perpetual resting bitch face; he’s the artist and author behind the viral comic series based on a certain ice queen idol. After a blowup of destructive rumors, lost motivation and inevitable solitude, you stumble upon Jungkook’s comic and find a new and unexpected light.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: none

Parts: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // ?

A/N: my hope is that the idol industry can one day become a safer place for those who have dedicated their lives to making others happy ❤️

“Let me guess, you’re the type who needs to feel needed but also pushes people away?”

“How would you know that, Bunny Boy?”

“It’s my power.”

“You have powers too?” Snow blinks her pretty blue eyes. “Can you read minds?”

“I certainly can’t read minds,” Bunny Boy laughs. “But I am pretty good at reading hearts.”

“Oh yeah? What’s my heart feeling right now?”

“Well for starters, you seem to be annoyed by me prying too deep.”

“You are annoying.”

“And you also think I’m kinda cute.”

“I do not!”

You giggle into your phone screen for the hundredth time as you read through the latest Witch Hazel update. With the reveal of another character with secret powers, you wonder what Snow will make out of him. A friend? An ally? Or perhaps just someone who gets her.

Beneath the last comic panel of Snow rolling her eyes at the unofficially named Bunny Boy, you find cute little comments from the author.

“all i hope is for snow to take care of herself during this hiatus”

“even if it’s only a tiny amount, maybe witch hazel can help supplement as new snow content for now;;;;;;”

“ah i didnt mean to sound as if i were anywhere near snow’s level or anything;;;;;;”

“i just hope she knows she doesnt have to carry any burden all on her own”

“she has people on her side”

Your face doesn’t know whether to smile or shed tears, so you do a combination of both. It’s true, you’ve always felt alone. Always. No matter how many staff members it takes to produce an album or how many fans buy that album, you’ve never once felt that people could look beyond your idol music, your icy eyes, your mask.

But that’s exactly why you’re taking a break. You need to separate your worth from the music attached to your name. You need to prove to yourself that you’re more than what the critics and magazines say. And you’re only realizing it now that you can’t do it alone.

If only you had your own jk.seagull in your life. You’re sure the two of you would mesh well together.

“Where is that kid?” Taehyung pats the empty seat next to him before class starts. “He never skips class. I remember one time he literally rejected a date with a super cute girl because he ‘had to get to class’. Can you believe that?”

“Knowing Jungkook, I’d believe it,” you shrug. It does feel oddly empty without his presence, though.

“Oh really? You know all there is to know about the mysterious phenomenon that is Jeon Jungkook? It sounds like you guys got real acquainted on that date the other day.”

“It wasn’t a date, Taehyung. It was a meeting for a group project that you didn’t show up to.”

“Well it all evens out since Jungkook didn't show up today. Who knows, maybe you won’t show up tomorrow.”

“I’m sure he has a good reason for being absent. Unlike you.” You have to admit, it does worry you a little. Especially after the hints of doubt Jungkook expressed about his own beautiful art. You wish he knew how amazing of an artist he really is.

“What are you talking about? My reason was valid.”

“Having your cock sucked for five hours straight is not a valid reason, by the way.” You roll your eyes. “Let me guess, today you have a threesome scheduled after class and dinner date at 5?”

“Ouch, you don’t have to be so harsh, Y/N.” Taehyung pretends to be offended, but he doesn’t deny your comment either. “You’re really his type, you know.”

“I��m whose type?”

“Jungkook’s.”

“Where is this coming from all of a sudden?”

“I’ve said this before, but you’re a lot like Snow.”

“How?”

“In how you present yourself,” Taehyung says. “You and her both come across as cold and heartless, but somehow I don’t buy it.” He doesn’t buy what? That you’re just as much of a bitch on the inside too? Ha.

“Jungkook must have weird taste then,” you shrug. Because in your opinion, you’re not exactly an easy person to love.

“But-” Taehyung is cut off by the professor starting class. You don’t know what more he could’ve said to make you change your mind anyway.

“There won’t be any lecture for today’s class.” Your professor is busy typing away at her computer, perhaps trying to get caught up on paperwork and grading old assignments. “Instead, I want you all to take this time to work on your group projects. You may leave the classroom if you must, but remember to stay on task!”

With that, your classmates jam out of the room as if they were just freed from prison. You hear a couple of friends deciding which boba place to try out. Another group, the overachievers of the class, head somewhere outside to actually work on the project. Taehyung, too, looks as if there’s somewhere else he needs to be.

“So I-”

“Go ahead and get laid,” you sigh, shooing the boy away with your hand. “We’ll work next time when all three of us are here.”

“Thanks, Y/N! You get me,” Taehyung waves bye before dashing off.

You wave back as the hall clears out around you. It seems everyone else has found somewhere to go. Everyone except you.

But it’s fine. You’re fine.

Buzz! You jump at the sudden phone notification that seems to echo off the walls of the empty hall. Oh look, it’s a text from your only friend.

10:32AM jinnie❤️ “good morning ^O^// just checking in on you”

10:33AM jinnie❤️ “how are you holding up with everything?”

“I’m fine!” you mumble rather aggressively to yourself, sliding your ass down onto the filthy hallway floor before texting back. Your chunky guitar case sits in your lap like a baby so it doesn’t get dirty.

10:34AM Y/N “i miss seeing you at work everyday :((((”

10:34AM Y/N “lololololol jk”

10:35AM Y/N “fuck work, am i right”

10:36AM jinnie❤️ “Y/N”

10:37AM Y/N “😒”

10:37AM Y/N “im fine”

10:38AM jinnie❤️ “thats exactly what people say when theyre not fine”

But you are fine. You’re completely fine with sitting all alone in an empty hallway, texting your only friend who also happens to be your manager.

10:39AM jinnie❤️ “what are you doing now?”

You pick up your guitar and start walking away. Obviously, you can’t tell him what you were actually doing because it would worry him too much. But you can’t lie to him either.

10:41AM Y/N “if you really must know”

You wait until you arrive at your new location before answering Seokjin’s million-dollar question. You’ve found your place.

10:45AM Y/N “im practicing in the music room before my theory class starts”

He sends you the Surprised Pikachu meme but also a few supportive comments.

10:46AM jinnie❤️ “good luck!”

10:46AM jinnie❤️ “and if you ever need something, please reach out to me!”

10:47AM jinnie❤️ “ill be checking in on you every now and then, but please enjoy your time off~”

10:48AM Y/N “thank you seokjin”

With your manager off your back, you settle into the empty music classroom and pull your trusty guitar out of its case. The flat and out of tune strings remind you of how long it’s been since the last time you touched the guitar. Because despite carrying it around wherever you go, it’s all for show.

In all honesty, you’re too afraid to let others hear, and yet, part of you wants them to know. You want them to know you’re an artist in your own right—without the judgment. But that’s asking for too much from this cruel world. Especially when you know you aren’t there yet.

One by one, you turn the pegs on your guitar, fine tuning each string by ear. That’s always been your secret talent, and maybe that’s how you’ve never been off-key since the moment you said your first words. If there was one thing you had going for you as an idol, it was that.

Once all the strings are tuned, you just sit there, staring at your fingers curved naturally in the C chord position. The muscle memory is still very much ingrained in you, but so are the scars. The last time you actually held your guitar, you were told you weren’t good enough. So you ended up settling for something else.

Today, however, you want to change that. You shouldn’t let several people’s opinions determine what you can or can’t amount to just because they were the professionals of the industry who supposedly “knew” what they were doing. They didn’t know you then, and they certainly don’t know you now. They don’t even know your real name.

But that’s okay. Having a secret identity makes you feel as though you can someday become a true superhero, someone who makes the world a better place from behind the scenes. In that sense, you want to be someone like your current favorite person on the internet, jk.seagull. You don’t know him, nor do you know his real name.

All you know is that his craft makes you happy.

With the funny fanfic boy in mind, you glance up to make sure the coast is clear before taking your first strum. Despite the dullness of your old worn-out strings, what your ears hear is crisp and bright.

You aren’t sure how much time has passed since you began singing along to a melody only you know, but you’re suddenly pulled back into reality with a single mention of her from outside the classroom.

“What do you think about the Snow news?”

“It’s honestly sad.”

“With how little she contributes to her music, I really don’t think she deserves a break.”

“She should just keep going. How hard is it to sing a few songs? I hope she knows she’s letting a lot of people down just so she could relax.”

“Or better yet, she should just retire early.”

You set down your guitar on the piano bench. You’ve heard quite enough and you’re ready to slam the door on the noisy group passing by. But by the time you peek your head out from the crack, the group is already at the other end of the hall. You do, however, find a surprise sitting right outside the music room.

The boy who was supposedly too sick to come to class is too busy sketching away to notice you staring at him.

“How long have you been sitting out here?”

The tiny hairs on the back of the boy’s neck stand up as his drawing hand freezes at the sound of your voice. He turns around, looking up at you as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

“Since I started sketching.” Jungkook shows you a simple yet pretty drawing of a flowery spring field. By his art standards, it couldn’t have taken him long to draw that one page.

But it isn’t until you start flipping through the rest of the pages in the sketchbook that you realize he’d been sitting there for quite a while. Each page is similar to the last with only slight differences in between. When you fly through the pages like a flipbook, you see the whole picture.

From the first sketch of spring flowers, snow slowly covers the field until only a single flower remains in a winter wonderland. If you go in reverse, you can watch as the snow melts away until that one flower disappears amongst its brethren.

“What kind of flower is that?” You point to the one that somehow managed to blossom through the thickness of the snow. Maybe if it were colored in, you’d have a better idea.

“A strong one?” Jungkook shrugs as if he’s not the artist who knows the the answer. You hate yourself for cackling along at his lousy joke. He closes his sketchbook as a way to change the subject. “Why aren’t you in class?”

“Funny you should ask. The professor dismissed our class to work on the group projects. And then Tae ditched to go do his usual skirt-chasing shenanigans because somebody in our group didn’t show up.”

“Sorry,” the boy bites his lower lip with a hint of regret. “I didn’t really feel well enough to sit in class today.”

“Then why didn’t you just stay at home?”

“I still had this project to turn in and finish for my other class.” He raises his sketchbook. “And besides, music is the best medicine.”

You feel your cheeks burning up. The last person you expected to catch you messing around with your guitar in the music department was the art student who was supposed to be out sick. “How much did you hear…?”

“All I heard was one song…” He assures you for a slight second before going in for the kill, “…that you kept replaying over and over and over-”

“I get it. You heard a lot,” you hiss. “You better not tell anyone! Not even Tae.”

“I won’t,” he promises, chuckling at your distress. It seems the kid’s gotten comfortable enough around you to start clowning you. “It’s a nice song, by the way.”

“Really?” You want to believe him, but you have a hard time doing so. When all you’ve heard was brutal criticism for the past few years, it’s difficult to accept any compliment without feeling like there’s ill intent behind it. It feels wrong to feel good about yourself.

Besides, maybe he’s just complimenting you out of obligation. Like he’s trying to be nice, even if he doesn’t actually feel that way about your song.

“I’ll burden the pain so you don’t have to,” he says.

“What?”

“That’s a line from the lyrics, right?”

You nod.

“It’s a very Y/N thing to say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jungkook shrugs and swirls his Sailor Venus keychain around his index finger. “Just take it as a compliment, Y/N.”

If not for his soft teasing smile, your mind would still be filled with doubt. Instead, you accept the compliment and gain a tiny bit of confidence back.

“Come in for a second,” you start walking back inside the music room. “And close the door behind you.”

Jungkook does as he’s told, his eyes glued to your guitar as you pick it up off the piano bench. There, you do something you’ve never practiced but had always hoped to perform as Snow—your own acoustic version of one of your songs.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve never practiced or touched your guitar in years. You know the key, the chords, the strum pattern. And you know how to make it your own. Not Snow’s or anyone else’s.

When you’re done with your mini acoustic performance, the boy can’t help but chuckle. He’s about to clown you again. You can feel it.

“What??”

“It’s nothing.”

“Jungkook.”

“It’s seems like you don’t hate Snow as much as you lead on.”

“I was only trying to show how I would’ve done the song if I were her.”

“Ah, so you criticize Snow so much because you think you can do better?”

“Not necessarily better… just differently.” You hope that answer is enough to satisfy the boy. But it’s not. He only nods with an awfully suspicious smirk. “What now??”

“It’s cool that you want to be a songwriter.”

“I never said that I did,” you say with a slight pout and hmph. You’ve never once mentioned your true dreams to anyone besides maybe some random kid at camp when you were ten. You’d hate to announce your bold aspirations with the utmost confidence, only to flop and fail before achieving anything. You’d rather keep it a secret until you perhaps “pop-off” as the kids say.

“Sure.” He doesn’t believe you.

“Are you always this sassy when you’re sick?”

His long locks flow as he shakes his head. “I’m feeling better now, actually. Thanks to your medicine.”

Maybe the kid was faking his sickness all along. Then again, Taehyung did say Jungkook wasn’t the type to skip class under most circumstances. Perhaps there was something else that was bothering him.

“Wait, you weren’t upset about Snow’s hiatus, right?” You remember the gossip from the noisy group that had passed by earlier. The beating you took from their words still stings.

“To be honest, I was worried about her at first with everything that went on,” Jungkook says. “But I think she probably just needed some time away from all that.”

“Probably,” is all you say, doing your best to downplay the amount of relief his words gave you. He isn’t upset or let down; he just wishes the best for your well-being. And as an idol, that’s all you’ve ever asked for. “You know, you’re the nicest Snow fan I’ve ever met.”

“You know a lot of other Snow fans?” Jungkook tilts his head at your odd statement. Oh right. You’ve only really met other fans as Snow, not as Y/N. Now you sound suspicious.

“Oh yeah, for sure. My friend, Seokjin, reads Snow smut all the time,” you force out a laugh while making a mental apology to your manager. Then you decide it’s best to change the subject before you blow your cover. “Speaking of fanfiction, I need your opinion on Witch Hazel!”

“What about it?”

“The new bunny character.” You whip out your phone for direct reference of the comic. “He’s funny, right?”

“He’s good at teasing Snow,” Jungkook looks at your phone screen of the bunny saying that Snow thinks he’s cute. “I wonder if he’ll make her fall for him.”

“I want him to.” Your eyes light up without knowing. To have Snow fall in love is wishful thinking, but a large part of you craves romance deep down—even if it’s only for the fictional version of yourself. “But at the same time, he’s not Snow’s type.”

“What’s Snow’s type?”

“Huh?” You somehow managed to fuck up again, so you shrink yourself and hope to disappear. “I don’t know… Why would I know what Snow’s type is…? It’s probably not a playboy like the bunny, but I wouldn’t know that…!”

“So you think she’d like someone more… considerate?”

You nod. “Probably just someone who takes the time to get to know her.”

“I guess we’ll see in the upcoming chapters.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” You can’t quite hold back a smile. After all, your day always feels a lot better when it involves your favorite little comic.

Jungkook must’ve noticed your face because he makes a comment. “I am curious, though, as to why you like Witch Hazel so much when you clearly don’t care for Snow herself.”

“For me, it has nothing to do with Snow.” To mask your smile, you make a cute duck face instead. “Reading it just… makes me happy.” As much as you’d hate to admit it, it’s been a long time since anything has given you good vibes the way that one comic does.

“That’s good,” the boy says, gathering his things to head to his next class. “It’s the same for me with Snow’s music… in case you were wondering.” And with that, he leaves you with something to think about.

If Snow’s music is Jungkook’s medicine, Witch Hazel is yours.

By the time you get home from school, you’re still smiling like an idiot after what Jungkook had said. Snow’s music makes him happy, and the mere thought of that makes you happy. It’s in (very rare) times like this that you remember why you chose to become an idol in the first place. It’s why you endure the pain.

With your mind clouded in an unfamiliar wave of emotion, you pull out your phone and tap on Jungkook’s contact information. After changing his contact name to something cuter, you start composing a casual message just to say hi.

Jungkook. What if I told you a secret?

Delete. You’ve never deleted a message so quick. You don’t even know which secret you would’ve told the boy. That you’re his crush, Snow? Or that he’s yours? Not that you have a huge crush on him… You swear it’s just a tiny one!

Regardless, you shouldn’t be sharing any of your deepest secrets with him—at least not for now. It’s not that you don’t trust him. It’s just that it’s a tricky situation to be in.

Your eyes move from your guitar, to the stacks of handwritten sheet music beside it, to the album that won you your first award—where the pain all began. Even the most supportive fan could not imagine what you’ve given up to be the idol that you are, to be someone with a name.

The only thing you can do now is take it all back. And only then will you let Jungkook in. But until that time comes, you don’t belong to him or anyone else.

4:44PM Snow “Are you free to talk?”

4:46PM Jimin “Yeah”

#bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts angst #jungkook fanfic #btsboulangerie #bts fluff #bts imagines #jungkook x reader #bts college au #bts idol au #jungkook #bts #bangtan #witch hazel

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idkthisisjustforfanfic · 5 years

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Chapter 12 - Come Sunday

“I don’t like that melody,” I shook my head, looking over to Julian and another writer, Jamie, as we sat in one of the writing rooms at the label. The walls were a light beige, we were hidden away inside the big building--no windows showing the sky to help us keep track of time.

We’d been working on songs for three days straight--trying to find the right demo for this band that Julian was really trying to launch.

Jamie let out a sigh, it was the fourth melody I’d shot down in the last ten minutes. I strummed the same chord, looking over the words we’d scribbled on paper in front of us.

You said apologies don’t work

But I know it’s not just words that hurt

“What if we sped it up?” I asked, changing the strumming pattern to be a bit more upbeat. “I don’t know, something like this?”

Julian let his head bob from side to side, listening to me hum the words over the new tempo. “That’s not bad,” he said. “We could do a more descending melody over that.”

“That’ll be hard to synchronize all of the words over the chords,” Jamie pointed out, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin.

He was right--and in fact, I’d been too much of a stickler about every single suggestion that had been tossed into the room. All I knew was that whatever song was going to be the first I’d write with the label again had to be a good one.

It’d been three weeks since I came back from Jamaica. Three weeks since I wrote with a group of people that made it feel natural--and not that Julian and Jamie didn’t, it was more that something in me had been off since I’d left.

My brain went back to Harry, back to the studio, wondering what was happening and what they were all doing. Even here, sitting in the writing room that had no windows, I was thinking about what he thought and how he felt.

“Can we just scratch this one?” I asked, looking up to see both Julian and Jamie watching as I strummed the same three chords. Julian scrunched his nose and looked to Jamie--waiting for further input. “I have a better one, I have something that I started working on the other night.”

“Yeah--sure, okay,” Julian said, shifting in his seat and watching as I pulled my phone out from my bag on the floor. I pulled up the note, put the capo on the second fret, and strummed.

I’d like to think that you know this

But I’ve got a feeling you might not

Coulda sworn that you’d notice

Maybe it wasn’t all our fault

Cause now I know, there’s no choice but letting go

So I’ll just be with you tonight

I’ll just push all this aside

Cause I’ve got my heart in my hands

And I don’t have a plan how to hold it

Cause I knew this wouldn’t work

And we’d both end up hurt

Yeah I told ya

“It’s just the first half,” I shrugged, looking back up from the lyrics on the screen.

“That’s good, Maggie--like really good,” Jamie’s voice was quiet but sure. I looked up at him quickly, I didn’t expect the reaction to be that positive. I thought--if anything--the song would get us into a different groove. It was a different tempo, a different chord progression, different key entirely.

I wanted to give us something to just regroup, start fresh, think in a different way. “Oh,” I said, “really? I just had that chorus in my head last night and came up with the first verse.”

“Where would you go for a bridge in that?” Julian asked, leaning his arm on the table and resting his head in his hand.

“Same chords, I think, different melody.” I nodded confidently, it didn’t feel like the song that needed a huge turn around bridge. Julian nodded again and was quiet for a second--I suddenly felt like I’d just played my first demo to the first B-list producer who would listen.

Julian--who was probably one of the most reputable producers in London--was someone I’d known for so long. He wasn’t a new person or a scary producer that I’d never worked with. Yet for some reason, playing a song that was only mine felt terrifying.

I’d long gotten used to the idea of rejection. I mean, when you sell your creations for a living, you kind of have to. I got used to apologetic emails and short voicemails telling me maybe next time, kid, by the time I was 15. I’d sent so many demos to so many people that eventually, I just wanted someone to say I was good.

When I first started writing songs I’d play them alone in my bedroom. Then I played them for my parents. Then for my friends. And slowly I got more comfortable putting them out there and letting the world hear what was going on inside my head.

But, without fail, playing a song for a person in the business always felt somewhat daunting. It was the Monday morning anxiety you felt on your way into a difficult job. It was laying everything out there and hoping you don’t crash and burn.

I was more than comfortable throwing my ideas around. Words, melodies, I was even comfortable singing in front of people despite the fact that my talent was clearly in verse-crafting.

I’d brought in a few pieces of songs before--melodies, some phrases or even a verse or two, but this felt different. This song was fully formed--it just needed another verse and a bridge and it was finished. Julian seemed to think so too.

“Finish that, bring it back tomorrow.”

I was sat on my couch later that night, weeding through the words that were tangled in my head. I’d written two separate verses that could complete the song. I wrote a bridge that was fine. Nothing seemed to click though, at least until my phone buzzed on the couch beside me.

Harry’s name on the screen made me push my guitar off of my lap, abandoning it on the cushion beside me. I clawed for it quickly, my heart it in throat as I swiped it open to read whatever he’d said.

Was it an accident? Was he meaning to text a different Maggie he knew?

Can you talk?

I let my thumbs hover over the screen, completely unsure of how to respond to his vague and hopeful question. Should I be hopeful though? Was it fair to think that this was good? Perhaps he wanted to call me up to put one final nail in the coffin; let me know that he never wanted to speak to me again and was officially deleting my contact from his phone and any trace of me from his life. In all honesty, I wouldn’t blame him.

I did the time change quickly in my head. It was 2:09pm in Jamaica--if he was still there. I wondered where he was. At the studio? In a different country all together? He could be in Japan with the Queen and I would have no idea--something about that struck me as disheartening.

And how long did I wait? Should I respond quickly to show my remorse--or did I play some form of hard to get and make him wonder how I felt?

I decided to go with the former before I could overthink things too much, and typed an answer.

Sure.

My phone rang within seconds, reflecting the image on my ceiling on the screen. Not only did he want to talk, he wanted to see me.

I ran a hand over my hair once, trying to smooth it out. I wiped under my eyes to clear any smudged mascara before clicking the green button.

“Hi,” I said, feeling my face flush just looking at him. He was in a dark room somewhere--not Jamaica, the walls were too dark.

“Hi,” he said, his lips set in a straight line. He had some stubble on his chin and he looked a little tired.

“How are you?” I asked, pulling a leg up to lean back against the couch. My stomach was in knots--I simultaneously felt like I could cry and throw up, and I was probably sweating through my shirt.

“M’okay--how are you?” his words blended together a bit, his accent seemed stronger than usual. I wondered if he’d been home to see his family.

“I’m fine,” I said, shrugging slightly. I didn’t know if I should go into it--did I apologize again and tell him that I fucked up? Did he know already that I felt that way? Did it need saying?

“Listen--I uh, I just wanted to reach out to let you know that we’re doing an equal cut for everyone who wrote. Jeffrey offered to call, but I figured I’d just let you know myself. We settled on 25% broken up amongst the creative team. Writers, producers, mixers, engineers, the like.”

I nodded slowly--math wasn’t my strong suit, so I had no idea the actual percentage that would leave me with. I figured the other 25% would go to the admin side of things--the label, management, HR, publicists. And then, as per usual, Harry got around 50%.

And it was fine. I was used to it. There were often 40 people behind the scenes that got a small cut of the profit. Harry--or the band, whoever was the face of the project--got a the biggest chunk.

“So you’ll get 2.5% of every sale.”

I pulled myself back and out of the numbers. I looked at the screen again. It wasn’t terrible. That was about average. In fact, I think I made less during his days in the band. The album would definitely sell a couple hundred thousand copies. If there were any other royalties--radio plays, streaming, touring royalties, music video royalties--my income would be set for the next two years.

“Okay,” I said, offering another nod with small smile. “Harry, can we just talk for a second? I know you--”

“Maggie we’ve already talked,” he said with a sigh. He rubbed at his eyes and didn’t seem to look back at me.

I trailed off, licking my lips and waiting for him to say something else. When he didn’t, I blinked a few times. “Okay--sure, yeah. I just, I don’t know.”

“Listen, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

I nodded slowly, searching for words to change his mind. “Yeah, okay.”

And then he hung up.

It’d been a whole year since I’d stepped foot on U.S. soil, and being in Hopkins International Airport for the second time in a week felt overwhelming. I’d let Julian know that I needed some space, so a trip to Cleveland to see my parents was a given. Being on a different continent seemed to be enough distance between Harry and I that I could actually breathe.

After our business FaceTime call--which felt too professional for the nature of our previous relationship--I decided to figure out where he was. A quick google search and some social media scrolling let me know that he was, in fact, back in London. I had no idea the duration of his time in Jamaica or when he returned to the city I’d learned to call home, but I figured running into him would be the cherry on top of the shit-cake that 2016 had shaped up to be.

So, in true Margaret Mable O’Rourke fashion--according to my mother--I was running away. And now, after a week in my childhood bedroom wondering if the U.K. was really the place for me, I was headed to Nashville to see Chelsea in all of her stateside glory.

She’d begged and pleaded and I’d submitted three finished songs to Julian to make up for the time that I’d be gone--but timing was good. The duo we were working with--two girls from Manchester--wanted to record a few demos to prepare an EP of sorts for the label--letting the execs pick which song would be their first single.

When I took off for Ohio, I got a text that the song I’d played him and Jamie the other day had made it onto their mini portfolio. A week later and now I knew that my song had been chosen, and was now in a final stage of mastering for radio and streaming distribution. It was huge news--news that made my parents feel a little bit better about letting me go back to London after crying in their kitchen about my break up and the hiatus and the sudden shift that left me feeling lonely and incompetent.

So naturally, here in a bar with Chelsea in downtown Nashville kind of amped that feeling up. Because once again, it was extremely unclear to me why we were still here at 1:34am, with Chelsea giggling into the neck of her man of the night.

It was nice to see that she hadn’t changed a bit--not that it’d been so long since I’d seen her. A few months between us and Chelsea was still wearing her bright red lipstick and her hair was as blonde as ever. What had changed, though, was that I was now a miserable, pessimistic, and somewhat drunk girl in a bar in the U.S. who’d gone and fucked up a relationship that could have been something great (pun intended, I wrote that song with Harry and Julian in the Summer of 2012).

I held my drink up to my lips, letting my tongue find the straw as my eyes wandered around the room. Everywhere I looked, people seemed to be paired up. Groups of girls, groups of guys, couples sprinkled around the room with heads tilted together, laughing as the alcohol in their cups slowly disappeared.

Chelsea and her new friend, however, were much louder and much closer than anyone else in the room.

I was thankful, then, for the distraction of my phone vibrating in my back pocket. The name on my screen seemed to blur out the rest of the bar--the noise, the music, and the people seemed to dim and fade as my eyes focused in on the words.

Julian played me your song the other day, it’s really good. Congrats.

I read it three times. I stared at the punctuation and calculated the different options for the end of his sentence. Did he actually like it? Did he realize that the song was about him? Was he saying that to be nice? Was he throwing me a bone after having a too-professional conversation as if he hadn’t watched my face while he made me orgasm?

I sucked down the end of my drink and left Chelsea behind, heading for the bar to refill. More liquid courage for whatever type of response I settled on.

“Dirty Shirley, please,” I said, thankful for not having to explain what I meant. Sometimes, in London, the idea of a Shirley Temple struck people as odd. I’d gotten used to following the name with ‘sprite, grenadine, and vodka, please.’

The bartender handed me my drink with a smile, letting me disappear back into the crowd to have a moment by myself. I read the message again.

Julian played me your song the other day, it’s really good. Congrats.

Thanks for the feedback? Why did he play it for you? What did you really think? My options were endless, but none of them felt appropriate for the current lack of communication between us. So I sipped at my drink and read it again--hoping, maybe he didn’t pick up on the things that sounded eerily similar to us.

And then I read it again.

And again.

And then my drink was gone, and then my finger was pressing his name in my contact list and the phone was pressed to my ear as it rang.

“Hello?” his voice was quiet, which made me realize that it was early in the morning there--if that’s where he was.

“Are you in London?”

“No,” he said, “I’m in L.A. Where are you?”

My question surprised him--or maybe it was just the sound of my voice. “I’m in Nashville.”

“Why are you in Nashville?”

His curiosity sparked a feeling of power in me, I turned on my heel and headed for the door to find more quiet. “I’m visiting Chelsea.”

“Oh--how’s that?”

“Did you really like my song?” I changed the subject, wanting to get to the real conversation before he inevitably said he didn’t want to talk to me.

“I did,” he said confidently, his voice calm and sure. Why was he calm and sure? “Are you drunk?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head aggressively, denying the fact that there was--undoubtedly--alcohol in my system. “I’m at a bar, though.” Tossing that detail in felt like a surefire way to ignite some jealousy.

“With Chelsea?” He asked, his voice a little higher pitched.

“And some other people,” I lied, watching as the door open and closed as new people filtered into the bar. The noise got louder and then quieted, “Chelsea’s friends from work.”

“How’s she like her new job?”

“She likes it,” I said, not wanting to get too sidetracked. “Why did Julian play you the song? When did you see him?”

“Last night--he’s here for work and I’m here for meetings. We had dinner. When did you write it?”

“A while ago,” I lied again. “It’s in my catalog.”

The lying would have felt more concerning had it not been for the Dirty Shirleys. The next words came out of my mouth without much thought. “You’re kind of a jerk, though.”

He let out a quiet laugh on the other end of the line. “I’m a jerk? Why’s that?”

I sighed, somewhat hesitant to continue my sentence. He was a jerk because when I spoke to him two weeks ago he didn’t even give me the time of day. Maggie with alcohol brain didn’t really care though, at least he was listening now. “Because you didn’t listen to me,” I said.

“Maggie, I--” he started to speak but I cut him off.

“You didn’t even let me explain and you just made your assumptions about what happened.”

“I don’t know if we should talk about this now, Maggie,” his voice seemed sad and quiet, less entertained that he was a few seconds earlier.

“Then when, Harry? When will you listen to me and let me actually get a chance to talk?”

He was quiet for a second, I shoved my hand in the pocket of the leather jacket I wore. “M’not sure it’s a good idea.”’

“Of course, Harry. Of course it’s not a good idea,” I said sarcastically.

He let out a sigh, “Maggie…”

“Harry,” I shot his name back, still sarcastic and still with an attitude.

“Let’s talk tomorrow. You can sleep this off and we can talk in the morning.”

“It is morning,” I told him matter-of-factly.

“In your time zone,” he corrected.

I let out a short laugh. “Okay, fuck you.” I was getting more angry with his reluctance to even acknowledge my feelings. Sure--he had the right to feel his own, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t have any and didn’t get to share them. This wasn’t all about him, but I guess that’s what he was used to.

“Alright Maggie, I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up before responding, the anger building in my chest until it made its way to my eyes, forming as tears that threatened to spill over. I stormed back into the bar, storming past people to find Chelsea--now sat in a booth--with another drink and a different guy.

“I’m going home,” I told her, my hands on my hips as I waited for a response. She stared up at me, my words taking a second to settle in her head and find meaning.

“What? Why?”

“It’s almost closing time anyway,” I defended, ignoring her question altogether. “I’m calling an Uber.”

“Okay, alright, fine,” she said, pulling her phone up to check it. The screen lit up, she had a few notifications, but she clicked it shut quickly. “Let’s go.”

She followed me outside, glued to her screen as we waited for our ride to pull up curbside. Plenty of happy and intoxicated people stumbled by us, drunk on the winter air and the Tennessee whiskey that they’d certainly consumed. But I wondered, for a second, if Harry was as sad as I was.

Did he care? Did he wonder how I felt or wish we hadn’t fallen apart? And maybe it was silly to wish that something that had barely taken flight hadn’t crashed and burned, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it wasn’t silly to hope that someone who brought a new meaning to my life felt the same way. But I didn’t know if I’d ever find out.

He said we’d talk later. I didn’t believe him.

I woke up the next morning on Chelsea’s couch. Her flat in Nashville was smaller than what she’d had in London--but she had the same blanket that I’d curl up with back home.

“Morning,” she smiled at me as I blinked a few times to clear my vision. She was stood across the living room, leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, clutching a cup of tea. The sun filtered in through her oversized windows, letting me know that it was probably closer to noon than I’d like for it to be.

“Hi,” I groaned, pushing myself up off of the couch. I rubbed at my eyes and cleared my throat, feeling a wave of nausea hit me. “How are you?”

“How are you is the real question,” she laughed and walked to come sit on the couch. I bent my legs at my knees, making room for her to sit on the opposite end.

“What do you mean?”

She gave me a sympathetic look, sipping her tea before responding. “You called Harry last night.”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” I said, laying back down and closing my eyes, hoping to avoid the embarrassment that was sure to be showing on my cheeks.

“You called him a jerk.”

I let out a groan--I’d forgotten that part--but then opened my eyes to furrow my brow at her. “How do you know all of this? Did I tell you?”

“No, he did.”

“He did?”

She nodded. “He texted me to make sure you were okay.”

“To make sure I was okay?” I asked somewhat incredulously as I stared up at the ceiling. “What does that even mean?” What I meant, what I thought, was: no, I wasn’t okay, and it was because he wouldn’t give me a chance to figure things out.

“You were drunk,” she shrugged.

“I know, but--why does he care? He won’t even listen to me.”

“He does care, Maggie, he just--” she trailed off, looking down at her tea.

“He what?” I sat up again, keeping my eyes on her as she carefully picked out her words. Was she defending him? How much did they actually talk?

“He doesn’t know what to do.”

“Well neither do I, Chelsea. He’s the one who won’t listen. I’m willing to talk.” I said all of this as if it were old news--but I realized that I hadn't really told her much. I filled her in on Jamaica and the break up and me coming home, but I’d yet to really tell her about the conversation about the royalties via FaceTime. I also hadn’t really told her how I felt about it.

“I know, Maggie.”

“What did he say last night?”

She shrugged and seemed to look around the room, wondering whether or not to answer my question.

“Let me read your texts,” I ordered, my eyes on her face to see her reaction. Why would she hide anything? She shouldn’t have to, so I should be able to read them.

She let out a sigh and stood from the couch to fetch her phone in her bedroom. When she returned, she handed it over and sat back down.

Hi Chelsea. Are you with Maggie?

Hey, yeah I am. Everything okay?

She just called me. How drunk is she?

I guess drunk enough to call you haha

Is she alright? She seemed mad at me.

She called me a jerk.

We’re going home, she’s fine, just tired and drunk.

Sorry she called you a jerk.

It’s fine, haha. I guess she just wants to talk.

She definitely wants to talk. Do you not want to?

Not sure yet.

Just wanted to make sure she’s okay, is all. Have a good night, sorry to bother. X

I let out a sigh and looked up at Chelsea--I couldn’t really be mad that she had spoken with him. I was the one--alcohol and all--that decided to give him a call and apparently, a piece of my mind.

She stared back at me, her eyes soft and understanding as I tried to search for words. But I couldn’t find any. Because the only words that played on a loop in my head were: you fucked up, Maggie.

AN: Hi all!!!! Your love for this story is seriously amazing and I super super appreciate it. This story has been tough to write at times because it’s different than what I’m used to tbh. But alas, thanks for reading. Feedback is always welcome!!!!!

#come sunday #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fiction #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles writing #harry styles story #harry styles concepts #harry styles concept #harry styles blurb

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permets-tu-not-permettez-vous · 5 years

Text

Awake My Soul

Chapter 1: Midnight

Enjolras was lucky he had a backbone of steel or he would never have made it as a concert pianist. Or rather, it was more likely that this backbone of steel is precisely the reason he was one of the foremost concert pianists in the world. That and his stubbornness, which was almost as well-known as his deft and light touch on the keys, especially among conductors. The days were long, the hours grueling, and often the last thing that Enjolras wanted to do was sit on that cushioned stool that knew him so well and make music once more. And today, standing in his crisp freshly dry-cleaned suit, he dreaded the performance that was to start. He could hear the crowd buzzing outside, and as he peeked out from behind the curtain, he saw a large mass of people mingling through the red cushioned seats, talking and laughing. Probably trying to impress each other with how many composers they could critique without ever having touched an instrument, Enjolras thought cynically. It wasn’t that he was nervous. Enjolras was never nervous, and certainly not about playing the piano. It was that the thought of having to socialize with people after the performance, people who were all scraping to impress him by speaking abstract music theory, making him want to tear his hair out. It hadn’t always been this way. When he was young and had first discovered that he had a talent for producing emotion out of so many gleaming keys, he had been overjoyed. He spent hours in front of them, losing himself in music. He hadn’t ever looked at practicing as a chore; he had always loved those hours he had to himself, stroking those smooth ivory keys. He hadn’t really considered becoming a professional pianist until his eighth grade piano teacher Mabeuf had encouraged him to think about it, to go on tour and do various performances, to work with his local symphony. It had been hard, but it hadn’t been a struggle. Anyone who heard Enjolras play could tell he had a natural talent, and there was no question of them wanting to continue his path. His difficulties did not stem from piano playing; they stemmed from the culture surrounding the piano. From his youth, to his inexperience, to his penchant for picking eccentric composers to perform, the music world was shaken up by Enjolras’ refusal to stick to convention. This event was one that had been unavoidably cliché. He was doing a short Christmas tour performing Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, accompanied by symphonies dotted throughout the country, and even the world. Tonight he was in Paris. Enjolras would complain more, but he had to admit that though The Nutcracker was too commodified for the time of Christmas, he truly and sincerely loved Tchaikovsky’s genius. Now there was a man who didn’t give a rat’s ass about the “rules” of classical music and composed primarily from his human experience in order to make some of the most incredibly moving and evocative music ever played. So though Enjolras loved Tchaikovsky, he just hated that every Christmas the classical world trotted out the tired Nutcracker and then put it back in its box to gather dust until the next winter. Tchaikovsky had written such transformative music, and he was remembered for a toy that came to life to visit a Sugar Plum Fairy. He was such a brilliant three dimensional person, and the consumerism of art had made him two dimensional, flat, and worn-out. He shook himself. He needed to get out of this headspace before the concert. He always didn’t play as well when he was in his head. He checked his watch. Soon he’d be stepping out on the stage, and seating himself before an expensive piano as the entire room filled with costly clothes and extravagant jewelry held their breath in anticipation. He headed back to the dressing room. On nights like this, he wished Joly hadn’t made him quit smoking.

* * *

The afterparty was about as dull as Enjolras had expected. For a blessed two hours he had practically forgotten the audience was there and immersed himself in Tchaikovsky’s bold chords and tender melodies, only resurfacing at the thunderous and yet politely refined applause that followed his final piece. Then it had been back to the reality of old white people who were bowing and scraping and using large words to impress him. That wasn’t even the worst. Enjolras detested those who knew nothing about music giving overly loud commentary on music that they had clearly read from the Le Monde or some other critique because it was incongruent with what they thought or said. This party had all of his least favorite things, people who wanted him to meet old friends, who asked him about his inspiration, who probed his opinion on the “death of appreciation of the fine arts that is currently occurring.” When Enjolras saw Combeferre from across the room, he almost melted in relief at a familiar face. He excused himself politely from his insipid conversation and made a beeline towards Combeferre, who was speaking with one of the cellists in Paris’s orchestra. Seeing Enjolras coming his way, he also disentangled himself from his conversation and met him halfway, champagne flute clutched elegantly between his fingers. “Thank God you’re here,” Enjolras breathed, feeling the anxiety in his chest loosen at just the sight of his face - calm brown eyes framed by neat horn-rimmed glasses, smile lines beginning to form at the corners of his mouth.

“That bad tonight?” Combeferre inquired coolly, taking a neat swig from his champagne flute in a way that looked elegant but conveyed to Enjolras that he too was tired of the elitism and racism that he had faced that night. “I’ve had several people look away and clear their throats or straight up leave every time I even allude to the fact that Tchaikovsky was gay.” “I see. Pretty bad, then.” “I need to get out of here,” Enjolras said, more to himself than Combeferre. “Want to go catch a drink at some hole in the wall bar where no one knows shit about classical music?” Combeferre quirked his brow. Enjolras calculated quickly - he had definitely spent enough time at this party to argue that he hadn’t skived it off. “Give me ten minutes to change and get my shit. Meet me in your car by the green room.” “It sounds like this is a high-stake diamond robbery.” Combeferre set his now empty champagne glass on a nearby table, nonchalantly, as if he planned on spending the entire evening here. Sometimes Enjolras truly and deeply loved Combeferre. “You haven’t met Javert,” Enjolras said soberly.

* * *

Combeferre drove them through the rain-washed streets of Paris after the hasty getaway that had included creeping through the parking lot without their lights on, despite the fact that Combeferre had adamantly wanted to obey the law. Combeferre was himself a classical musician and a fellow Frenchman. He played the viola, and though Enjolras knew relatively little about the viola, he loved the way that Combeferre played it. He was currently at the Lyons Symphony, but had come to Paris just to see Enjolras. They had played together in the Berlin Symphony for several years, and had bonded over their position as outsiders, fed up with the snobbery and elitism that pervaded the entire institution. One night they had openly admitted to each other how often they had almost left the music world behind because of the exhausting pace that it set for everyone, but more importantly because of the micro aggressions they saw daily. They had vowed together on that night to tough it out together - to stay to welcome the other “outsiders” that would come. And they had been fast friends ever since.

They found a little bar at a safe distance from the symphony hall, and ordered some drinks. They settled in, shedding their various layers. Enjolras was relieved and also impressed to see that Combeferre had managed to change out of his well-tailored suit and into a sweater and jeans. It made them more inconspicuous. “So - how are you finding Lyons?” Enjolras asked without preamble. He was curious. Combeferre had been there about three months, and Enjolras was itching to hear about it. Combeferre toyed with his drink, poking the straw at the ice that was sticking to the sides. “It’s alright. It’s always a little hard in the beginning. It’s nice to be in France again, quite honestly.” “I can believe it. France has its problems, but I would take it over Berlin most days.” And it was true. Enjolras like Berlin, but something about France made the fire reignite in his blood. Combeferre grinned. “I almost forgot how much you love France.” “Impossible. I’m told I’m very memorable.” “And modest too.” Combeferre shot back, before closing his mouth around his straw for a pull. “My enviable qualities aside, how is it besides being in France?” “Better than Berlin I think. Don’t get me wrong - the social circles like the donors and the regulars - they are more snobbish. But the people in the actual symphony and the conductor are much better than they were in Berlin.” “There’s always a trade-off,” Enjolras commented, rolling his eyes slightly. Combeferre shrugged. “I’d rather get shit from people I only have to see once a month than every day.” “Yes, but since they are the ones with the money, we let them think they’re right and let them act however they want even though they don’t know shit! It just means the institution of classical music never changes because none of us ever get the courage to tell a few rich people off now and again!” Combeferre shot him a look, and Enjolras deflated. “Yeah, I know. Not tonight.” “Tell me about how it’s going on your end,” Combeferre said, switching the subject. Enjolras exhaled loudly. “I feel so exhausted and worn out. I think my music has lost some of its edge because I’ve let all these toxic experiences associated with my playing seep into it.” “What do you mean to do about it?” Combeferre met Enjolras’ gaze steadily across the table, both an acknowledgment of the difficulty it had taken for Enjolras to utter those words and a steady encouragement. “I don’t know. Why do you think I will do something about it?” Enjolras asked, surprised. “Because you’re a man of action. You see a problem - you do something.” “It’s just such a big problem,” Enjolras said, trailing off. “Maybe I just need a different scene.” Combeferre sat up straighter. “Wait! I know just the thing!” His face was alight with possibility, and Enjolras felt himself being drawn in. Enjolras shot him a confused look. “What do you mean?” “When does your tour finish?” “Next week. And don’t get me wrong - I am counting the days.” And he was. Just six more days and then he was blissfully free of the Nutcracker. Javert already had a lot of plans for things to do next, but nothing had yet been finalized. “Well….” Combeferre lowered his gaze, stirring his drink with a straw, collecting his words carefully. Enjolras could tell he wasn’t sure how he would take this suggestion. “Well, what?” Enjolras said, slightly curious, but also impatient. “Out with it.” “One of my friends, Courfeyrac. I think I have mentioned him to you.” Combeferre met Enjolras’ eyes as he racked his brain. Then it came to him. “Kind of short? Curly hair? Everything he says is a rainbow?” Enjolras asked. “You could say that, I suppose,” Combeferre laughed. “He’d love that description.” “What about him?” Enjolras asked, his curiosity only heightening. “He’s a ballet dancer at the Ballet de l'Opéra national de Paris.” Enjolras whistled. “Good for him. That takes hard work. Isn’t it the oldest ballet company in France?” Combeferre nodded, his smile fading from his face. “And he puts the hard work in - he’s amazing. But anyways, I was talking to him earlier and he said that they are looking for a pianist for their upcoming performance. They want a live pianist. It’s a performance of Giselle, but they wanted to try something a little different. They haven’t found anyone yet, so Courfeyrac said to keep my ear out for any dissatisfied concert pianists who wanted to try something new.” Enjolras considered it. It was an interesting thought, and he always wanted to fly in the face of convention. But also, he wasn’t sure how much of the ballet world he could take either. That industry wasn’t exactly welcoming – it went through dancers more quickly than pointe shoes. “I don’t know.” Enjolras said simply. Combeferre nodded. “Just think about it. I mean, it can hardly hurt your career. You’re one of the best pianists in the world.” Enjolras blushed slightly. He wasn’t modest, but it made him uncomfortable when people made those kinds of comments to him. They moved on to different and lighter topics, but he kept the thought in the back of his mind even after he and Combeferre parted ways and he went back to his empty and muffled hotel room, feeling almost separate from the world that continued to move around him. The next day as he disembarked from his plane on to the soil of Copenhagen, he gave Combeferre a call. It looked like Enjolras was about to enter the world and tradition of ballet. He didn’t let himself think about it too much. He just wanted a change of pace, to be able to stay in one place for an extended period of time, avoiding the public eye for a couple of months. Or so he told himself. At the pit of his stomach he felt a clench of nerves that he hadn’t felt in years. He could only hope it was a good sign.

AO3 Link

#I hope you guys like it #please come yell in my inbox about this so I get ideas/inspo/motivtaion to keep going #have a good chunk of the second chapter already written #my writing #awake my soul #enjoltaire #exr #les mis #les miserables #les amis

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t-i-n-y-d-i-n-o · 6 years

Text

Song for Him

So I’ve decided to expand on my piece Swapped, I have also started a page for the piece called @swappedshawn

This is just a little blurb, but if you’re interested, give it a follow. @shawnm521 helps with all of the Instagram posts and all of the cool stuff on there. I just do the writings haha

Let me know what you think of this one, I enjoyed writing some more boyfriend!non famous!Shawn

Warnings: I don’t think there are any honestly

Reblog and leave comments and as always, please enjoy ~T-Rex🦖💕

You could feel him pulling away, could feel him putting distance between you both. If that were even possible, with the almost 14,000 miles between you both now. Shawn was home in Toronto, you were in New Zealand. Promoting your new album release and the new upcoming tour you have scheduled for after the first of the year.

You knew it would be hard, but you hadn’t realized how hard. You missed him like you missed being on stage, you missed him like you missed singing. But you didn’t know how hard it would be on Shawn. For him to see all of the pictures of you with fans, a smile on your face.

He couldn’t help but feel left out, he just wouldn’t say anything. How could he? He didn’t want to ruin your good time with your crew. Shawn just didn’t realize how much of himself would be missing every time you walked into a plane.

Or how much he would miss sharing hot cocoa with you at 2 am because neither of you could sleep. Or the way you cuddled into him because you were cold and just wanted his arms around you for a little longer. He didn’t realize he was pushing you away and cocooning into himself until he was on the phone with you.

“Shawn?”

“Hmm? Yea?” He murmurs, dragging his eyes away from the large windows in your living room. He had been spending the night here for a few nights now, wanting to smell your body wash.

“Are you listening?”

“Kind of?” You let out a soft sigh, pulling your leg up towards your chest. Sitting in your hotel bed you rest your chin on your knee.

“I love you.”

“Love you too.” He replies quietly, voice sounding far off. You can feel the tears welling in your eyes as your heart cracks a little more. You couldn’t be the one causing his pain, you never wanted that.

“What time is it there?” You ask him softly, listening to him shuffle around. No doubt checking the watch that he cherished dearly.

“11:35.”

“You should get some sleep bubba.” You tell him quietly, getting a hum of response from him. Looking up as Andrew comes into your room, his nose buried in his phone.

“I’ll talk to you later...text me when you get up?”

“Okay, I will.” You chew on your lower lip as you hang up the phone. Shawn letting his drop to the couch next to him as he continues to stare at the Toronto skyline.

“Hello?”

“Did I wake you?”

“Well...it’s after 11:30, so yea you woke me up. What do you want?” Aaliyah grumbles, rolling around in her bed and rubbing at her eye.

“Is it wrong of me to want her here...I want to be able to be with her all of the time. I feel so left out when I see the pictures she’s posted of them all having a good time without me.” Shawn whispers, feeling the tears welling in his eyes. Aaliyah takes a deep breath, pushing her hair back.

“It isn’t wrong Shawn...but...man up dude. Tell Y/N how you feel. She is one of the most understanding people I’ve ever met. And she loves you so much, if you tell her I know she’ll be there to help you. You guys are like peanut butter and jelly, nothing could split you two up.” The 15 year old says, getting a soft wet chuckle to leave her brother’s mouth.

“You always know what to say.” He murmurs, rubbing at his face a bit and looking at the night lights outside of the window again.

“Well...yea, I am pretty smart. But talk to her, please. Before I do.”

“Okay, okay I will. When we talk tonight, I’ll tell her how I feel.” Shawn responds, kicking off his boots and stretching his long legs out.

“Good, now I’m going back to sleep.”

“I love you Liyah”. The older boy murmurs, yawning softly behind his hand.

“I love you too S.” They both hang up their respective phones, the boy’s eyes beginning to droop even more. Before he’s falling asleep, sprawled out on the large sectional that holds so many memories.

“What’s wrong?” Andrew asks as he looks at you, sliding his phone into his pocket.

“Do you think we could set up a conference call with Teddy and Emma?” You ask, stepping out of bed straightening out your baby blue t-shirt.

“Uh, I mean we should be able to. It’ll be late for them, but I’m sure they’ll listen.” He responds following you from your hotel room. Watching as you track down Lynda and Cez, getting all of you into a board room.

“I want to release ‘Never Let You Go’.” You tell your crew, leaning up against the table.

“Um...it’s not scheduled for another three weeks babe.” Teddy says through the phone sitting in the middle of the table.

“I know, I know. I just...he needs to hear it. I can’t be there for him right now, but if he hears this song...then, then maybe he’ll feel me.” You say, voice going softer towards the end. Looking down at your hands and rubbing your thumb across the little Canadian leaf you have tattooed across your left middle finger. Not seeing the looks from the three people in the room with you.

“Okay, okay we can do it. But he better appreciate us.” Emma says, sighing softly as she almost feels your heartache from across the world.

“Thank you, thank you guys. So much, I love you.” You tell both of your producers, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Yea yea pipsqueak, we love you too. Now let us do our magic. While you go do yours.” Teddy tells you, causing a chuckle to flow across the room. Lynda and Andrew reaching out to grab their phones, all of you saying your goodbyes.

“You, missy have an interview. Get going, we’ll make sure you’re back before we release the song.” Lynda says looking at you, you wrap your arms around her tightly.

“Thank you.” You murmur, feeling her squeeze you back just as tight.

“You’re welcome.”

~few hours later~

Shawn groans softly as he feels his phone vibrate again. Another chime going off near his head, causing him to tilt away from it. Before the vibrating buzzes through the cushion next to him. He picks up his phone to see the time and groans softly as the light goes across his face.

There’s a text from you and another notification from Instagram from you. A YouTube notification also from you. He clicks over to Instagram first, heart speeding up when he sees the few fan pages he follows for you having blown up. His name in the mentions and a Polaroid picture of a topaz colored neon heart posted everywhere.

He finds your post next, seeing the same picture with ‘Never Let You Go’ written in the caption underneath along with 12/31 ❤️. He quickly moves over to YouTube, hitting the video from your page and closing his eyes as the opening chords from your piano start up.

His entire being seeming to liquify as your voice filters out. Sounding so sincere and so heart felt that he can see you there. He can imagine you in the studio performing this. Maybe it brought tears to your eyes, because it’s bringing tears to his. Listening to the way you talk about him so smoothly, like it’s as easy as breathing.

He listens to the song three times before hitting over to your texting thread. His heart feeling lighter than it has in weeks, as he sends you a message. Before dropping his phone to his chest, and wiping at his face.

“I’ll never let you go either baby.” Shawn whispers into the dead of night in your condo. Even if you were thousands of miles away, he knew he had your heart. Just like he had your’s.

Taglist

@planstonightbaby @lavieenbananabread @begginyouformendes @esoltis280 @nervousaroundmendes @rosecth @sinfulshawn @muffinmendussy @particular-mendess @song-bird-shawn

#shawn mendes #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes x reader #shawn mendes imagine #Swapped continued #boyfriend!shawn #non famous!shawn #photography student!shawn #famous!reader #little bit of angst #fluff #fluffy

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regrettablemusicreviews · 7 years

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Kid A - Radiohead

Does anyone remember when Kid A was released? I mean, I know I don’t, but looking at original reviews it’s easy to see how the band that “saved rock” had completely fallen in on themselves in a pile of self-indulging and ‘too experimental’ experimental rock. Mojo can be quoted as saying “upon first listen, Kid A is just awful”, and the Melody Maker called the album “tubby, ostentatious, self-congratulatory, look-ma-I-can-suck-my-own-cock whiny old rubbish”. While many other critics saw the merit of Kid A, the album was incredibly divisive for reviewers and listeners alike. Those listeners that did like what they heard would argue that dissenters “just didn’t get it”, and that “you just have to wait for it to click”, while those on the other side could easily just call these preachers “pretentious, pompous, and looking for something that just wasn’t there”.

When it comes to my opinion, I don’t stop short of calling this album probably one of the best of all time. From those first few notes on “Everything In Its Right Place” to the dancing and luxurious piano sending off “Motion Picture Soundtrack”, Kid A is a showcase in excellence. Radiohead, firstly pioneers in alternative rock with the excellent OK Computer, had gone from guitars and melody to layers, textures and rhythms, while still retaining the same themes and conjuring similar emotions as their past three records. The band pick up new instruments, incorporating the Ondes Martenot, pedal organ, strings, and a brass section, along with the standard guitar, bass and drums. Kid A is still called one of the most influential albums of all time, with its effect felt everywhere in music today, and this distinction is utterly and completely well-deserved.

Yorke, after suffering burnout as a result of OK Computer, held himself up in a cottage, fundamentally in the middle of nowhere, with nothing more than a few copies of Aphex Twin and Autechre, a grand piano, and the beautiful landscapes around him. What better way to introduce the listener of this record than with the song that Yorke first wrote after pushing for this extreme change of direction. It’s the first few notes of “Everything In Its Right Place” that set the tone for where this album is, or isn’t, going. They completely fill all the space available. The lyrics are abstract and repeated. Meaning can be derived from the way Radiohead were so affected after OK Computer and subsequent touring.

Yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon

is repeated four times, and what is implanted into the listener’s head is one of dread, as there are notions of waking up with a sour taste in your mouth. Always revert to this idea of burnout the band had suffered with. Other lyrics further expunge feelings that accompany this trepidation for every day that comes, with notions of being lost.

What what is that you tried to say? What what was that you tried to say? Tried to say Tried to say Tried to say Tried to say

These lyrics are set against a backdrop of growing manipulated synthesisers and vocals, the latter of which are incoherent enough to be able to find it impossible to derive much meaning from. Ending the song, the noise drains out into silence. The synthesisers that once utterly filled the air are now gone, revealing a new world of Radiohead, leaving you rethinking what you thought you knew of their sound, and wondering what would come next.

Secondly, we have the title track, “Kid A”. No sound begins the track, but from the distant comes a ticking and whirring. You can’t quite pinpoint what or where it is, but once it arrives, the calming piano keys and charmingly produced drums couch the listener in a place of comfort. The two instruments work over each other, but they keep time. Nearly incomprehensible vocals are too added to the mix, and without any indication as to what’s being said, one is not sure what to make of it. Once they are found out however, a different story emerges, and one can feel trapped in a soundscape that looks nice, but is actually terrifying. I’ll leave you to find out what Yorke is actually saying. It’s a much better experience finding out after those first few listens. Instrumentally, the drums ramp up. The lyrics are essentially nonsensical, but this lack of direction itself adds to the unease. “Kid A” starts off as an innocent fairytale, but alike to their original stories, turn into something disconcerting, making the track in my opinion, akin to a Brothers Grimm tale. The last half of “Kid A” reflects this, with an incredible use of bass and the incorporation of the snare in contrast to the calmer sounds. The soundscape begins with one of wonder. What happens next is up to the listener. For me, it becomes one of fear.

While “Kid A” never ‘picks up’ in a way, “The National Anthem” is probably the inverse of such, starting with a bassline that goes down as one of my all-time favourites. It acts as the unrelenting groundwork from which we see build a soundscape that is akin to a jazz traffic jam. The bass opens the track, never straying, and never relenting. With just four notes on two strings, the rest of the sounds are free to do what they want. With the drums, this varies from the snare to the cymbals, again never straying from time. Surrounding the listener is a claustrophobic system of sounds from O’Brien, which he masterfully deploys. Halfway through begins the insanity. One lone trumpet follows the beat, but soon a riot of jazz follows, all playing against each other, all playing their own solos, and all having no regard for what is happening, bar that bassline. One quick lull is not enough to keep them at bay, as each time they come back stronger, and harder. Again, this bassline. It. Just. Doesn't. Stop. The listener is drawn all over the place, from bass, to drums, to all over the cacophony that is the jazz section. No one who listens to this song can stay in one place, and as the bass and drums finally stop, the jazz is left on its own, like a cartoon that’s just found it the platform it was standing on was just pushed out from under them. They give one last look at the camera, and then fall.

“How To Disappear Completely” next, and this is probably the closest the listener is going to get to an OK Computer-esque track, but Jonny Greenwood’s weeping strings offer a new dimension to the “Exit Music (For A Film)” and “High and Dry”’s of Radiohead’s discography. Yorke’s vulnerable falsetto stands out alone among the wailing instrumentals.

That there, that's not me I go where I please I walk through walls I float down the Liffey

I'm not here This isn't happening I'm not here I'm not here

This track is ethereal, lachrymose, and is like an out-of-body-experience for the listener. Near the end of the track, Yorke’s vocals get pulled under the tide of the instrumentation. The overbearing strings get the better of him, and he drowns in the ocean of chaos, self-loathing and depression. The instrumental “Treefingers” follows, offering a moment of reflection. O’Brien’s guitar is calming, again ethereal, as is a common trait of the record, and the listener can relax after the emotionally-draining first half.

As the processed guitar drowns away, the punchy drums and classic electric guitars return for their first proper outing on “Optimistic”. Selway here provides a lovely opening drumbeat, akin to a stomping battle, and the guitars allow Yorke to sing a fantastic melody, with his vocals giving well to a glorious unleashing of their musical prowess near the end of the track. Yorke’s falsetto overshadowing it all, Selway massacres his cymbals and toms intermittently, as Jonny Greenwood and O’Brien’s guitar interlock. Lyrically, the song provides an upturn in emotions. Yorke has disdain for a society rife with social- and economic-Darwinism, whilst providing the listener with lines of assurances of their efforts in a world that is profoundly just unfair.

Flies are buzzing around my head Vultures circling the dead Picking up every last crumb The big fish eat the little ones The big fish eat the little ones Not my problem give me some You can try the best you can You can try the best you can The best you can is good enough

“Optimistic” ends in a groovy instrumental that leads us into “In Limbo”, opening with less rumbling drums and a guitar that rings. This track’s instrumentation is floaty, rising us above a station we deserve to be at, in parallel with the lyrical themes. It feels directed at those blinded by their own ego, as they’re told

You're living in a fantasy world You're living in a fantasy world

The ending whirs out into silence, and the next track is probably Radiohead’s greatest departure from their previous sound yet. “Idioteque” opens with an electronic drum beat and background synths. The snare is as processed as it can get, lacking any real punch bar the electronic run-off. The four chord synth sample from Paul Lansky repeats throughout the track, and the beat created is utterly infectious and glorious. The kick bubbles way out of proportion and Yorke’s lyrics on this track could be analysed for days. One verse for example;

Ice Age coming, Ice Age coming Let me hear both sides, let me hear both sides, let me hear both Ice Age coming, Ice Age coming Throw it on the fire, throw it on the fire, throw it on the We're not scaremongering This is really happening, happening We're not scaremongering This is really happening, happening Mobiles skwerking, mobiles chirping Take the money and run, take the money and run Take the money!

There’s so much imagery and many metaphors hidden in here that it would take hours for me to comprehensively research and write about it. The messages are obviously apocalyptic, with references to an ice age, bunkers, and overbearing technology. The possibility of this being in reference to climate change seems possible, especially when coupled with the ‘scaremongerers’, a common critique from deniers, and Yorke’s outspoken stance.

Next is “Morning Bell”, a song that takes advantage of the mundanity of life, opening with a repetitive and interesting 5/4 drum beat, Yorke’s lyrics seem almost nonsense, but their common theme is the monotonous nature of life. We’ve all heard these lines before.

You can keep the furniture

Where'd you park the car?

Clothes are all over the furniture

Now I might as well

There isn’t too much more that can be derived from this track, as the delicate guitars and careful bass operate under everything, this track is a theme of itself. We all want to escape the mundaneness of life, but it will always catch up with us eventually.

Finally, we end Kid A with “Motion Picture Soundtrack”. Bittersweet and depressing, here Yorke muses over a lost lover, a lost soul mate, as the haunting organ underpins his voice.

Red wine and sleeping pills Help me get back to your arms Cheap sex and sad films Help me get where I belong

Drugs and alcohol provides the solace after such heartbreak, and the idea of a beautiful suicide emerges in Yorke’s voice. This track is overpowering with emotion, but it is for the best.

Stop sending letters Letters always get burned It's not like the movies They fed us on little white lies

And this is where we hit the end of the track, the end of the album, and the end of a paradox of tracks. Pitchfork said it best:

“It's cacophonous yet tranquil, experimental yet familiar, foreign yet womb-like, spacious yet visceral, textured yet vaporous, awakening yet dreamlike, infinite yet 48 minutes.”

And that’s exactly what it is. It’s everything I want from an album, and I’ll continue listening to it for the rest of my life.

Finally, the last keys of the organ play, and Yorke’s final line is let out.

I will see you in the next life

I sincerely hope so Thom. I really do.

Songs I Think You’ll Like: 1. Everything In Its Right Place 4. How To Disappear Completely 6. Optimistic

Personal Favourites: 3. The National Anthem 6. Optimistic 8. Idioteque

Score: 9.6 out of 10

#radiohead #kid a

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