Chapter Text
I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.
— Madeline Miller
May, 2013
Now playing: Mix no 1 - Oblivion
▷ Mystery of Love
▷ Do I Wanna Know?
There’s a heavy silence, one that aches when he looks at the music sheet in front of him.
Rachmaninov: Elégie, it reads.
Seungkwan takes his hands away from the black and white keys. He flicks his wrists, twists his fingers, and feels the pain travelling down-down-down his core, joining the dull soreness throbbing at the small of his back. Fatigue seeps over him like floodwater, pulling down his eyes, begging him to take a rest, take a rest.
No, he thinks to himself, not yet .
Because the final for his first big piano contest is three days away and he can't mess up. He's been practicing for months just for this moment. He's passed rounds and rounds of auditions for this moment. And he knows his skills aren't enough. Jihoon-hyung told him his intonation is fine, his movement is decent. Jihoon-hyung told him his playing is good. But not good enough. Never enough. There will always be a person, or even multiple people, more capable of doing this than him.
Because his fingers are still hesitant, when he still misses a note on the regular, playing a sharp instead of a natural. Because he's competing with gifted prodigies, with hardworking monsters that devote their entire life to piano, that makes his efforts pale in comparison. Because he's still here, pathetically trying to massage the pain out of his cramped hands. It doesn't relent. He ended up rubbing it raw instead.
He grits his teeth, and lets his hands roam the keys again, ignoring the way the notes on the sheet start to blend together in front of his eyes. He doesn’t need the music sheet. He can rely on his muscle memory alone. He can do this. His entire life has revolved around piano since he was barely conscious, after all. Piano is the object that helps him achieve almost everything he holds dear right now. It's his defining trait, his specialty, his existence.
If he can't do this, the thing that he has been trained for his whole life, then what is he even good for?
He doesn't merely love piano. He needs it.
But then, three knocks on the door, two light, one accentuated, wakes him up from his haze.
A code. Their code.
“Hansol?”
It clicks open, revealing a boy with curled hair and the brightest, warmest smile. Seungkwan isn’t surprised in the slightest. They have been friends for the longest time, practically growing up together, so his house is also Hansol's, free for the other to roam whenever he wants to.
“Hi Boo”, Hansol says, sitting down on the chair next to him. Easy. Natural. “You’re still practicing?”, he asks. His voice feels familiar. Soothing. Like a salve rubbing on his sore back, tired wrists.
Seungkwan nods.
“You’ve been working hard lately, Seungkwan.”
Hansol's right, but Seungkwan sighs either way. He didn't expect Hansol of all people to say this, too.
If he can get a dollar for everytime a person says this to him, he would end up a billionaire. It’s always the compliment “You’re working hard” first, then the advice. Asking Seungkwan to stop. To get some rest. To not practice, and to lose.
How can he even rest, while there are people out there twice as accomplished as him? How can he even rest, knowing that the same gifted people are still training, practicing, racing miles ahead of him? He's lucky he even got in, to witness this race of diligence and talents.
Same conversation, same tactic. Same old tiredness bubbling inside him.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that you don’t need to rest. But you do. Health is important too. If you’re not healthy, how can you participate—”
“Don’t make me get mad at you, Hansol.”
Seungkwan says, rubbing his eyes. He doesn't need to look to imagine what kind of expression Hansol is making, knowing full well the direction this is going to take.
“I’m worried about you, Boo.”
Hansol says, eyebrows scrunched up, hands twisting together.
Seungkwan blinks.
"If your mind is too tense, you won't be able to do your best in performances. Let's get some proper relaxation, yeah?"
He exhales, looking tense.
“I’m not asking you to stop. I just want you to rest a bit. It doesn’t need to be sleeping or anything, just relaxing a bit is enough. Reading. Playing games. Hell, you don’t even need to leave the piano. You can teach me some basic pieces. You promise you’ll help to get my ass in music school with you, remember?”
Hansol’s tone is soft, his words caring. Seungkwan feels cared for. Looked after. It feels good, this kind of concern that is just enough, not pushing him over the edges, not forcing him to stop. And suddenly, the nagging voice echoing in Seungkwan’s head is silenced, the frustration boiling inside him is simmered down to tiny bubbles, rippling around the edges.
Maybe he's just tired. Maybe it's a moment of weakness. Maybe it's because of Hansol, with his stupidly warm eyes, worried voice, sweet smile. Maybe he wants something more than this, more than just slaving his way on black and white keys, something like bubblegum kisses and sunshine-tangled smiles and—
He nods.
“What piece do you want to learn, then?”
“Maybe some… some pop song, or some soundtracks I guess.”
Hansol says, scratching the nape of his neck. He’s smiling apologetically, and Seungkwan hates how he is going to comply with Hansol's request. He hates how he is going to waste time teaching Hansol a dumb song instead of actually practicing.
But because it’s Hansol, it’s his friend.
So he nods, ignoring the way his heart is beating in his rib cages, constant thump-thump-thump against his skin; ignoring how his brain is screaming at him about how dumb this whole thing is, how he could've spent this afternoon perfecting his technique instead.
“What piece do you want to learn?”
He exhales, standing up for Hansol to flop on the piano bench.
“Maybe… The Last Airbender soundtrack? The main theme, with the kalimba or something? It sounds easy, and I know you like it.”
Hansol says, and even if Seungkwan can’t see his face from this angle, he knows Hansol’s smiling.
Seungkwan’s smiling, too, fondly, at the memories of watching Avatar: The Last Airbender with Hansol after school, at the anticipation of waiting for the episodes to air, at the laughter and the discussions they used to have. He kind of misses it, sometimes.
“Fine. I’ll teach you.”
Hansol’s smile is wider and Seungkwan’s heart is warm.
They pull the chair closer to the piano, until Seungkwan can sit behind Hansol. It’s just slightly off-center, though, so that he can see the keys a little clearer, to escape the scathing warmth that Hansol radiates.
Yet, Seungkwan’s hands slide up Hansol’s back, either way, easy like how he shifts between keys, pads pressing against the jutting of bones.
“You should sit like this,” Seungkwan says, fingers splayed on the thin fabric. It’s just fixing Hansol’s bad posture, his mind reasons, but there’s no denying the way he’s yearning to feel more of the heat against his skin, the way his voice slightly shakes when he speaks,
“That’s it.”
Seungkwan wouldn’t let anyone touch his beloved piano, but this is Hansol. This is Hansol, so it’s okay for him to put his hands on the black and white keys, it’s okay for him to press his fingertips down.
“First is D,” he says, “Since you have no idea about piano and stuff, just let me guide you, okay?”
Hansol nods, and Seungkwan takes his hands in his own. It’s risky, the tension hanging between them, the sliver of distance between skin. Hansol’s knuckles are against his palm, and when Seungkwan’s fingers press down, Hansol’s do, too. Where Hansol’s hands can’t reach, Seungkwan will press his hands down for him.
It’s almost like a waltz of fingers and music, Seungkwan thinks, leaving sweet sounds flutter in the air, soft and gentle like the flaps of a butterfly's wings. There's a warm, almost tangible lump bubbling in the base of his throat, and it feels like flying, like euphoria, like a reverie they craft for each other. It should scare him — how giddy Hansol makes him feel right now, how much he wants this moment to last, how he wishes he could freeze this and pocket it, to experience it again and again.
Then, it hits him, the realization — Hansol's laughter is the most beautiful sounds he's ever heard, Hansol's fingers are almost scorching against his own skin, Hansol's so, so close to him — and this is the happiest he has ever been in weeks, this is the most fun he has had with the piano in years.
Suddenly, there's no contest. There's no stress, no pressure to do well, just two boys, sitting next to each other, trapped in their own heaven, drowned in their own clumsily crafted waltz of music.
So they keep doing it together, until the last note resonates across the room, and Seungkwan’s fingers are tingling from Hansol’s warmth.
There’s a soft smile on Hansol’s lip when they’ve finished, and Seungkwan tries to compliment him on how fast he is picking up on the piano. Their hands are still intertwined together, though, and neither of them wants to let go.
What are those feelings, he asks himself. Why is my heart beating like this? Why am I smiling like this?
This is not love. He can’t say it’s love, when he has only known about it through books and TV.
But Hansol is his friend, and friends don’t love each other the way he does. The way they do.
—
The final performance is almost there, and suddenly waiting is a ticking bomb, a slow, steady death.
He pokes at the breakfast on the table. His appetite is gone, just the lump of anxiety at the back of his throat, the dread bubbling in his stomach, a monster waiting to swallow him whole. Meat tastes like rubber, and the vegetables never feel more like grass. No one wants to collapse on stage, though, so he wills himself through the entire meal.
The car ride to the theater is even worse. He wants to be well, he wants his health to be in top condition, he wants absolutely nothing to get in the way of performing. And yet, it's almost nauseous, the way his head keeps churning and whirling, wrist throbbing and aching. Pre-performance anxiety like this is a normal occurrence, but Seungkwan can't help but feel a little pathetic.
How weak, his mind mockingly says, you can't even calm yourself down.
Seungkwan kind of wishes Hansol had been here with him. Perhaps it might make it a little more better.
(Surely it will make it all better. It always has.)
If only today wasn't a weekday and Hansol didn't have morning classes. If only Hansol was here, with his pretty smile, kind eyes, reassuring voice.
If only it didn't tear him out a little, knowing Hansol couldn't go, knowing that Hansol couldn't see the fruits that Seungkwan's efforts bear.
If only Seungkwan didn't rely on Hansol so much, too much.
He sighs, pulls out the iPod in his bag, and presses play on the playlist of songs Hansol had begged him to download. To be honest, he has only listened to them once to please Hansol. It's nothing serious, just that the music that Hansol likes aren't what he usually listens to. But maybe, just maybe, this will calm him down.
This is what Hansol listens to in the morning. This is what Hansol listens to in class breaks. This is what Hansol listens to when he's happy, or sad, or nervous.
He didn't get it at first, but maybe Hansol was right about those songs being good. The rhythms and beats entrance him, putting him through a daze of emotions and feelings, and even though he doesn't understand the lyrics, he finds himself starting to mumble along. And in a split second, it's almost like Hansol is there, just by his side, all comforting laughters and grounding words.
He feels a little better.
"We're here, Kwannie," his mom says, her tone kind. Seungkwan takes a deep breath. He can do this.
He has to.
—
The earphones are still uncomfortably stuffed in Seungkwan's ears by the time he makes it to the waiting room backstage, but anxiety is slowly building inside him once again, a boulder weighing his shoulders down.
The room is too small, the air is stuffy, and people feel like loud-mouthed monsters waiting for him to slip up so they can devour him whole. His hands are clammy. His suit is uncomfortably tight. Tick-tick-tick, the clock mockingly says, counting down the seconds until he steps foot on the stage, an explosion, an instant dearh.
Seungkwan swallows, clenching the iPod in his hands. Breathe, he thinks to himself, it's fine. It's just a competition. It wouldn't kill you.
Except it will. If he loses, he will kill the expectations of himself and the people around him. If he loses, his efforts will all go to waste. Days and nights spent training, practicing, revolving your life around piano , poof. Just for nothing.
His hands fidget, and he presses increase on the volume bar. This way, the playlist will blast loudly in his headphones, drums and beats thrumming even stronger than his own heartbeats, screaming out lyrics that make him want to get up and do something. This is music, the thing that revitalizes him, and yet kills him all the same. He wants to thrash and cry and shakes, holding on to the last snappy thread of his composure.
"Boo! You're here!"
Seungkwan immediately turns around. It can't be—
And there he is, Hansol. He's smiling so brightly, curly bangs sticking to his forehead, almost glowing in the warm yellow light. Seungkwan stares in disbelief. How come Hansol is here? He had told Seungkwan that he had morning classes today. Surely he didn't…
"Yeah, I dropped classes today. Don't look at me like that, Boo, it's an important occasion. And look what I got for you!"
Seungkwan drops his gaze to the thing that Hansol's holding in his arm.
"It's a rose bouquet! I was late because it took so long to find a place that sells bouquets this big, and then I can't find the bus route that passes here. I kind of snuck in this room too, but hey, I made it."
Hansol's full on laughing now, and Seungkwan wants to laugh. Or cry. I want to do both, he ultimately decides, overwhelmed, because what — Why would Hansol go on such lengths for him?
"And," Hansol gently pulls out two carefully snipped roses from the sides of his bags, "this is to put in your front pocket! One for your suit, and one for my suit." He smiles, delicately putting it in Seungkwan's pocket.
Seungkwan's chest suddenly tightens, a hot sensation flooding his ribcages, filling up with excitement and giddiness, like he might combust into rose petals. He's pretty sure he's blushing, judging from how he feels like there's a million suns shining on his cheeks.
"Thank you," he mutters, squeezing Hansol's hands in gratitude, and Hansol beams. Seungkwan knows he needs to say something better, but the words usually filling his brain, dancing on the tip of his tongue suddenly disappear. Later, he thinks, I have to do this well to not disappoint him first.
So he does. It's his turn, and Seungkwan goes, heart feeling a hundred times lighter than it used to be, smiling so wide his lips hurt.
To Seungkwan's own surprise, he didn't explode the second he set foot on the stage. His hands didn't turn into a shaking, clammy mess, his heart didn't give out at the first note he played. And when his fingertips flew gracefully on the keys, sweet notes dancing in the air, Seungkwan thought he felt almost alive, like this, devoting his entire existence to music, creating something to evoke emotions. It was worth it, spending hours besides the piano, practicing until his wrists were all cramped up, until all he could see when he closed his eyes were music notes.
Seungkwan knew his playing wasn't the best, he knew it still had countless mistakes and errors. He tried, though, and when the piece was finished and he was bowing to the audience, his mom and Hansol were there, a rose bud sitting snugly in his pocket, smiling so happily, so proudly. And that was what mattered.
Now that he's done with his performance, sitting through other contestants' performances feels a lot less nerve-racking. He has the time to assess their playing, and incredible isn't enough to describe how good they are. Suddenly, Seungkwan feels grateful that he's able to participate in the race of gifted prodigies and hardworking geniuses and people in between. It's insane, that a normal person like him has the chance to witness something like this, a contest full of talent and effort.
Prize announcement is a little distressing, though, he admits. But Hansol and his mom are right there, and Seungkwan knows that prizes or not, they'll always be proud of him.
He ends up winning third place, to everyone's surprise. Not even in his dreams had he thought he would have the honor to win such a high reward. He didn't think he'd be able to win against much more dedicated, proficient pianists, never.
But he does. He did it.
Either way, he won. Third place.
Seungkwan goes on stage with shaky limbs and a wobbly smile. Disbelief. Shock. Exhilaration. Everything swirls and blurs Almost like a dream, Seungkwan dazedly thinks, receiving the bronze medal. Maybe it was raw luck. Maybe his playing was just a little more emotional. Maybe the judges simply liked him. Maybe this is nothing but a fantasy, Seungkwan thinks, stepping down the stage.
But no, it's real. It's as real as the tight hug Hansol and his mom are giving him right now, as the feeling of cold bronze being pressed against his cheeks, as the bouquets of roses being put so gently by Hansol in his arms.
You did it, Seungkwan. You did it.
It's so, so real, and he's so, so happy. His mom is taking a trillion photos, the flash almost blinding him but Seungkwan lets her. He knows he will want to look fondly at these memories in the future: Seungkwan's grin, so wide it hurts; Hansol, standing right next to him, grin as wide as him; the roses in their front pockets; the medal on his neck, the bubbling mess of excitement and happiness and something filling up his chest.
And there, Seungkwan realizes two things.
One, he wants to kiss Hansol.
Two, he's not sure what that means.