Work Text:
FOREVER YOUNG, The Unreleased Album
Track 1: Introduction: The Louvre
Track 2: On The Ground
Track 3: Into You
Track 4: If U Love Me Now
Track 5: Paper Hearts
Track 6: Can’t Stop Loving You
Track 7: Sandcastles
Track 8: Lemonade
Track 9: Starting Over Again
Track 10: Forever Young
Track 11: This City
//
Kim Hanbin’s firm lecture against holiday (Holy Day) working is thudding thorns inside Jisoo’s brain. Every rise of his voice, “Just a week off, Ji! It’s only the second day of 2019 and you’re thinking of work?! Okay! Alright! You’ll regret this the day after your birthday,” serving as sticks drumming her beaten skull. It would not take a genius to know that Hanbin, a father of a two-year old baby girl, and Kim Jisoo’s co-worker, is correct.
The freshly twenty-five year old Producer chose to drink only two shots of tequila, and one-third bottle of soju, akin to the date of her birthday, on her birthday. So it matches.
It did not take long for her to gaze upon her dimmed room and leave her bed unmade at eight in the morning, the day after, which seemed like four without the presence of the sun. Stretching her limbs and hoping for the best that she does not drop hard against the control surface by the end of the appointment. Jisoo feasted on the leftover birthday food from the refrigerator, tupperwares stacked side by side like Tetris, standing behind the counter with a white sleeveless top and pastel green silk shorts. Gooseflesh fighting with the dysfunctional thermostat against the freeze of winter, and the urge to brew herself a coffee.
Jisoo arrives on time by the music studio a few minutes away from her apartment, her co-worker’s advice hammering inside her buzzing head. The coffee is losing its effect.
Besides the holy trinity of her pleasurable morning routine, the schedule she has approved a week prior (one reason why she ignored Hanbin’s nagging) is today. Tuh-day . Jisoo’s job carries her afloat, and the custom she brought into her not-so-boring work keeps her levitating.
Producer Kim Jisoo manages on her own with the approval of her agency. Planning and scheduling appointments with the artist’s managers, anonymously, to work with, and will only reveal their identity once the meeting commences. Fun!
It stores adrenaline for both parties to commemorate as they go over their preparations, and a very brief overview of each other’s qualities and projects ,before going to work with each other in-person, or remotely. By the time they collaborate in-depth they know who they are.
In addition, it gives Kim Jisoo the appeal of working with someone who shows compassion towards their craft. Disregarding an artist’s status helps her experience with neutrality towards the collaborator, as the other would the same. One should not feel contempt of a D-list artist. Soon they will be more. Guidance will aid them on the way.
The natural dark raven hair is appearing in the middle of her scalp, Jisoo’s roots growing out and taking over the mix of purple-pink dye, but barely so. She lets it loose, as she always does, especially when it is cold outside. Body hair is fur. If fleece is wrapped around a sheep’s body to keep its body warm, then hair has the same function. And many other things.
Soon after dumping the paper cup in the trash bin on a corner a few feet away from the entrance of the studio, Jisoo peaks her perfectly positioned white teeth with a high-pitched good morning, and wonders where the shrill tone came from. Jinky the receptionist, not: Jinky, the receptionist, only gives her a grunt. As if her good mornings are selfishly for a higher class, or she just ran out of all the good in the morning.
Are goods stored in us? Or should we find them along the way?
The producer hums and proceeds along, slowing down her footsteps for 10 seconds to be exactly in the studio at nine in the A. M., all the while thinking about all the other moments Jinky has uttered a grunt to at least reply. Technically it is an exchange. Colleagues’ exchange.
Jisoo has been doing the anonymous inquiries for a year and half to remain relaxed and composed, unconcerned of the status of the artist she will be working with and unconcerned of the relationship she has with the artist she will be working with. She only hopes that the artist is decent enough to find common ground with one another.
“Ready to get our creative juices flowing?” Jisoo starts with enthusiasm, taking only a second look at the artist who is standing inside the recording booth, seemingly with headphones around her head and facing the microphone. The producer strips off her coat hurriedly, not wanting a moment wasted in their precious collaboration.
“R-ready,” the artist’s chirping reply, faltering, echoes superposed all over the studio.
Obvious. The ice that possessed Jisoo’s body as she is about to turn around—turn around, melt this icicles with my combusting blood—Jisoo turns around and contemplates between nonchalance or exhilaration. Jisoo is obvious, at least to herself.
A staggering smile makes Rosé, the artist, wince, like a gush of strong wind came to knock her off. The bluff beam glues her feet to the ground however, already she is aware that the nicety aids the producer to cage her screams intact. Scar her own lungs and within with colorless icicles rather than pierce the very woman who erupted the strongest winter in the world.
Rosé takes off the headphones around her head and puts a hand on her arm, tapping her toes up and down on the concrete ground. She pulls her bottom lip with her teeth and raises her brows. “Is this a bad idea?” An exile, Rosé proposed.
Is this a bad idea?, her vibrato voice snaps Jisoo’s trail of thoughts as well as the beginning of a panic attack to take over. A deep breath is all she needs to build her concentration, and maybe another two. Three in total.
The producer with purple-pink hair shakes her head, “no,” she clears her throat, “no, not at all. Err, the, hm, the hangover, taking a toll on me.” That is partially true. Coffee was practically nothing but another reason for her bladder to fill.
Rosé merely nods, her lip still bitten, molding the “belated happy birthday” with her tongue muscle and saliva, transforming the words into a liquid to gulp.
“I apologize for that, uhm, malfunction…” Jisoo tears a dry cackle into the confined atmosphere then summons her professional look. She is intimidating to simply put it.
Her breath also contains relief for the cancelled attempt of setting the collaboration with the anonymous artist in the makeshift music studio situated in her apartment, which is unethical, she thinks now.
“So ready to pop off those vocals, no? Come out first, let’s listen to your demo!” How exciting.
Coming out contains multiple connotations holding overwhelming situations that threads besieges forevermore, but at the moment,
Maybe it will. The producer and the artist are not certain of it yet.
Jisoo curls her sock-and-anxiety-clad toes with the hopes that Rosé would not stay timid to bow her head down and spot her stubby feet. The producer loses her count at 30 when she breathes in the floral scent of lilac and peony with a delicate touch of amber; everywhere Rosé goes she paints it with her soul. The invisible gate is rattling for mercy, yelping Please Stay Away, I Hate To Fade At Your Touch, yet still crave for it.
“Sure, of c-course.” Rosé wished she would just stop stuttering.
The artist jumps at her own voice, saying “excuse me” after fishing out the U.S.B. stored in the back pocket of her brown corduroy pants, grateful that the producer complied like running water.
Rosé wonders if Jisoo will address her by her name. It does not matter if she calls her by her stage name or Korean name, she only wants to be called by her. Everything about Rosé is foreign to Jisoo—but her name—never her name.
Instead, the producer calls a “hey” and the artist’s crossed fingers hiding behind her back unfolds, pushing her wishes aside to focus on her. Rosé would be listening no matter what; it is a collaboration after all.
FOREVER YOUNG, it reads. F-O-R-E-V-E-R—
“Which demo will we be hearing today?” Jisoo chews on her bottom lip, dismissing the ‘It’s Awkward, It’s Awkward, Stop Being Awkward’ thought looping inside her brain. It is a bad idea as it will disrupt her creative juices from flowing. She seems to be short-circuiting a lot when it comes to her. Her.
Rosé points to the written file, Starting Over Again, it reads. Jisoo follows through but barely, skimming through the sketches of her index finger’s lines and curves. The producer assumes that maybe She knows she was not looking at what was supposed to be looked at, that is why the artist’s fingertip remained against the screen until she finally clicked the file.
The quiet waiting is enough to ask for air, but Rosé’s richly deep chords struck and pushed them back inside the swimming pool where they belong. Women who cannot forget about what happened in history despite trying their best to. The rocks in their lungs are to blame.
“And when I hold you in my arms, I promise you
You're gonna feel a love that's beautiful and new
This time, I'll love you even better
Than I ever did before
And you'll be in my heart forevermore.”
Rosé is fully aware of her tapping foot and despite trying to reduce the impact as to not alert Jisoo, she cannot. It feels as if it is against her will whilst stealing multiple glances at her facial expression, limbs clad with clothing and anxiety. Glued to the ground and nowhere else, refusing to move around to hide her discomfort and her cool ill of the brazier space; quiet and disturbing.
There is nowhere to sit. Jisoo occupies the chair. Jisoo fills the space. The whole room screams her.
Rosé thinks, alright, let’s check, let’s see, let’s set a distraction; oh Lord, is that how I really sound like? It was better when I was the only listener to it. Okay, okay, Pokemon..Pokemon..Pikachu…
And Pikachu looks at Rosé with a never ending beam, a pink flower around his nonexistent fingers. She bites her lip at this, the planned distraction failing. It does not help that Jisoo keeps her nonchalance consistent.
“We fell in love and let it go
So easy to say the words goodbye
So hard to let the feelings die.
“If we never lived alone
Then we might have never known
All the time we spent apart
We only broke each other's hearts.”
The guitar riff rattles a tsunami of scorching stars inside Jisoo’s insides, urging out a small “woah” from her heart-shaped lips, her casual act broken. Guidelessly her eyes move to where Rosé stands, magnificent and laidback. Proficient and humble. Tall and delicate. “Uhm…”
Rosé’s attention shifts towards Jisoo immediately, a small whoosh of air sending a wave to her blonde hair by the tilt in her neck. “W-what do you think?”
The producer places a finger on her chin, the thinking face present. “It’s really…brilliant. How much time do we have left?” They both search for their own digital clock, attentions momentarily divided. Jisoo bites her lip at her poor attempt at evaluating.
“9:47,” in unison they proclaim, flushed cheeks and awfully loud heart thumping. They both think of expletives and Why is the time so slow?!? Before sharing eye contact and proceeding with this calm-before-the-storm collaboration.
Dismissing the fact that they did not answer the question yet at least have agreed on something ultimately factual, Jisoo offers Rosé a swivel chair beside her. Magically appearing out of nowhere.
When the singer sits she wonders how the flow of conversation will ebb between the two. They barely spoke for five minutes straight and it has only been forty-seven minutes. Jisoo counts the time left as Rosé counts how many years have passed.
“Why is it called Starting Over Again?” The producer starts, hovering the cursor around the file before showing her attentiveness through brown eyes. She blinks and musters a tad smile, her hand not leaving the black keyboard mouse. She notices the bent leg laying on the swivel chair.
Consciously, the singer apologizes and places her right foot on the ground together with the other, resuming her tapping. Her hands begin to move, “the concept of the track is starting over again—to start over again with a person from the past. Erm,” the singer eyes the producer carefully, careful with her wording, soft with her tone. “Young love is…a lot of…has multiple connotations; purity, tangibility, poetical, unselfishness, never dying, forever young–“ You. Desire.
Rosé sighs with her lips perking upwards, “And then at some point, The Breaking Point, it will stop. Momentarily. Sometimes permanently. But with this song I started it’s not. It stopped momentarily. And it will continue again.” She looks at her and thinks, Tell me something new. Tell me something that would justify what I did.
“It continues again…” Jisoo the producer, bites her lower lip whilst staring into the abyss, eyebrows furrowing. She taps the black keyboard mouse circling her lithe fingers, and Rosé the artist, knows exactly that this is the process of her thinking. Rosé the artist realizes it has been a period of multiple phases, accomplishments, connections, countries, and stages to witness this. To get to this. And she…she is flustered.
“Young love who broke each other’s hearts…” Jisoo mutters, fishing out her cell phone from her pocket and finding the voice recorder situated on the first page.
Jisoo gives her a smile and it does not take Rosé enough time to overthink the situation before the woman with specs on starts singing a lyric.
“And now we’re starting over again,” she gives her another smile, sheepish this time, a smile that grows red roses in her cheeks. Her cheeks are red. “It’s not the easiest thing to do…”
It is impossible for this to flow naturally, but it does. “I’m feeling inside again, ‘cause every time I look at you, I know I’m starting over again.” The continuation repeats again, over. And over, the voluminous circle untangles, releasing its pent-up, unending desire to spread this—these emotions buried inside the treasure no one is supposed to find but them—produced through lyrics of exchanging ideologies and versions of what once was, and what is now.
A big lone circle that understands the need of its serpentine defense before it unravels and strikes the people bold enough to lock (preserve) it inside a rotten compartment. Now it demands grief, and what is grief, if not love persevering?
“I know how much I need you now
The time is turning back somehow
As soon as our hearts and souls unite
I know for sure we'll get the feeling right.”
“It will take time to rebuild this, I think,” the profession comes out of the blue in the brazier air, turning both women off-guard. Jisoo would love to apologize but she would rather swallow her remaining saliva and present her dignity that is slowly crumbling down the longer Rosé stares at her in curiosity.
“T-the song?” It was fine, Rosé’s diction. Yet once again the stuttering overtakes her, just as she would when she has the opportunity to take what she wants, and what she will soon need. She has to, for believing in fate is passivity, and letting the world dictate who she should love reminds her that sealing her fate, no matter how many back doors under disguises she should take, is her holy grail.
Rosé is slumping on the floor with a Fender Telecaster electric guitar in hand, her blonde hair covering half of her face. “I t-thought we w-were almost d-done?” The look of amusement and anxiety that the artist provides the producer aids her to clarify (alter) her statement.
“I said ‘I think’. Although at this point–“ Jisoo scans her frame from head to toe, an evil smirk present in her oh-so-lovely face, “we might as well be,” earns a scowl from Rosé.
“Excuse you!” She scoffs, rising on her feet, patting off the dirt collected by her clad bum. With one hand wrapped around the neck of the Fender Telecaster, the other, empty, fixes her disheveled blonde hair, and tidies her beige sweater.
“As for me, I think ,” the artist emphasizes on ’I think’, “I could work with you for hours.” She ducks her head low to check on her Constellation Omega watch, and to avoid any eye contact from the producer standing in front of her who’s cheeks are about to burst like tomatoes when squished. With that, both had enough time to alleviate their frenzy.
It’s 11:57, Rosé wanted to say but words were quite stuck inside her cords. Instead she spots the only bright thing inside the studio, Pikachu and his pink flower, overtaking the monochromatic interior of the place.
Jisoo inhales and coughs the air out, coughs, coughs, and coughs some more, until the artist responsible for her untamable flushed cheeks pats on the producer’s back to soothe her wheezing. It got worse, as might be expected.
This was supposed to be an excuse for the blushing, why is she still touching me? Rejecting ‘my’ before blushing, Jisoo tilts her neck above and blinks the tears that are forming in her eyes, but to no avail. She croaks “water” and she hears Rosé the artist curse for the first time, after all these years. The artist obeys and snatches a cold water bottle from the gray mini refrigerator situated on the opposite side where the practically dying person wheezes.
Rosé breaks the lid, curses more audibly, and snatches another water bottle. She says to herself: Be Careful, Slowly, Slowly, Okay. Twist It Around, Counterclockwise, Okay. Give it to her. Give it to Jisoo! Quickly Now!
The artist would want to question why tears are brimming within her brown orbs yet she has already memorized her reasons. She may not have seen her in six years, and She may have changed, but the memories would not. It would never. How could it? Everyone in it is dead.
Rosé looks at Jisoo—drying eyes and watering perspiration masking her oh-so-lovely face—and thinks, Tell me something new. Tell me something that would justify what I did. Could you tell? The flush on Jisoo the producer’s cheeks are pink, nothing like the shade of the flower Pikachu is holding with its nonexistent fingers. Baby Pink. Rosé’s favorite pink. That matters more, the breathing relief that she is fine, at the time being, rather than the question that keeps her up at night, ever since Christmas Eve. If Jisoo needs her, Rosé will be certain to be there.
She begs, she still does. She is like any other person in the world. She is human. She cooks and burns food, sometimes to ash. She does her laundry and one time turned her white tee shirt into dark green, and did it again, the other time in faded black. She paints her nails and makes a mess out of them.
Rosé still knows how to plead, like before, but this time she does not have to get on her knees. Sometimes she thinks she should use her tears as her weapon, to prove men that a woman’s cries are not to be seen as vulnerability. Vulnerability is not even close to that. Who associated vulnerability with emotional openness? It frustrates her.
Thus on the fifth of December, Park Chaeyoung, for the first time, in her discolored dark green tee shirt and gray sweatpants, had her hands together in a prayer, wincing her face as she asked her manager: “Could you pleaaaase do it for me? It will boost my image more! Working with THE BLACK LABEL’s secret producer would send my name and craft off the charts! And with that you’ll be able to rest for a while! Please! Please schedule a meeting-!”
“But-“ But Park Chaeyoung, in her casual clothes, bare-faced, at 11 in the evening, was not going to learn the reasons why she should halt her agenda. To work with the best producer in the Republic of South Korea is not something uncommon for a flourishing soloist to dream of. And Park Chaeyoung did dream of it, after finding out who the anonymous producer is.
Painting her nails red and green in the middle of the day, on the first of December, the blonde-haired Korean woman lounges on her macaroon cream-colored recliner sofa. She planned to do it before bedtime, for she would have already finished showering and getting her hands wet, yet the sun’s lightning by the window, shining upon her recliner sofa, was too difficult to decline.
At the same time casually listening to Top 50 Hits to update herself of the world after locking her phone away for almost two days to write. The artist has finished her planning, rehearsals, and whatnot, regarding her soon-to-be released single called On The Ground. And then, just as her fansés wished, her third album.
“Are you feeling better?” Tell me something new, did my manager tip you off? Did you try to refuse and learned that I would kill him if you do? Jisoo blinks a few times before she murmurs a small “yes”, unable to utter more than a glance.
The producer’s breath hitches when the artist reaches for her face, no, her crown, to tame her escaping bangs. They are growing longer, the same as the roots of her scalp.
I used to have thick bangs, Jisoo almost says. To clear the air off. To release the lump inside her throat. To kill the overbearing questions nesting itself inside her cords.
How did you find me? The question sits there, in her voice box, like a shivering bird in his nest unable to migrate due to his broken wing; alone with no one to help him.
How long have you known? Was it from what I wrote? Did you hear my melancholy from the pop song? Although it comes out differently. It comes out as “Are you hungry?”
“It’s been…it’s 12:09, yeah. Are you?” Rosé nods reluctantly, unable to digress her simple thoughts and unable to understand what will happen after this conversation.
It would not take six years, nor a thousand violet, blue, green, and red bruises, to forget.
The way red smears with green on her nails the moment Stay by a rookie girl group sounds from Rosé’s speaker, the way her legs stilled and her shoulders stiffened; it would not take six years, nor a thousand violet, blue, green, and red bruises to forget Jisoo’s plea to stay.
The tension in her body never left ever since. And she would laugh, maniacally, that a pop song had caused her so much distress, like her tamed soul had gone rotten, after all the factors in her surroundings that could have.
Rosé has lived with tension ever since she trained, yet with grace and rest it dissipates. She has been through hundreds of interviews that makes her skin crawl, that causes clogs in her veins, that urges her to run away from the spotlight. Interviews that ask very promising questions—who is the person or people who inspires you the most?, what have you been doing besides being the most successful soloist?, when was the last time you cried?, where could you see yourself after five years, why did you think this image fits you?, and how do you love?—stripping her off. One. By. One.
It leaves her nauseated for being stripped bare in her robes, yet after a while, after a spoonful of spaghetti or whatever cravings she will satisfy, it is over.
But this, she is just beginning to start again. Thus the lethal tension with Her she would swallow. Rosé shall, because what lies before her is the ruination of her perfection. And it is exhausting to be seen as a flawless star, a perfect woman, a real life barbie doll. It is exhausting, but to write music with her during the holidays would clear it off. Would release the lump inside her slender throat. Would kill the overbearing thoughts nesting itself inside her brain.
Why should she care about what the people say? Why would she live in fear, for her time as a public property, when she could have the best of both worlds? Why should she unclasp her hand around the chance to be hers, once again, forever?
“Indeed I am,” Jisoo, the small and blushing Jisoo, rasps with her coat on, ready to take off.
“I heard there’s a great samgyupsal place nearby,” Rosé suggests in a pitch higher than her usual tone, grabbing her purse and shooting it inside her winter coat that she puts around her body after. She did not hear it, actually. She took her time to memorize the area near the studio, experiencing the coldness of December, just in case it would go well with the producer.
“Oh yeah!” Already Jisoo is beaming, “It’s a three-minute walk from here, do you want to..”
“Of course. It would suit well after walking in the freezing of winter,” Rosé adds, face clad in a YSL sunglasses that covers half her face.
Jisoo laughs. Bright and fresh and away from a possible wheezing fit. Jisoo laughs because Rosé’s face is practically shielded by a sunglasses that costs more than her pay. Jisoo laughs contagiously. Thus Rosé laughs as well, lighter, so it would not mask the exquisity of Jisoo.
“Let’s go!” She exclaims, marching out of the music studio like a soldier ready for battle. Rosé falters for a bit, when Jisoo’s hand lays on top of hers with a light clutch, assuming that she would not try to be a gentleman.
“I-I got i-it,” Rosé clears her throat as Jisoo tames her flushing cheeks. She only hums in reply.
Once out, the producer scoffs at Jinky the receptionist who gives a bright smile towards the artist walking slowly past her, who did not even acknowledge her, because she waits for the smaller woman who is checking on her phone for news and a touch of reality before this collaboration ever occurred.
Jisoo is greeted by a notification. It was twenty minutes ago. It said, ROSÉ – Iris (Goo Goo Dolls) Live Studio Cover.
“You okay? Want to retreat?” Chaeyoung calls with a smile, walking with her heels backwards towards the exit to face the holy grail before her. Jisoo shakes her head, laughing to herself, “I’m Jisoo, I’m Okay.”
Rosé chuckles along, pure and playful. “Okay, Jisoo! Let us go!”