Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Our little group has always been

and always will until the end." Smells Like Teen Spirit, Nirvana

“Is it recording?” 

You took a step back, your usual glinting gaze replaced by a scarce concentration. For the past five minutes you've been adjusting the phone— Omi’s, the one her brother bought for her birthday— which was trapped within the hinges of a cheap black tripod. 

“I am sure the phone is in the right angle,” stated Geum Bo-young, sliding her brand new cherry-red colored bass across her torso. “You can go tune your guitar now.”

“Yeah but I just want to make sure that we’re all fitting into the frame...” Your voice trailed off as you crouched down to increase the tripod’s height. 

You were hardly paying attention to details like this. But when it came to your band, concentration would be etched on your face like a second skin. Being the lead singer and guitarist came with great responsibilities or whatever Spiderman said.

Sunbeams slanted through the abnormally big windows of Bo-young’s apartment, painting the parquet floor in glowing golden stripes. Spring was on its way.

Omi Yoshida plopped herself on the worn-out leather stool with the grace of an elephant. She stretched her pale arms until her joints cracked, and picked up her drumsticks with a practiced ease. Before her was a majestic set of drums, a Roland kind. The drum shells were crimson coloured, matching Bo-young's bass.

Omi was just a teenage girl. So you must ask yourselfhow the fuck did she purchase a Roland VAD716.

“Omi, thank your brother from us. It was really nice of him to buy us new instruments.” Bo-young’s usual smirk could be heard in her words. She ran a finger along the string of her  bass, her lips twitching into a soft smile.

Yeah. Omi’s brother— Kaito, was fucking loaded. 

“Ah, don’t worry,” answered Omi with an over-relaxed tone. “i thanked him for all of us, but you know how humble he is. Since he entered that animation studio in Japan, I swear his wallet is never empty.”

“Whose wallet is never empty?” you asked, finally decided to leave the tripod alone.

You grabbed your guitar— light pink, sprinkled with multicolor stickers, and plugged the cable of the amp sitting beside her.

"Kaito's," replied Omi while cleaning her drumsticks with a dry cloth.

You hummed in acknowledgment. You mostly knew Omi's brother from name. You had seen him once or twice, and the resemblance he had with his sister was almost disturbing— the identical mop of jet-black hair and the same shitty vision, considering their round glasses constantly sitting on their button nose.

You moved with ease, as if you have done this a hundred times before. Well, with a second thought, you might have done this— tuning and plugging cables— more than a hundred times. Music has been your ultimate dream since the ripe age of seven. You claimed it when a music video of Linkin Park came on TV, one random school night. A guy, bleached hair, ear pierced, blessed her ears with some angelic vocals and a rapper with strawberry red hair left you mesmerized as he spat a million words within seconds. The clip had a questionable quality, and it showed sweaty middle aged men— probably the other band members, lashing out every ounce of energy into their instruments. Then a crowd, dancing under neon spotlights, moving in waves, following the rhythm of the heavy guitar riffs.

As your seven year-old self sat on the well-worn couch, the glowing screen of the device reverberating in her sparkling eyes, you found your vocation. Your reason to wake up every morning. Here was your freedom, waiting for you, trapped in the TV frame.

Since that night, you promised yourself to be on stage one day.

Bo-young propped her right feet on the floor. "God, my neighbors are going to kill me."

Thirty minutes later, the three musicians were ready. You pressed the big red dot located on the screen of Omi's phone, and quickly returned to your spot behind the mic.

"Bo-youngie, don't bring God into this," objected Omi, "i think he has enough problems other than three teenage girls in a band."

"Guys do we start?" you questioned, a slight tremor in your voice.

Omi shrugged. "I don't know, do we?"

"You lead the way. We know how you love screaming into the mic before we start playing."

You gulped. "It's a bit difficult with a camera staring into my soul, you know?"

You held the mic with both hands, palm already sweaty. It was your first time filming one of their performance and actually considering of posting it on a platform. Everything had the be perfect.

"Just… maybe try to breathe? pretend it's not there." said hesitantly Omi.

Bo-young shot a glare at her. Omi shrugged again, her brows drawn together.

You didn't bother to answer. Omi has been your friend since middle school, and you never noticed an improvement in her advices.

You were not used to be nervous like this. Actually you never had any occasion to feel that way. You navigated through life with a bright smile and a carefree expression. You didn't need everything to be perfect all the time— life can have rough edges, and sometimes there is nothing you can do about it.

What did bother you, was that if you were nervous like this front of a camera, how anxious would you be while facing a crowd?

The anxiety just felt so foreign.

You inhaled, slowly. Letting the close air of the apartment cloud the negative thought in your head. Being the guitarist and lead singer came with great responsibilities, but also great anxiety. Or Omi and Bo-young were nervous too? They sure were, however they were better at hiding it.

You frowned. Why letting stress took over what you loved the most? Music has been occupying your mind for far too long. It has been consuming your whole, from the graze on your fingertips because of too long practice session to your fingers tapping absentmindedly against a surface whenever a song came to her mind.

Bo-young called your name from behind. "You know we can do this another day, right? No pressure."

What if there is no other day, you wanted to retort. But instead, you extracted your guitar pick from your overall's large pocket and rattled the metal strings of the pink instrument lying across your chest.

You picked up your courage with both hands, just as you grabbed your guitar pick. You gripped it tightly between your fingers, afraid that if it slips away, your dreams would too.

You inhaled again, eyes closed.

You spoke into the mic. "No. We're doing this."

"Yeah! I fucking love that mindset." Omi piped in, her grip becoming more taut around her drumsticks.

Bo-young didn't say anything. She smirked, grabbing her own pick which was laying between her teeth.

The next instant seemed to blur together. Your voice, coming more and more confident, mingled with the chords of the instruments and the slow but steady rhythm emanated by the drums. Omi hit the drum shells with a restrained force, however each notes she produced carried something deeper, heavier, as if each one was worth a thousand blows.

Your fingertips slid across the fretboard, pressing against the hard strings. They moved as if they were dancing, forming chords and composing heavenly riffs, sending shivers down your spine.

In music, you found a strange solace. You weren't sure if Omi and Bo-young could feel it too, this odd comfort. It was akin to a warm feeling blossoming in your chest, like a blanket being thrown over you in the freezing cold.

The sounds of the instruments, loud, energetic, blended together, filled your senses. Although the chords were deafening, your hearing was clear as ever. The ringing of the cymbals blurred with the low hum of the bass, adding a thin, mellifluous, invisible layer over your voice.

Excitement coiled in your stomach. Every time you sang this song, fuzzy feelings would take over you, swallowing you whole. Excitation knotted itself, like how someone would tie a knot with a thread.

As you approached the bridge of the song, the excitement tightened, the tempo quickened, building a sacred symphony that only the three of you would understand.

Your voice echoed, stronger than ever. Fireworks burst in your stomach, unlocking that feeling that you failed to name. Shivers ran across your whole body as you continued to sing. The last verse left your mouth, and the instruments quieted down until silence filled the apartment.

For a moment, no one spoke. You panted as if you just ran a marathon, Omi's hands rested on her sides while she stared into nothing and Bo-young stood still, massaging her temple.

The roar of an engine filtered through the window. Birds chirped, perched on the edge of the rooftop's next-door.

You realized that life went on, no matter what they were doing. Life had no business to stop for a band performance, especially for three insignificant girls.

Omi is the first one to speak, her words slicing the silence.

"That was awesome."

Your gaze drifted way from the window. "I know, right?"

"It was." Bo-young chimed in.

You cracked a grin, then went to take Omi's phone, still resting on the tripod.

"Yah, look at my face!" Omi practically screamed while watching the video.

Bo-young laughed, "You look like you just drank soda after brushing your teeth. Hilarious."

Her and yourself gathered around Omi like she was some kind of Goddess. In her hands rested her phone which played the video you just filmed. Every time one of you made a funny face, you guys would point it out and laugh. Omi even took screenshots, under your protests and Bo-young's.

"It's for blackmailing purposes!" she claimed, running around the couch.

"As if someone would want to blackmail you," retorted Bo-young, crossing her arms across her chest.

She had this way of spitting quick comebacks that left your mouth wide open. Bo-young has always been like this— she was born with a sharp tongue, just like her brother.

You suddenly jumped on the couch, running to Omi. The short haired girl squeaked as you launched at her, snatching the phone from her hand.

"Yah! Yah, give it back!" Omi yelled, following you and Bo-young as you were heading toward the bathroom. "My blackmail photos!"

The lock of the bathroom door clicked shut. You burst into giggles, and Bo-young tried to stifle a laugh. As if Omi's protests were fueling her, an idea popped up in your mind.

You opened the selfie app.

"I swear to God, I am going to rip this door open!" Omi said, a faint giggle perceptible in her voice.

Then, as if she was filming a dramatic scene for a movie, her back slid against the door, letting herself drop on the floor.

"Ah! What a misery," she pleaded, "poor me, being excluded, treated like an outcast by my own friends! My band mates! What are you gonna do, without a drummer like me?"

Omi wanted to add something, but the words dies on her tongue as she hear a strange noise coming from the bathroom.

"Yah! Are you two taking photos?"

The click of the camera repeated, quicker this time.

"No! My poor storage!"

Inside of the room, you and Bo-young were taking a million photos— you two, sticking your tongue, the clean shower, and more blurry pictures of you two made their way to Omi's gallery, each of them looking like they were taken by a drunk photograph.

"Ah, my head is spinning," you said with a sigh— or was it a laugh? Bo-young couldn't tell.

It was another ordinary day of the Eunjang Girls. Chaos and genuine laughter sailing in the air like a high pitched note.

An hour later, the you three were slumped on Bo-young's couch. Music emanated from your phone as you were laying upside down, and occasionally Omi and you would hum the lyrics. You were all deep in thought, catching a rest after the performance.

You believed it was a miracle that no neighbors dared to complain. Maybe you shouldn't talk so fast.

Bo-young, without raising her eyes from her phone, tapped her elbow. "You're gonna have a headache. Sit properly."

You could have not listened. Could have retorted with something sarcastic like… well, you didn't have any comebacks in mind. And the last thing you wanted was a headache.

So you took her advice— which was way more useful than Omi's— and laid down, your head dropping on the armrest of the couch.

Omi's head was laying on Bo-young's lap, and the bassist was scrolling on social media, her arm resting on the edge of the sofa.

You watched them, quietly.

'They'd make a cute couple', you thought.

At the sight of them, being so close, you were certain that people could mistake their friendship for more than that.

You mustered a faint smile.

Someday, you will find someone who loves you. You were certain about it.

You would, right?

Omi sat upright, the sudden movement pulling Su-a out of her thoughts. "I'm so hungry I could eat [name]'s Emo BTS phase…" she croaked, stretching her arms above her head, stealing you a glance with a smirk tugging her lips.

Linkin Park wasn't the only group of music you were fan of at that time. The Emo K-pop phase was a canon even for every girl at your age. Omi was the exception.

Your head snapped to Omi so fast your neck could have broke. "How dare you, talking about Emo BTS like it was the worst thing on earth? Jimin was so hot during this era, especially in the Boy In Luv music video."

"I'm so hungry I could eat that one video where you're doing the No More Dream choregraphy." Omi retorted, on the verge of laughing so hard she could wake up the whole apartment complex.

"Are you sure you want to play that game?" You asked, narrowing your eyes. "And that video was gold by the way. Too bad I didn't posted online back then because I would have done numbers. NUMBERS!"

The drummer kneeled on the couch, propping her head in the palms of her hands. "Well bring it on!" she said, "I'm sure you got nothing on me. And the only thing this video would have contributed would have been you being shoved in lockers repeatedly for the rest of the year. Good thing I was hear to prevent it."

You leaned toward Omi, your face a few inches from hers. "Oh yeah? You're such a hater anyway. Jealous of my dance moves because I had the potential to be an idol while you dance like a worm stuck in a sleeping bag."

Bo-young frowned at your words. Still, her eyes stayed glued to her phone, reading her e-mails as fast as she could like the words were going to disappear.

"Yeah!" Omi exclaimed, blowing her hair with her hand as if she was Regina George. "Uh, false accusations. I'm basically perfect. Flawless. Right Bo-young?"

Omi and her turned to Bo-young, glancing at her with wide eyes.

A beat passed, and Bo-young continued to scroll on her phone like a irresponsible mother ignoring her whining child.

You saw it as an opportunity.

"I'm so hungry I could eat Lee Jae-chan from seventh grade."

"NO!" Omi shouted, glaring at you. "No, you DID NOT."

You threw your hands in the air like you were guilty (you were, because the Lee Jae-chan incident was not brought to the table since it happened like you promised almost seven years ago). "Yes, I DID."

Bo-young, being the unbothered mom she was, finally decided it was the time to intervene in the daily Omi-versus-Yourself argument.

"Who the hell is Lee Jae-chan and what have you done, Omi?"

"She—" You were interrupted by Omi's hand shooting to your mouth to shut her up.

Your muffled words remained stuck to palm of Omi's hand, incapable of slipping into the thin air.

"Lee Jae-chan, is a boy we shouldn't talk about. He's— EW!"

Omi quickly lifted her hand away from your mouth, wiping the palm on her black jeans. Considering the disgusted look on her face and how you just fell on your back on the couch, laughing like crazy, Bo-young guessed you must have licked it.

Which, knowing you, probably did it.

Omi and Bo-young shared a look and erupted into giggles aswell, joining you in a world of abs cramps from laughing too hard.