Chapter Text
How is it that music can
without words, evoke our laughter, our fears,
our highest aspirations?
There was something wonderful about hearing a composition being brought to life.
Lines on a paper becoming sound. Little notes and breaks and rhythms filtering through the concert hall. It filled the space with beauty and elegance, and as the pianist's fingers moved quickly over the keys, Dongmin wondered just how many audience members were lost in the noises, lost in the creation the pianist had made.
Composers were able to jot their ideas down onto paper. Dongmin was steadfast in his belief that sometimes a good piece was not written, necessarily, by a grand musician. Sometimes it was a combination of intelligence and a good ear, and thus a piece would be born unto the world. Now, whether or not that musician could play the piece well and accurately was up for debate, and it was a debate that Dongmin quite adored engaging in. He had heard one too many students of various instrumental backgrounds compose pieces that, on paper, seemed magnificent. He had heard one too many of those same students absolutely ruin the piece with bad timing, horrendous skills, a lack of proper technique.
Worse, even, was when students would fluff up a composition that was already a masterpiece. Dongmin did not want to hear Bach's Double Violin Concerto played with electric violins in a frenzied, out-of-rhythm manner, nor did he believe that Pluto: The Renewer should ever be an official addition to Holst's original suite.
It took a good musician, a brilliant musician, to play a piece of music in the way the composer had intended for it to be played. It took a good musician, a brilliant musician, to capture an audience while performing an age-old piece, to inspire interest and adoration within music that others had already heard thousands of times before.
And, so, as the pianist on stage finished his final notes, Dongmin moved with the crowd, giving him the standing ovation he deserved, smiling widely and clapping so hard he thought his fingers would fall off. The man, jittery and nervous, tried to remain calm and composed, but his lips pulled up in a grin, and rather than bowing, he waved out at the audience. Dongmin rolled his eyes, but refused to stop clapping or to sit down.
After all, the man had created the song. Even if it was written years and years ago by some deceased composer, even if many others had played the song before this pianist, had spruced it up or “perfected” it, this pianist had still managed to capture the hearts of everyone in the concert hall, had stayed true to the original while still creating a masterpiece.
Dongmin smirked as the audience died down, taking their seats in anticipation for the next pianist. He hadn't expected anything less from Myungjun. After all, he had liked to think that he taught Myungjun everything he knew about music and pianos and creation .
And Myungjun had succeeded. He brought the piece to life.
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Backstage was loud, full of chattering and laughter and compliments. Dongmin pushed through the crowds of people greeting their loved ones, making his way to where a shorter, younger pianist stood, awkwardly twiddling his thumbs and glancing around at the faces. His eyes lit up when he caught sight of Dongmin, and he hurried forward, meeting the man halfway.
“Dongmin!” he exclaimed, his soft voice full of relief. “I thought you told me you'd be back here the moment it ended!”
“I tried,” Dongmin responded. He held out the flowers he had bought earlier, a lovely bouquet of yellow tulips. Myungjun gasped when he saw them, and Dongmin couldn't help but smile again. “I forgot I had left these in the car, though, and I wanted to give them to you.”
Myungjun cooed, taking the flowers and gently bringing them to his face in order to smell them. He seemed satisfied enough, glancing back over at Dongmin and grinning widely. “You didn't have to get me flowers, Minnie. It isn't like we're dating or anything. I mean, don't most people buy flowers for their loved ones, or for family members younger than they are?” Myungjun scoffed, but he certainly didn't look as if he was willing to relinquish his flowers so readily. “Besides, I would have rather you been here the moment the concert ended.”
Dongmin hummed in response, nodding his head, and then he reached a hand out. “So I suppose you would rather not have them?”
“I never said that! ” Myungjun pulled the flowers in closer to his chest, his lower lip jutting out in a pout. “You've given them to me, so no take-backs, okay?”
Dongmin liked Myungjun. As weird as he was, as unconventional as he could be, Dongmin truly cared for him as more than just a student. He was a valuable friend, someone who made Dongmin laugh easily and smile easily, and he had never quite met anyone like him.
There was an issue, however, when it came to music. Myungjun, for all of his skill and ability to follow the rules, often questioned why he couldn't play music a different way. And, now, as Dongmin congratulated him on his best performance yet, he could tell that Myungjun's questions were coming yet again. The boy's face screwed up slightly in thought, and he shifted on each foot, before finally saying, “It was good.”
“It was more than good. Your first performance in such a large venue, and you already played better than most of the men that came before you.”
Myungjun shook his head. “I don't think so. I think they played better. Years of practice, I guess.” He sighed. “It was pretty, I guess. It just felt rigid.”
Dongmin knew what Myungjun was referring to. Back when he first started teaching Myungjun, at the urging of Myungjun's mother, who longed for Myungjun to become just as famous as Dongmin himself had become, Myungjun had always complained. He hated sitting rigid, he argued, he wanted to slouch more. He hated moving his fingers mechanically, he fussed, he wanted them to flow as if swimming through space. He especially hated following along with the notes and copying each and every one of them just as precisely as thousands of other pianists had before him.
He didn't understand the beauty in the technicalities, as Dongmin had come to. He referred to them as chains , as barriers to creating true beauty.
Dongmin didn't understand Myungjun's reluctance, however, to play a piece as the composer had written. He had offered different pieces for Myungjun to try, things that were more challenging or more bright, but Myungjun had found those compositions a little too difficult to follow along with. Besides, he had always stated, it was still following rules someone else had set forth.
Myungjun had also expressed desire, once or twice, to give up the piano. Or, at least, to give up playing at concerts, even if he was getting astonishingly more amazing day by day, even if he was going to make a name for himself, what with his skill set and his good looks, and (though Dongmin liked to remain humble most of the time) because of his status as Dongmin's student.
Already, other performers were looking over at the two, eyes remained solely on Dongmin himself. He heard whispers around him, people telling their families, “ That's Lee Dongmin,” and he saw faces lit in recognition of his famous name. Dongmin had grown used to this, though, and so he regarded the people with disinterest.
Myungjun, on the other hand, shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “It's getting crowded in here.”
“It's always been crowded in here,” Dongmin responded.
Myungjun bit down at his lip, obviously not enjoying all of the attention that was being directed towards Dongmin, and he muttered, “I think I want to quit the piano again, Dongmin.”
Not again. Dongmin held back a groan, knowing his initial, gut reactions typically forced Myungjun to angrily defend his position. He had learned that if he simply nodded his head and listened along to whatever it was Myungjun had to say, then it would all escape his system, and he would be good the very next day for his lessons and practices.
Still, he felt that he couldn't very well let it go, especially when he had fans around, fans who, upon hearing Myungjun's words, now looked down at the older boy in shock and surprise.
Dongmin's reluctance to take in another pupil was infamous. He had lost count of how many promising pianists he had turned down. He thought they could make it, possibly, but he worried they would become as experimental and as dangerous as Myungjun was. There was always a desire in bright, passionate pianists to toss aside the rule book and to go their own route, to create their own brand of music.
Dongmin liked to think he only put up with Myungjun's interesting thoughts because they were best friends, and because Myungjun would always cave and reluctantly admit that perhaps it was well enough to stick to what the guidelines directed.
Other people, those who were aware of Dongmin's lack of pupils, were listening now, as his one and only pupil declared that he would quit right after such an amazing concert.
It wouldn't do good for Dongmin's image at all, and so Dongmin hurriedly pulled Myungjun aside, taking him down the hallway and finally finding somewhere empty enough to talk.
“ Again ,” Dongmin echoed, using Myungjun's earlier words. “You want to quit the piano again .”
Myungjun nodded. He looked rather upset, hands gripping tightly at his flowers and his bottom lip chewed on once more.
(Dongmin hoped he had remembered his chapstick; Dongmin also hoped he would forgo his anxiety-ridden habit one of these days.)
“You know me better than anyone,” Myungjun pointed out. “Playing the piano is...it's fun, I guess, but I hate taking people's works and just copying them. I mean, if I wanted to hear it, I could just look online for the song and listen to it that way. I spend hours and hours in my music. I hardly get much sleep the week before a concert, because I'm pouring over the music, studying the notes, ingraining it all into my brain. And then I play it at the concert, and it just sounds like every other person who's ever played that song.” He sighed, one hand coming up to run through his hair, and, in effect, ruining the slicked style Dongmin had worked on for an hour that morning. “I wanted to do something special and unique, and instead I'm just performing pieces that everyone's already heard a thousand times over.”
Dongmin nodded his head, acting as if he understood, while he truly did not. He thought each piece sounded beautiful. He thought he could listen to them a thousand times over, even if Myungjun hated that thought. He didn't know why Myungjun would want to change something that people already adored. “I've told you before, though, Myungjun, that what you do with the music is special and unique. You take this piece that, by all accounts, everyone should be sick of. You take it, and you still manage to keep their interest. You should have seen the audience; they could hardly take their eyes off of you. I could hardly take my eyes off of you.”
“And, yet, you still had time to gauge their reaction,” Myungjun teased.
Dongmin snorted. “Hardly any time at all. A quick glance around me, and the corner of my vision, showed that people were enchanted with the music that you play.” He smiled brilliantly. “And I overheard some of the men beside me discussing your talents. They play for the KBS Symphony Orchestra, and I know they have an audition coming up later on this year.”
“I tried out for it last year. I didn't get in.”
“You've practiced harder this year, and you've finally played in a large venue!” Dongmin gave Myungjun's shoulder a small pat. “You shouldn't give up just because of one bad audition.”
Myungjun pursed his lips, obviously in thought, but when he met Dongmin's gaze, he dropped the expression and just gave a sigh instead. “It's not because of the audition,” he admitted, “I just don't feel as passionate about all of this as you are, as everyone else around here is. I don't know, I think I stick with it at this point because it makes my mom happy, and you know she's impossible to please.”
Dongmin was well aware of the issues Myungjun had with his mother. Myungjun's older brother was a soccer player, traveling overseas and bringing home trophies. As long as Dongmin had known Myungjun, the boy had never won anything . He had auditioned for musicals, for choirs, for orchestras, and nothing ever seemed to go through. He had, at one period in his life, attempted to play soccer, to be just as his older brother was, but he ended up as the worst player on the team. He was twelve, with scraped knees and muddy shorts, when he cried to Dongmin that his mother had called him an embarrassment .
He had become Dongmin's pupil a few years later. He had confessed to Dongmin after some time that he resented Dongmin for a while, because Dongmin was talented, and Dongmin was smart, and Dongmin had earned the affection from Myungjun's mother. He was younger, too, and was instructing someone older than him how to properly play the piano.
It was an awkward time for them, and their friendship wavered often through the years, mostly after Dongmin grew frustrated with Myungjun's lack of sincerity with the piano, mostly after Myungjun grew frustrated with Dongmin's superior attitude.
But, still, they stuck together like glue. Dongmin was certain Myungjun would have left him a long time ago if only his mother had stopped paying for lessons, but, as it were, they had reluctantly continued their course.
Dongmin was happy they had. Myungjun was now his only true friend, the only person who didn't regard him as a famous pianist, who instead would mutter under his breath about Dongmin's affinity for stupid cartoon characters and his fear of anything with zombies and his unnatural ability to burn everything he cooked. Now, it seemed, they were best friends, and Dongmin was unwilling to do anything to compromise their friendship.
Even if that meant he was forced to listen to Myungjun whine and complain about how stupid these concerts were, he accepted it.
“If you don't like playing the piano, then there's no reason to force you into it,” Dongmin replied. “I think that you can go on to do great things, though. I think you can truly make a name for yourself, as I have.”
Myungjun frowned. “I don't care about doing that, though,” he said. “My brother did that, and I guess he got my mom's love and affection for him that way, but I just – I don't really want to be famous , Dongmin.”
Dongmin stuffed his hands in the pockets of his suit pants. “What do you want, then?”
“I don't know. Would it be dull of me to say love ? And—and normalcy?” He played with the petals of the flowers. “I've told you before, I don't necessarily have a goal in life. I never did. It was always about pleasing my mom. I'd like to just settle down with money and—and I'd like to have a family. I don't know what it's like to have a real one, Minnie.”
Dongmin had tried to mold Myungjun into a pianist, into someone who longed to play beautiful pieces up on a stage. Myungjun resisted, only caving when he felt there was nothing else that he was good at, nothing else that would please his mother. Dongmin knew, though, the moment Myungjun was granted an opportunity to live comfortably without playing the piano, he would take it in a heartbeat.
Dongmin would feel like a failure if Myungjun were to leave him. As his one and only pupil, Myungjun needed to make it big, to prove to the world that Dongmin could pass on his own rigid talents and make them just as famous as he was himself. If Myungjun left before he was scouted into an orchestra of sorts, then it would all be for naught, and Dongmin's more conventional ways might be tossed aside as useless and worthless .
Just as much as Myungjun needed Dongmin for love, Dongmin needed Myungjun for acceptance.
“You'll have one, soon,” Dongmin promised. He smiled again, gently, and hooked arms with Myungjun. “In any case, maybe hanging around all of these old men makes you a little depressed.”
“A little,” Myungjun admitted.
“It's a good thing, then, because I have us reservations at your favorite seafood place.” Myungjun's eyes widened, sparkling with hope, and Dongmin continued, “The one with the private rooms and the really good octopus—”
“You booked as a room?” Myungjun squealed, jumping up once and jostling his flowers. “You're the best , oh my gosh, what time are we supposed to be there at? Should we go ahead and go now?”
Dongmin laughed, pleased that he had managed to lift Myungjun's spirits (and, at the same time, curb the doubts and hesitation Myungjun consistently wrestled with). “I told them we would be there anytime before eight.” Dongmin checked his watch, nodding when he noticed it was only a little past seven. “I can drive us down there, if you're all done here.”
“Am I ever ,” Myungjun muttered, dragging Dongmin back down the hallway. “It's so stuffy in here, and I need to go before I'm cornered by someone else congratulating me on my playing.”
Dongmin gave a slight tsk of his tongue as he was pulled along through the backstage area. “You deserve to be congratulated,” he pointed out. “You did very well.”
Myungjun didn't answer him, save for a small mumble of thanks, but even from his spot, Dongmin could tell that his words were well-received. Myungjun's ears were bright red and his face was beginning to get flushed, too. He was always like that with compliments, Dongmin thought with a smile, always denying that he did well, but blushing like a fool regardless. It was one of his quirks, one of the reasons Dongmin was so fond of him.
Myungjun was passionate, as much as he tried to tell himself he wasn't. Dongmin didn't know if the passion was from playing the piano, or if it was from simply being shown affection, but he decided that no matter what, he loved Myungjun just fine.
He only hoped that, maybe one day, Myungjun would grow to understand the life that he brought into a composition, the beauty he created armed with only an instrument, the way everyone held onto his every note. Because while he was a perfect friend, he was not yet a perfect musician.
Dongmin longed to change him , just as he longed to change the rest of the world.