Chapter Text
The first thing Kim Dokja assumes when he sees a figure lying outside his apartment door is that they’re dead.
It is a terrible first thought, he knows that, but Dokja has every right to be concerned. It’s well past midnight and the body looks far too large to be Han Sooyoung’s, the only other person Dokja has previously found unconscious outside his door—don’t ask. He takes a tentative step closer, transferring his bags to one hand before squatting down and checking for any signs of life.
Dokja’s relieved to see that the man’s chest—barely contained by a generously unbuttoned dress shirt—rises and falls steadily, even if he’s totally out of it. He pokes a flushed cheek, snickering at the way its owner frowns behind meticulously styled hair. Up close, the smell of alcohol is unmissable, and Dokja catches a whiff of cologne behind the stench.
Not dead, he concludes, standing and clumsily reaching over without stepping on the man to shove his key into the doorknob. Quite handsome too. His eyes skate over the creased lapels and pressed slacks, and Kim Dokja comes to the assumption that this person must be quite important.
Dokja snorts, hopping over the figure and into his house. Well. That wouldn’t change the fact that he’d be leaving this man as is. He hesitates, fingers curled around the doorway, then slams the door closed behind him.
He dumps his plastic bags onto the kitchen counter and begins sorting through his groceries, though they’re mostly just convenience store hauls. He pulls out several cans of Let’s Be, mostly for Sooyoung, who’s always easier to deal with when she has coffee in her system. A couple of Melona bars are shoved into the freezer and Dokja pops open a bag of shrimp chips, dismissing the fact that it wasn’t healthy to keep indulging in midnight snacks.
His conscience, however, seems to have more pressing problems. How can you have the morals to eat while a man is freezing outside your door, fifteen feet away?
“Not my problem,” Dokja mumbles to himself, hastily putting the rest of his snacks away. His morals had always been pretty gray anyway. He had no business with this guy. Hell, he’s never seen him in his life before. He certainly had no obligation to give this man shelter.
But he had a creeping suspicion that if he really did leave the stranger to rot, the figure lying outside his apartment door might actually wind up dead. Kim Dokja’s not sure if he wants that on his conscience. Or more importantly, his criminal record.
The night was cold, and Dokja sure wasn’t going to be sleeping soundly if his conscience kept reminding him that a man was freezing outside his apartment. He stares longingly once more at his bed, all warm and comfortable and away from the wind. Damn it. Stupid brain and stupid feelings.
With a huff, he goes back to his front door and pulls it open, unsurprised to see the figure lying there hadn’t moved an inch. Dokja squats down again. “Hey,” he gently slaps a cheek to no response. “Hey, excuse me…”
So with a reluctant sigh, he picks the man up by his armpits (or at least tries) and hauls him inside, distantly wondering if this was really better than calling the police and knowing deep inside the answer was no.
—🎵—
Yoo Joonghyuk wakes up to two things. One is a pounding headache, thundering across all parts of his skull with the seeming intent to inhibit all function. He forces his eyes open, sitting up, wondering why his bed feels so hard. It’s only when he pushes back the sheets—blue and gray checkered sheets that certainly aren’t his!—that he realizes this bed isn’t his either. No way in hell would he call this horrible excuse of a mattress his own.
“Just what...?”
The second thing he wakes up to, as he blinks drearily at his unfamiliar surroundings, is the sound of a piano.
Joonghyuk stumbles out of the bed, towards the half-opened door where the music seems to come from. When he pulls it open, he’s hit with the early morning sun, and he squints back, dazed. Where on earth was he?
Considering he has no idea where he just woke up, he knew his response has been quite lackluster. In fact, he would be a bit more alarmed, if it weren’t for the Mozart echoing in the halls.
Joonghyuk frowns.
Mozart?
He follows the music to a living room. At least, that’s what he assumes it is because there’s nothing in there except a sleek grand piano that nearly takes up the width of the space. The source of the music turns out to be a lanky man in ratty sweatpants, complete with an unruly bedhead, hunched over the instrument. Piano Sonata No. 5, Joonghyuk unconsciously recognizes, before it registers that the playing is absolutely breathtaking.
The man’s eyes are closed as his fingers fly—no, dance—across the keys with an exact delicacy. Every note is connected to the last, yet at the same time, each one is distinct. It doesn’t take more than a couple of measures for Joonghyuk to realize he’s somehow found himself face-to-face with an exceptional player.
This was quite easily the best pianist Joonghyuk had ever encountered, if it weren’t for the fact that this man’s playing was wrong.
Sonata No. 5, Yoo Joonghyuk concludes, gritting his teeth. It’s definitely Sonata No. 5.
It was Sonata No. 5. in all the ways that mattered, yet at the same time, it was not.
There’s something about the playing that makes it sound elevated. It was a spirited piece to begin with, light on its feet like a gavotte. A swing of the leg and two twirls; rhythmic steps and clicking heels. Yet the natural phrasing seems to be entirely disregarded, with the legato breaking when he least expects it. There is even a generous amount of rubato that Joonghyuk’s sure isn’t in the urtext.
He sucks in a breath. This man was improvising.
It would be hard for the typical ear to recognize the difference between Sonata No. 5 and this man’s rendition of it because everything sounds noticeably right. Not even just right, but it sounds like it’s been… made better. Because for all the subtle changes in the articulation, the original intent of the melody is still there.
Joonghyuk should be appalled. This man was indisputably butchering Mozart. Critics would come for his throat.
But Joonghyuk’s feelings betray him because secretly, he’s absolutely entranced.
When the piece trickles to an end, the man releases a sigh, relaxed and content, and leans back on the heel of his palms. Only then does he notice Joonghyuk standing over to the side. “Oh!” He grins, and it’s blinding, combined with the light bursting from the windows behind him. “Hah, you’re awake.” He pauses, biting his lip. “Sorry if I woke you up.”
“Who are you?” Yoo Joonghyuk growls out before he can let his thoughts wander back to that unacceptable playing! “Why am I here?”
“I should be asking you that,” the man says cheerfully, standing up to go to the kitchen. The undercurrent of irritation doesn’t go missed. “You’re the one who showed up drunk at my door.” He opens a cupboard.
Joonghyuk did that? He has zero recollection of anything from last night. All he remembers were a couple of drinks after that woman left him hanging, and then it was just…
Damn it.
Damn it.
“Well, I’m sure your head is killing you right now,” the man says, pulling a box of painkillers from the shelf. “Would you like any—”
But Yoo Joonghyuk is already gone.
—🎵—
Yoo Joonghyuk pulls the violin away from his shoulder, clicking his tongue. “I do not like it,” he announces, catching Seolhwa rolling her eyes. “Something does not sound right.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
He frowns. “Could we run through the Scherzo again?”
“Again?” Seolhwa sighs, lips pinched. “Joonghyuk-ssi, we’ve run through the entire sonata thrice now. I can assure you it sounds wonderful.”
“That is not enough for the critics,” Joonghyuk replies. He unclenches his jaw when Seolhwa’s brows furrow, immediately backtracking. “I’m sorry—”
“No,” she says tiredly but with a small smile, relaxing her wrists and slowly rotating them. “I understand the pressure that’s on you, but I do think it’s in your best interest to not be overly tense about this. Over-practicing might do more harm than good.” She tilts her head, in a gentle but firm rebuke.
He grits his teeth. “The Scherzo—”
“—is note-perfect,” she says sternly, and Joonghyuk grinds his teeth.
“The bare minimum.”
Seolhwa sighs at his mulishness, rolling her shoulders back. She sends him a sharp glare. “We can go through it one more time, but no more.”
“Thank you,” Joonghyuk bows a little, sighing gratefully. Seolhwa was right, of course, but it made more sense out loud than it did in his head. He picks up his violin, takes a deep breath, and plays.
Brahms has the shortest part in the sonata but the most impactful, and Joonghyuk never felt he did him justice as he did the other composers. Seolhwa plays the accompaniment spectacularly with her usual rhythmic clarity, as Joonghyuk closes his eyes and lets the music wash into him.
The Scherzo was one of his favorites, a melody that crashes before fizzling, just to rise all over again. It’s dramatic, employing the catchy motive at the beginning to set a tune full of gusto. Joonghyuk might have loved this section, but it was difficult to convey all that it carried. It was a movement filled to the brim with nuances, and while Seolhwa adequately delivered with her execution, Joonghyuk still didn’t feel all that great when they ran it through.
Something just felt so off.
He wordlessly releases the violin from underneath his chin. He definitely couldn’t ask Seolhwa to run through it another time, not when he knew the problem was entirely his own. He’d have to practice it at home to ensure that everything, down to the subtle changes in the dynamics, was perfect.
“Feeling better about it?” Seolhwa asks, massaging her fingers. A pang of guilt stabs at him.
He nods—a lie—but hopes his gratitude is at least genuine. “Thank you for your time. I apologize for my attitude.”
“Of course,” Seolhwa nods back, standing and gathering her papers. She must sense his conflict, or see it somewhere between his everlasting frowns. “I do enjoy playing with you, Joonghyuk-ssi, please don’t misunderstand.”
He turns away to put his instrument in its case. “I am aware of how I may come off.”
“You’re serious about your music and you’re passionate. That conveys as talent.” Seolhwa says it with a smile, so matter-of-fact, so simply. As if it was just a standard observation. As if there weren’t years of arduous practice behind it. “Your diligence does not always mean obsession. But while I admire the effort you put into your craft, I worry sometimes that you overdo it.”
“It is not overdoing.” Joonghyuk frowns and Seolhwa lightly smacks him on the arm, a careful smile on her face.
“And I say it is,” she replies smoothly, hitching her bag up higher on her shoulder. “I play alongside you, Joonghyuk-ssi, and we could go at it for hours if I didn’t stop you. I’m sure I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say you spend the same amount of time practicing on your own, if not more.” Joonghyuk’s fingers close into fists. She reads through him too easily. “All I’ll say is that you should go a little easy on yourself.”
“I shall keep that in mind,” he mumbles, though he’s sure neither of them believe that. He bows deeply, making sure she can’t meet his eyes.
“I have an appointment next, so I’ll be heading out now. I’ll see you in three days?” Seolhwa confirms, placing a gentle hand on his elbow.
“Yes,” Joonghyuk nods, holding the door open for her. “Thank you.” As soon as she’s gone, he slouches.
Yoo Joonghyuk wouldn’t deny that their program had come along spectacularly. He’d made sure of it. The past few months had been brutal, with Joonghyuk bordering a tantrum at every minute thing that had gone wrong and Seolhwa brushing off his disgruntlement with a wave of her hand. He’d been nitpicky and she’d been steadfast, reassuring him time and time over again that things would come together. And with less than four weeks left till the performance, Joonghyuk can’t help but admit she was right.
His solos were completely polished and his sonatas were nearing perfection. If this were a regular performance, Joonghyuk would’ve been at ease, confident that the show would leave behind a trail of glittering reviews.
Except it wasn’t a regular performance.
No, it was following the abysmal debacle that was Joonghyuk’s last program, his third-ever recital that had been picked apart to the bare bones. The critics had faulted his technique, criticized his selection of music, and described the entire performance as plainly disappointing. The only thing Joonghyuk would agree with was their captious review of his horrid accompanist, whom he suspected of trying to sabotage the show. He’d given the guy a good piece of his mind before swiftly sacking him.
His uncle was furious. For a violinist with a debut par excellence, his following performances didn’t meet the standards he set in his first recital. The most recent one had been the worst of them all. So to make up for that, Joonghyuk had to ensure that this upcoming concert was nothing short of supernal.
And although he could attribute the bulk of his perfectionist propensity to a drive for redemption, Joonghyuk couldn’t rule out the truth that he was naturally an asshole. Quite frankly, he was still in awe that Seolhwa kept putting up with him, session after session, patiently conciliating him after every frustration.
He slips into his coat and grabs his instrument. He should apologize properly to Seolhwa one of these days. When he steps out of the studio, he is startled to be face-to-face with Uriel, who’s dressed like she’s due on the runway at Paris Fashion Week.
“Uriel.” Joonghyuk breathes, unsure whether to be glad or horrified. “What are you doing here?”
She grins at him, bright-eyed and glowing, reaching forward to pinch his cheek. “Visiting my favorite student, of course.”
He swats her hand away, but his lips betray him with a curl. “How did you know where I was.”
“I have my sources,” she dismisses, shoving past him to head back into the studio, blond curls bouncing as she does. With a huff, Joonghyuk follows. “Now, my sources have also been telling me you’ve been being a bastard.”
Not revolutionary news. He leans against the wall as Uriel takes a seat at the piano. “What brings you here, Uriel?"
“Then you should be happy to hear that’s exactly what I came here for,” Uriel smiles back too pleasantly. “Of course, among other affairs, but I am here to check in on you.”
“Other affairs?”
She brushes it off with a wave of her hand. “Inconsequential. In any case, a little birdie has told me that you’re overdoing yourself.” Uriel presses the keys, bursting into the Scherzo accompaniment that has Joonghyuk’s fingers itching to join. Eavesdropper.
Shamelessly, Joonghyuk manages, “I am not.”
“Have you no conscience?”
“I have no patience for lectures,” he says firmly.
“Too bad,” Uriel snaps, finally turning back to him. There’s a darker glint to her glower now, and Yoo Joonghyuk bites back the quip on his lips. “I’m going to lecture you whether you like it or not.” When he makes no room to stop her, she continues, satisfied. “Over-practicing? Really? What are you, Joonghyuk, fourteen? Must I really hammer it in your head again? Or would you rather I call up someone else to do that?”
“I am not over-practicing.” Joonghyuk is going to stand by this, even if he feels silly denying it to Uriel. Even at the threat of Namgung Minyoung, which admittedly had him wincing. “Your informant is misinformed.”
Her brows furrow. “So you’re telling me this isn’t all a desperate attempt at redemption for your last recital?” Of course Uriel had to go there. “You’re not hard to read, Joonghyuk,” she sighs, face a little softer. “I know you well enough to see that you’re still beating yourself up.”
“An exaggeration.”
“You get the point.” Uriel sinks her fingers in the keys sharply, and Joonghyuk winces at the cacophonous triad. “Stop deflecting.” And her eyes are too demanding, making it all too easy.
He rolls his eyes. “It is some slight stress.”
Uriel relaxes. “There. Now was that so hard to admit? What’s bothering you?”
Joonghyuk grits his teeth. This is something he’d rather not admit. “Something is not right.”
“You’re worried about reviews.”
“…”
“Can’t blame you for that, really,” admits Uriel, looking bitter and thoughtful. “Though I don’t think it would be far-fetched to say that much of your nerves are excessive.”
“I am aware.” Yoo Joonghyuk huffs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “It is much easier to say something than to do it.”
Uriel looks at him sharply. “That uncle of yours still giving you a hard time?”
“No more than usual,” he stiffens. “Everyone is on the edge with this program.”
“I listened to your playing,” Uriel says, shamelessly admitting to her snooping. “It’s honestly quite fantastic. You’ve selected an excellent repertoire, perhaps a bit on the classical side—”
“I will not be accepting repertoire critique with four weeks left,” Joonghyuk clicks his tongue.
“Four weeks and you sound outstanding,” says Uriel firmly. She stands, releasing the piano in front of her and crossing her arms. “You truly have no reason to worry, I promise.”
“Will you…” Joonghyuk hates how small his voice sounds, betraying the earnestness in his chest. “Will you be there?” He felt ten again, gaping up at Uriel’s golden frame as she conducted her violin with such virtuosic confidence and skill, wondering if she was magic or monster or something in between.
“Yes,” she smiles, tone gentle. “I will be there and I will be the first to stand for applause and demand an encore because you will not disappoint.”
Perhaps this was what Joonghyuk needed. The slightest bit of reassurance from someone he’d always held with unwavering faith. He turns away, smothering the bits of warmth that creep up his face. “Come. I will buy lunch.”
—🎵—
“This”—Dokja huffs, squashed right up against the bus window—”is your fault.”
“How is this my fault?” Han Sooyoung grunts back, giving him a nudge. Both of them are squeezing into a single seat, and Kim Dokja can only be grateful Sooyoung left her cello at school yesterday. He can’t imagine bringing that along with them this morning.
“You refused to wake up after I called you five times.” Dokja elbows her back beneath the ribs, satisfied when he earns a curse in return. “Hah, you were one call away from a bucket of water to the face. We could’ve avoided this and taken an earlier bus.”
“Well, you were the one who was taking forever when we were about to leave because you were getting coffee!”
“It was coffee for you.” He can see a couple of other people giving them dirty looks and he drops his voice to a low hiss. “What, were you up all night writing again?”
“I was not!” Sooyoung says hotly, cheeks firing up. Dokja rolls his eyes, seeing right through the lie.
“Professor Sun is going to kill me,” he grumbles, pressing his forehead against the cool window, trying to calculate their ETA. It didn’t matter; they were helplessly late by this point.
“Does it matter? Professor Sun wouldn’t even care if you were late,” she mutters. “I’m sure he’s just glad you even show up. If he were going to kill you, I feel like he would’ve done it already.”
“I do show up,” Dokja replies indignantly.
“Yeah, on a good day. If you remember,” Han Sooyoung reminds him, rolling her eyes. “And even if you do, there’s no guarantee you remember what your pieces for that week are.”
“You are making me sound like a bad student,” he says defensively.
Sooyoung snorts. “You are a bad student. Terrific player, but an awful fucking student. It’s a wonder how Professor Sun even puts up with you.”
Kim Dokja can’t argue with that. Truthfully, he wonders it himself. He grumbles under his breath and makes sure to grind his heel on Han Sooyoung’s foot when he shoves past her to exit. She pushes him just as he steps off the bus, causing him to stumble with his landing.
Dokja splits from Sooyoung as soon as he enters the music building, running down the corridor and up the stairs before he makes it to Professor Sun’s room. He walks in fifteen minutes late, trying to carefully slip into the room until he realizes his professor is already there, watching him with a critical look on his face. Dokja stands up straight. “What’s your excuse this time?”
He smiles pleasantly. “Han Sooyoung.”
Professor Sun raises an eyebrow. “Han Sooyoung. From strings.”
“Yes.” The corner of his professor’s mouth twitches.
“Take a seat,” he snaps and Dokja scuttles over without questioning him. “Pull out the Mozart. We’ll start from Andante.” The Mozart? Sonata No. 5?
“Uh. I thought the Allegro—” Dokja tries to protest, but all the fight dies out of him at his professor’s sharp glare.
“I said Andante, Dokja.”
Dokja frowns. If this morning was anything to go by, today was bound to be a train wreck. He flips through his bag, hoping he'd brought the sheets, only to realize he had never actually taken them out since their last meeting. Damn it. There was no way Professor Sun wouldn’t notice.
He only makes it through two pages before he gets a sharp whack on the back of his head by a folio of papers. Dokja winces, not meeting his professor’s eyes.
“You’re not even looking at the music!” Professor Sun crows. He looks like he’s about to pull his hair out with frustration. “You could’ve at least tried to fool me by flipping the pages! Tell me, Kim Dokja, did you even read through the sheets?”
Silence. It doesn’t matter. He’s sure his professor already knows the answer anyway.
“You cannot just make up Mozart as you go!”
“But it sounds right, doesn’t it?”
“Sounding right doesn’t mean that it is right! Gah!” Professor Sun throws his hands up in the air, fingers threatening to tear his hair out. “If you weren’t so talented, I’d have thrown you out months ago.”
“Sorry,” Dokja has the decency to peep out with a slight grin, though he’s not really that guilty. What difference would it matter if he took a little liberties? It was all nice when it was heard, and there weren't many people who’d notice the difference anyway. He finds in him the audacity to add, “Mozart like this should be less restrained. I feel like he needs to loosen up a little.”
“You cannot decide what Mozart needs and does not,” Professor Sun snorts. “You are neither accomplished nor dead enough to do so.”
Dokja grumbles back something incoherent in response, eyes returning to the music when his professor whacks it twice. “Did you even practice?”
He thinks back to a week ago, when he’d burst into Sonata No. 5 and woken up the stranger in his house. “Yes,” he replies shamelessly.
“With the score?”
He shrugs. “I listened to a recording.”
Dokja can just imagine Professor Sun’s face, burning crimson like a tomato. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the lecture that was to follow. He’s mildly surprised when he doesn’t get one, and when he looks over, Professor Sun has slouched into a chair, fingers gripping his hair. “You are a waste of potential.”
Dokja flinches, jaw clenched. “Sorry,” he tries after an uncomfortable stretch of silence. “I’ll start over.”
Even through all the outbursts, Dokja knew Professor Sun had good intentions. It was unfair of Kim Dokja to be stubborn for no other reason than to just be stubborn. After all, it didn’t matter whether his playing was “proper” once he got home to his own Yamaha.
He glances at the score, lips pursed, and begins playing.
For all of Mozart’s classicality, Dokja did like Sonata No. 5 over the rest of his works. Although he preferred the Allegro by a large margin, he eases carefully into the Andante, gentle with the notes and polite with the ornaments, as if making a good first impression. Andante was always far too simple for Dokja’s liking, straightforward and predictable with the repeated notes, like it was made for Viennese high society. Never mind the unbearably stagnant tempo. That’s why he liked improvising it, but while his fingers twitch to experiment, he follows the score to the last dynamic, intent on showing his professor he very well could bring out the beauty in its elegant nature.
Frankly speaking, it’s painful, and by the time he finishes the section, Dokja’s eyes have glazed over and the notation feels jumbled to him. But Professor Sun is grinning at him with a smug I knew it face and Dokja can’t help but be fondly amused.
Han Sooyoung always says he did better in spite.
“Gah, perfect!” His professor sings, glowing. “Kim Dokja, you are so frustrating, but in moments like this I feel it’s worth every last strand of my hair.”
It might be worth it to his professor, but to Dokja, that was unbearable. Couldn’t his professor see how bland it sounded? There was no magic, no warmth, no pizzazz. It sounded good, there was no question about that, but the sound wasn’t his.
“You can play the Allegro now.” The sanction has Dokja beaming and he quickly flips the pages back to the first movement, though he didn’t need it at all. If it were up to him, the entire score would be in the garbage. Still, Professor Sun must notice his restlessness because he sighs. “Just… show a little restraint, would you?”
Dokja tries, he really tries. But the Allegro was always meant to be let loose, and so he does, pointedly ignoring Professor Sun’s growing agitation. His fingers fly across the keys, darting around and dancing with the melody, eyes closed and simply listening.
Some people described Dokja’s playing as prizing a song of its elegance and beauty, but Sooyoung thought—rarely and begrudgingly, of course—that it was like shedding a mask. It would draw you in with all the tantalizing improvisations, creating a story unlike any other. While his teachers always called his playing blasphemous, they could never deny the rare skill he had with his phrasing.
Because for Kim Dokja, it was never just interpretation and it wasn’t solely expression either. It was the composition and the narrative of its sounds, of each intonation, and what its purpose was. He feels the notes echo through the room, clear and full of intention, and smiles.
It was never about him and always about what the piece itself wanted.
Before he knows it, he’s run through the entire sonata, the final note hanging in the air with glory. When Dokja turns back to triumphantly smile at Professor Sun, his professor is already looming over him with a scowl, the next piece in hand.
Dokja’s face promptly falls.
—🎵—
“Well, aren’t you looking all lively and enthusiastic,” Sooyoung comments dryly. Kim Dokja watches her slide into the seat across from him, his head still planted firmly on the table. “What, did you get yelled at for butchering Beethoven?”
“I was not butchering Beethoven.”
“Mozart, then.”
He gives her the most withering look he can manage.
“Sorry, I forgot that making up the notes as you go wasn’t synonymous with butchering.” She rolls her eyes, shoving a tray of food towards him.
Dokja scowls. “It sounds better.”
“Sounding better doesn’t make it right.”
“You’ve told me this before.”
“You think you’d get the hint after the second time, wouldn’t you?” Sooyoung snaps back and Dokja smiles, just to piss her off. “Stop grumbling and eat up. You’re more a pain to deal with when you’re hungry.”
“Am not,” Kim Dokja mumbles, but reluctantly shovels rice in his mouth nonetheless. “And no, I wasn’t butchering Mozart, as you so put it.” He frowns and amends his words. “Not today, at least.”
“Well, aren’t I glad to hear that.”
“I played fine, alright?” He snaps back, hesitating. “That wasn’t the problem.” Dokja lowers his eyes, voice quiet. “Professor… he keeps thinking I should compete again.”
Han Sooyoung freezes, spoon halfway to her mouth before her eyes soften. “Kim Dokja. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know that,” Dokja grunts, shoving his hands through his hair. “It would be stranger if he didn’t propose it. But I was hoping he’d drop it after the first time I refused.”
“I guess he’s just as stubborn as you are,” she grins, a twinkle in her eye. “But he only says so because he believes in your playing. We all believe in your playing.”
“You might believe in my playing, but not me. I’m the one who ultimately has to go out there and perform,” he mutters, scowling. Nobody ever seemed to consider his side of things. Always Kim Dokja play this, or Kim Dokja do that. Never was it, Kim Dokja, what do you want to play? Never ever was it Kim Dokja, play as you wish.
“The problem is that you showed him you can play properly, if only you put your mind to it. Telling him you can’t now is totally out of the question.” He can’t even refute it.
“But I don’t want to compete,” says Dokja bitterly. “I can’t- it’s too…”
“I know,” she says carefully, nails drumming against the table. “And I understand. But he doesn’t. So you better come up with better excuses or he’ll have you signed up before you know it.”
“I just want to play,” Dokja admits quietly. “Without limits, without stress.”
“You went and joined one of the top conservatoires in the country,” Han Sooyoung rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what else you expected.”
“The free housing and food was a pretty good offer.”
“Don’t boast your scholarship on me, Kim Dokja.”
“Sorry you can’t handle the truth,” he snickers, dodging as she tries to cuff his shoulder. “How are your pieces coming along? You were doing Suite No. 5, right?”
“Would you believe me when I say that the Suite is more doable than playing the Sammartini with Myung Ilsang?” Sooyoung’s eyes are wide with incredulity and Dokja winces.
“That bad?”
“That’s an understatement!” She throws her hands up, spoon with it. “Every single page he has a couple of questions. ‘Noona, was the tempo alright?’ or ‘Noona, can we run over from measure 26 again?’. It’s fucking ridiculous! And we’re only playing Allegro, can you believe that?”
“I can’t imagine,” Dokja says seriously, his initial sympathy for Sooyoung quickly morphing into pity for her accompanist. Han Sooyoung was surprisingly easy to play with despite her abrasive disposition and potty mouth, at least in Dokja’s opinion. He sure wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her wrath right now.
“And then on top of all that”—Sooyoung shudders theatrically—”there’s Yoo Sangah.”
“You seriously have to get over this juvenile rivalry you have with her,” Dokja snorts. “You know it’s painfully one-sided, right?”
“It is not!” Sooyoung shouts, earning a couple of glances from the table over. Dokja assumes people have acclimated to the sudden outbursts by now, what with how often he and Sooyoung are seen bickering across the building. “You should see her during orchestra practice, all smug and haughty and with that exasperatingly pleasant smile on her face.”
Dokja laughs. “You’re just jealous because she’s principal.”
“I am not!” The shrill denial is more telling than anything else. “She’s only principal because I’m not giving it my all. I don’t like her because she’s obnoxious.”
Given the number of times Kim Dokja has spoken to Yoo Sangah, obnoxious wouldn’t be the first word to describe her. She was friendly, diligent, and wildly talented. And while she could be a bit of a people pleaser at times, Dokja wouldn’t go so far as to call her obnoxious.
“Sure you’re not talking about yourself?”
“Says the one who willingly spends all his free time with me because he has no other friends.”
“That can easily be changed.” It might be comedic timing or just sheer coincidence, but it’s just so convenient that Dokja happens to see Yoo Sangah walking through the rows of tables, looking for a spot to sit. Kim Dokja waves before Han Sooyoung can figure out what’s going on. “Sangah-ssi, over here!”
Sangah brightens when she catches sight of Dokja, all while Sooyoung sees their guest and splutters for words like a fish out of water. Sangah slides into the seat next to Dokja and smiles. “Dokja-ssi, I haven’t seen you around lately! How have you been?”
“You know me,” shrugs Dokja with a cheeky grin. “Pissing off Professor Sun. Nothing new. I’m glad to have caught you. Han Sooyoung was just telling me how incredible you were at practice.”
Sooyoung’s face undergoes an expected sweep of emotions, from fury to forced politeness to chagrin. But it’s the way that Sangah’s smile falters before forcing itself to reform that catches Dokja’s eye. Well, what do we have here?
“Is that so?” Sangah responds stiffly, the semblance of politeness cracking. Sooyoung unabashedly glowers at Dokja but he pays her no heed.
“Yes,” Dokja nods eagerly, then leans in, voice dropping sotto voce. “I know she acts like an asshole sometimes but it’s only because she doesn’t want to admit she’s a huge fan of yours.”
Sangah’s brows furrow. “Really?” She seems a bit taken aback by that lie and Dokja maintains his grin even after getting a sharp kick beneath the table from Sooyoung. “I didn’t…” Sangah turns her full attention to Sooyoung. “You like my playing?”
Frozen after being put on the spot, Sooyoung awkwardly nods like the panicked gay that she is. “Yeah, I mean who wouldn’t? You’re a total doormat but you play well, I guess.” She scratches the back of her neck, and Dokja… is that sincerity I’m seeing on her face?
Yoo Sangah looks thoroughly confused, unsure whether she should take the compliment at face value or start up another squabble with Sooyoung. She settles for a wavering smile. “You play well, too. I’m a huge fan of your repertoire from the last Isang Yun competition.”
Han Sooyoung’s face flushes bright and Dokja leans back, covering his smile with a bite of food. Now that wasn’t so bad.
But alas, good things never seem to last. Sangah turns back towards him. “Dokja-ssi, the Chopin competition is coming up, isn’t it?” Dokja feels all amusement drain out of him the second the word is mentioned. “Are you going to partake in it?”
“Er, no,” he grits out a feeble smile. “Competitions aren’t really my thing anymore.” He adds in a slight laugh for good measure. “I’ve got better things to do, like actually practicing the pieces Professor Sun gives me every week.”
It earns him a chuckle and that’s enough for him, even if Sooyoung is blazing holes into the side of his head. “That’s a shame,” Sangah admits though, and her tone is a bit mournful. “Your playing truly is something unique.”
“Well,” Kim Dokja shrugs, ignoring the coil in his stomach, “you’re always free to watch as I get crucified for my playing in the public practice room.”
“Only if you don’t get kicked out by the professors first.”
Dokja snickers. Yoo Sangah truly had the most unexpected charm. “So what pieces do you have for your exam? I know Sooyoung’s doing a Suite for hers, and Sammartini’s Sonata in G for her accompaniment.”
“I’m doing Suite No. 6. and Sonata in F from Brahms with Min Jiwon,” Sangah explains. “It’s gone…” she hesitates, chewing on her lip. “About as well as you’d expect from Min Jiwon.”
“I’ve got Myung Ilsang,” Sooyoung pipes up and watches Sangah’s face recoil. “Nothing beats that.”
“Oh, I’ve worked with him before.” She shudders. “Always had so many questions. I always get the worst accompanists.” Sangah glances at Dokja as she stabs her meat. “You’d have been a wonderful accompanist, Dokja-ssi.”
“Me?”
To his surprise, even Han Sooyoung nods. “Yes, you. I always do fucking amazing whenever you play with me.” She turns to Sangah. “But half the struggle of playing with him is making sure he does it by the score.”
Kim Dokja scowls. She could never stray too close to a compliment without making it backhanded.
“Too bad our exams don’t coincide this time around,” Sangah says ruefully. “Next time I call dibs.” Dokja thinks she’s half-joking but the glint in her eyes says otherwise.
“Hello, I’m right here,” Sooyoung flares up indignantly. “As childhood best friend, I have priority.”
“Oh? Are you admitting we’re best friends?”
“Oh, shut it!”
—🎵—
Lee Seolhwa was right.
She’s right about a lot of things, a lot of the time but in this instance, she might’ve been right about Joonghyuk overdoing it. He sets down his violin with a sigh and rolls his shoulder back, easing the knot in it.
Joonghyuk knows he’s always been an obsessive musician. He was never one to half-ass things to begin, and he certainly couldn’t afford to now. After all, a violinist could never be perfect. That’s what his father used to say, and now his uncle parrots it around too.
Although most of Joonghyuk’s uncertainties were with his duets, he decided to start the afternoon off with solos, specifically the Ysaÿe. And while Joonghyuk had it mostly under his belt, he felt it could always use some touching up.
Of Ysaÿe’s six sonatas, No. 4 was a piece deeply reflective of Bach. It was permissive with expression but restrictive with phrasings and markings, making it a composition difficult to balance between technique and emotion. It called for vibrato and pizzicato, and insisted on precise dynamics that changed by the measure. The Allemanda refused to be anything short of vivacious while the Sarabande trailed after a folk-like motive. All of it built up for the Finale, a movement far too reminiscent of Bach’s Presto from Sonata No. 1 for Joonghyuk’s liking, just before crashing on the statements from earlier.
It was a piece that demanded a lot, but not as much as the ones from the rest of his repertoire. Joonghyuk had conquered Bach enough to know how to insert just the right amount of it in the piece without omitting Ysaÿe’s character.
Joonghyuk ran through it in full three times before Seolhwa’s words came pounding into the side of his head like an alarm. And just like the incorrigible masochist he is, Joonghyuk continues to press snooze on it.
Time for the Rach.
The Rach doesn’t need an explanation for how formidable it is principally because it’s a Rach. But its difficulty also lies in the fact that Prelude in G Minor wasn’t originally made for violin, and was notoriously difficult on piano. The violin transcription required precise arpeggios and spiccato to carry forth the menacing and melancholic nature of the piece.
If Yoo Joonghyuk were of a more sane mind, he wouldn’t have included this piece in his repertoire at all, no matter how hauntingly beautiful it was. But it was a necessity, a skillful addition to show off his versatility, and it wasn’t like he could get rid of it now, this late in the game.
When he glances at his phone, there’s a message from Mia from an hour ago. no ice cream in the house, it reads, and Joonghyuk can practically see her hands on her hips and lower lip jutted out. He quietly smiles and reminds himself to pick some up before he goes to visit.
He picks up his instrument after a sip of water and goes back at it again.
Today, Prelude felt nice. Which was odd, because a Rach does not simply feel nice. But the notes slide off his strings with clarity tantamount to the piano version and Joonghyuk has absolutely no idea how to feel about the success.
This is what he’s striving for. This is how he needs to deliver weeks from now.
His uncle would say it could be better, though his uncle would say that about every piece. Yoo Joonghyuk had learned to bite his tongue and nod, taking the unsolicited, uneducated opinion through one ear and out. It was in moments like that where he missed his father most, and appreciated the no-nonsense yet never-cold attitude the virtuoso had.
Joonghyuk swallows thickly and his violin wails consequently. All the more reason to make sure this show was a success. Even if his uncle sought to fulfill his personal agenda and milk Joonghyuk for what it was worth, Joonghyuk vowed not to lose touch with his own motivations.
He only runs through the Rach thrice when his phone buzzes. That’s strange; his phone is strictly on do not disturb for all but four people. Yoo Joonghyuk pauses, sets down his violin, and sees it’s a phone call from Seolhwa, whom he’s not due to meet until tomorrow. She never calls Joonghyuk. They always communicate through straightforward text messages that rarely exceed five words at a time.
Joonghyuk picks up, confused, and is even more startled when Seolhwa’s voice comes through cluttered with background noise. “Hello?”
“Joonghyuk-ssi.” Her voice is frantic and Joonghyuk tenses. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know who else to call and I thought you should be the first to—”
“Seolhwa-ssi,” he interrupts, stepping towards the windows as something ugly coils around his stomach. “Are you alright?”
There’s a sharp intake of breath and a defeated sigh. “I got into an accident. I’m at Yulje—”
Joonghyuk’s already out the door.
—🎵—
Yoo Joonghyuk is fairly certain it’s supposed to be immediate family only but when he comes barraging down the halls in his typical dark attire and looming frame, no one makes any move to stop him. He knocks twice before entering room 202.
“But I can’t do that!” Seolhwa’s voice is shrill and fierce, a tone he’s never heard her take before. She’s sitting on the hospital bed, legs swung over the edge. There’s a bandage on her temple and a cast around her right wrist, and she’s entirely preoccupied with arguing with the doctor. “You don’t understand, I’m an accompanist—”
“Seolhwa-ssi,” Joonghyuk calls and watches all the fight in Seolhwa’s face drain out into horror, then dismay. “What happened? Are you alright?”
The man in the white coat turns to Joonghyuk and gives him a once-over. “You must be her boyfriend,” the doctor sighs, running his hand through his hair. “Maybe you can make her see some sense.”
“What happened?” Joonghyuk repeats, gritting his teeth, but he can piece the situation together.
“I fell,” Seolhwa says flatly, eyes downcast. “It was down the flight of stairs to my apartment. I’ve got a couple of injuries but I’ll be fine—”
“You will not be fine,” the doctor interrupts sternly, looking affronted. “You’ve got a scaphoid fracture and several superficial injuries, including one to your head. Your orders are to rest.”
Joonghyuk sucks in a breath and Seolhwa looks even more crestfallen. “But I can’t afford to rest,” she protests. “I’m a piano accompanist—”
“All the more reason to keep that cast on,” the doctor says. “Twelve weeks at minimum. Six more for therapy. What you can’t afford is to let that injury get worse.”
“I have a concert in four weeks!”
“Never mind the concert, Seolhwa-ssi,” Joonghyuk finally speaks up, visibly frustrated, and Seolhwa immediately clams up. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Excuse us. I will speak with her.” The doctor mumbles under his breath, something about “being ridiculously stubborn” but nods.
“I’ll leave it to you then.”
As soon as the man leaves the room, Yoo Joonghyuk sighs. Seolhwa’s face immediately crumbles, and she runs a hand through her silky white hair.
“I’m so sorry, Joonghyuk-ssi, I didn’t mean for this to happen—”
“Seolhwa-ssi.” Joonghyuk glares at her. “Please do not apologize.”
“But the program—”
“—Is the last thing on my mind.” Of course Joonghyuk’s stressed about the concert, of course he is. He’d be questioning his sanity if he weren’t. But he’s not an inconsiderate bastard to that degree. “You are at the hospital with a fracture and other injuries. These are more pressing concerns.”
Seolhwa’s eyes soften and she looks sheepish. “I’m sorry.”
“The doctor is right,” Joonghyuk asserts, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can worry about the aftermath. “You need to rest. You will withdraw from the program immediately.”
“But I can’t do that! You know I can’t!” She blurts, frantic. “The concert is in four weeks, you won’t be able to find a replacement that fast! You won’t be able to push it back either!”
“What happens to the concert is none of your worries right now,” Yoo Joonghyuk says resolutely, though the points she makes have him wincing on the inside. They were valid concerns, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on them. “I will deal with that situation accordingly and it is none of your concern.”
“Joonghyuk-ssi…”
“If you want to continue playing in the future, it is in your best interest to let that hand heal.” Joonghyuk has been fortunate enough to never succumb to injuries that would inhibit his playing and he cannot fathom what it must feel like either. He knows full well that he’d put up the same fight Seolhwa did, if not worse, but from the opposing perspective, it was foolish. There was no way he’d let her partake in his program, no matter how she healed by then.
“Are you free to leave now?” Joonghyuk asks after he gets a nod of agreement. “I’ll drop you home.”
“Joonghyuk-ssi, there’s really no need—”
“I will drop you off,” Joonghyuk repeats, tone leaving no room for argument. “Let us go see the discharge procedure.”
By the time Joonghyuk drops Seolhwa off and makes it back to his car, it’s been almost four hours since he got the initial phone call. She had truly frightened him when she called and he’d rushed over to the hospital expecting the worst. While she wasn’t seriously hurt, the wrist injury had been a shock to hear about. Joonghyuk sighs, pressing his forehead against his heated steering wheel, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
What was he going to do now?
How would he explain this to his uncle?
How could he possibly salvage this recital?
Just as it was all going so well, this had to happen. By no means was it Seolhwa’s fault but it felt like the worst timing possible. His fingers clench around the steering wheel. The universe truly was against him.
He pulls out his phone from his coat pocket and scrolls through his contacts until he finds the only person he has the energy to talk to right now. She picks up after two rings.
“Yes, my least favorite student,” Uriel sings and Joonghyuk can just hear the cheeky smile in her tone but doesn’t have the heart to return her energy. Not that he ever does. “What do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
There’s a long stretch of silence and the geniality in Uriel’s voice immediately drops. “Yoo Joonghyuk?”
“Uriel,” he sighs, utterly defeated. Joonghyuk feels his throat clogging up and tilts his head back, against the headrest so all he can see is the dark grey upholstery. “What will I do?”
—🎵—
“And then, he had the audacity to ask me if it was good!” Sooyoung screeches. Several people around them startle but Dokja nods sagely.
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” he says, patting her back.
“I’m your first pick for the next assessment, you got that?” She narrows her eyes at him. “Not Yoo Sangah.”
Hah. “We’ll see about that,” Dokja smiles enigmatically. Before Sooyoung can shriek at him, he sees Professor Sun standing outside their room, frowning. Dokja waves before he sees his professor is on the phone.
“That’s still…” Professor Sun’s gaze narrows in on him and the grin his face morphs into sends a chill down Dokja’s spine. Professor Sun smiling was never a good sign. “Actually, there is one person… I’ll call you back in a bit.”
Dokja raises his brows and Sooyoung shoves him forward when Professor Sun gestures him into his room. He glances back at Sooyoung, not sure if he wants to partake in whatever his professor is plotting. But she just shoots him a cheeky thumbs up and goes on her way. With a sigh, Dokja follows his professor.
“I have an offer for you,” Professor Sun starts as soon as he sets down the phone, arms crossed, and Dokja immediately assumes the worst.
“An offer?” He repeats, standing in front of the piano and mind rushing to the last exhausting conversation they had. “Professor, if this is about the competition—”
“It’s not, so you can calm down,” his professor cuts him off with a scowl, still upset by the stubborn refusal that went down the other day. “A colleague of mine has a former student who’s in pressing need of an accompanist for a concert.”
“An accompanist position?” Immediately, Dokja perks up, attitude taking a one-eighty. Oh, this definitely had nothing to do with the competition. “Are you asking me if I’d accompany someone?”
“Not just someone. Yoo Joonghyuk,” his professor stresses earnestly. He gapes when Dokja blinks back at him, blank-faced, and massages his temples. “Dear gods, help me. Anyway, the point is that he has a performance in four weeks and he needs an accompanist for a large amount of his repertoire.”
“Four weeks?” Dokja frowns as the proposal sets in. “You’re kidding, Professor, that’s ridiculous.”
Professor Sun’s lips press into a thin line. “That’s what I thought too, when Uriel first mentioned it. But his accompanist had a nasty fall and ended up with a wrist fracture so she’s invalid for the time being. She’s on cast for at least three months and is not fit to perform.”
Dokja winces in sympathy. How awful for her. He couldn’t imagine being ordered away from the piano for more than a couple of hours, let alone several months. He shudders and self-consciously rubs his own wrists. “So you want me to fill in for her,” Dokja states, fully knowing the answer.
“I understand it’s immense pressure to learn several demanding pieces weeks before the program, but I don’t know anyone else who could actually pull something that absurd off than you.” Dokja frowns, trying to decipher whether that was a compliment or an insult. Probably both, since Professor Sun would never give one without the other. “The decision is up to you, and I understand if you wish to decline.”
Quite frankly, the harrowing deadline didn’t deter Dokja in the slightest. The job probably paid well, considering the tight timeframe and the insinuated grandeur of the violinist, and it wouldn’t be Dokja’s first time playing with an uptight partner. All in all, it seemed like just the sort of challenge Dokja liked.
“What’s the repertoire?”
“Sonatas, mostly,” Professor Sun announces, as if Dokja suspected anything else, and his lips curl in distaste. “Mozart, Fauré. There’s a Beethoven in there too. I believe it’s the Kreutzer.” Dokja brightens. He’s never had the chance to play it but oh, how he’s always loved that piece. “I expect you’ll be accompanying for well over half the program.”
“Okay.”
“I know it’s difficult— what?”
“I said, okay,” Dokja shrugs. “I’ll do it.”
Professor Sun splutters. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said so far?”
“I have.”
“Do you know what’s being required of you?”
“You’re asking me to accompany,” Dokja repeats slowly, wondering if he was missing something. “That I’ll be playing with this Yoo Joonghyuk fellow for at least an hour or two’s worth of repertoire.”
His professor’s jaw slackens, affronted. “I’ve been begging you for months to partake in a competition, yet it takes you less than a second thought to agree to accompany Yoo Joonghyuk—whom you don’t even know!—with such a painstaking deadline?”
“It sounds fun.”
“Fun!” Professor Sun looks as if he’ll collapse on the spot. “You’ll be the death of me, gah!”
“I also feel a little bad for this guy,” Dokja tries, and it’s not a complete lie. “It must be pretty stressful if he loses his accompanist with less than a month left. I’d like to help out.” He attempts an unsuspecting shrug, like he’d agreed on the basis of benevolence (which he definitely didn’t have).
“Kim Dokja,” his professor says, looking him right in the eye. “You must take this seriously. Uriel has made it clear numerous times that Joonghyuk is terribly particular. I won’t have you ruining your or my name just because you believe Mozart should be played by your interpretation. If you agree to this, you must learn the music by the score.”
Dokja squawks. “Of course I will—”
“I’m serious.”
“...I will.”
The problem of learning by the notation wasn’t that he couldn’t. He could, and perhaps that was what frustrated Professor Sun the most. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t want to, and when Kim Dokja didn’t want to do something, he’d ensure it followed through.
His professor sighs, looking closer and closer to strangling Kim Dokja by the day. “I’ll have you the sheet music by the end of the day so come to my office this evening to pick them up. You’ll probably begin practicing with Yoo Joonghyuk this weekend so I expect you to have memorized as much as you can by then.”
Dokja nods, but his mind’s elsewhere. He’s already imagining himself with the Mozart, of its attitude and tone and phrasing, fingers hovering over the keys as he plots to appreciate it far better than Kreutzer ever did.