Work Text:
The Album Named Musée (Medicrow)
On the same page with fame is his name, but on the opposite side lies shame.
The recording of Vantacrow’s latest song goes smoothly, except his voice sounds somewhat strained. His voice coach points out the primary problem in his breathing rhythm, and senses his subtle absentmindedness, but questions nothing and simply leaves after scheduling the next recording session and granting some encouragement.
Vantacrow’s mind is filled with nothing but shame. As he places his hand around his throat and presses a thumb near his Adam’s apple, a sharp pang of pain strikes him, causing him to hiss with a frown. His first instinct is to gulp down a mouthful of water, wishing it would immediately recover, but right as he picks up his water bottle, his phone rings. The ringtone is a lighthearted love song composed by his partner, whose pet name is displayed on the center of the screen. His partner plays guitar, and he used to sing along with impromptu lyrics, and the most iconic one happened to be his partner’s first name, but in the shortened form, which “sounds catchy,” Vantacrow commented. He sang nothing but “Zali” and some random words with the same rhyme—dreamy, lily, glassy…to the melody. Then this short song ended up his ringtone for quite a long time because it sounded “right” as Vezalius said.
For the first time, Vantacrow hesitates—his voice sounds far from “right” now. He wishes his hesitation is long enough to get Vezalius hang up, but after one whole minute passes—he “feels” as if one minute has passed—his phone remains ringing. He clears his throat and deliberately lowers his voice before picking up his phone. “Hey Zali, what’s going on?” His shoulders stiffen once he hears Vezalius greeting, one single syllable.
“Hey Vanta, nothing. Just want to ask if you’re down for dinner after your recording. I’ve missed having dinner together,” Some little giggles are heard from the other side, which Vantacrow knows are used to cover his bashfulness. Indeed, they haven’t had dinner together for over half a year, and even though one of them did invite the other, the plans always went up in smoke due to last-time changes in their schedules.
“Sure, I missed dinner with you too.”
The bistro where they had their first date is what both of them have in mind, and they can hardly stifle giggles when hearing the same response from each other at the same time. Since Vezalius ought to get the rest of his work done, he blows a quick kiss and the call ends here. Vantacrow can feel his cheeks burning, the brief kiss sound lingers forever, a reminder that he hasn’t kissed his partner for quite a while. If only their lips could meet right away, and he would pull his lover into his arms, circle his waist with his arms, and they would share each other’s scents and warmth in an everlasting embrace…. It would be even better if they got a chance to spend a night together and snuggle down into his double bed under soft light with their favorite classical music playing and whisper good night into each other’s ear. It would be the best if he could hug his partner at this exact moment.
With the recording of his first song finished and the call with his lover ended, Vantacrow keeps his mouth shut except for sipping water. Whenever he feels his throat itching agonizingly, he tries to swallow some saliva, wishing to alleviate the pain. Then he gulps some water in hopes of moisturizing his throat and in turn easing the disturbing discomfort. Neither works. He grows restless, his feet stomping the floor, his hands scratching the cloth of his pants until it creases. Since there’s no way to reduce the ache in his throat for the time being, he experiments on several methods to vocalize more smoothly, but all of these make him sound like a timid teenager who’s going on a date for the first time.
But for some other reason, he hasn’t mustered the courage to meet Vezalius. He feels as if he is so underprepared and stripped naked that he cannot lift his head and face his partner properly. Having not the slightest idea what’s wrong with himself, Vantacrow pulls out his earphones and clicks on one random song in his playlist, letting the elastic jazz music guide him into a world far away from the universe he resides in. This particular song, the biggest inspiration for him and Vezalius alike, opened the doors of his singing career while he was most insecure about the path to the future. The time seems to stretch into eternity as he closes his eyes and rests his hands on his lap; the melody carrying the lyrics occupies his senses with a consoling embrace. It lasts on and on…until someone interrupts him, dragging him back to reality.
“Vanta? What’s going on? You look…distracted.”
Sitting opposite to him is Vezalius, who is holding a fork and handing a napkin to him. In front of his eyes are candles and a vase with two delicate purplish roses and…Vezalius’s hand which is holding a napkin and stretching toward him. He stutters before focusing his eyes on the piece of napkin. “Thanks…guess I didn’t sleep well last night.” Deliberately lowering his voice, he replies while dodging Vezalius’s curious yet concerned gaze, not anticipating him to buy into his feeble response at all. As expected, he raises one of his eyebrows and slowly takes a sip of his drink—which is filled with ice cubes—but blows into it as if it was steaming. His eyes only shift away from Vantacrow’s vexed expression three seconds after he hears the reply. Such unnatural physical responses, according to Vantacrow’s observations, are a sign of uneasiness and scepticism.
Vezalius has never been someone who voices his confusion aloud; rather, he shifts the topic in an unexpected sense to convey his genuine thoughts. He nods and gently places the glass beside his plate, “I get it. It’s hard to sleep well once you reach thirty. I’ve been counting sheep these days.” He takes a small bite of his risotto.
“You should sleep in my arms. It’ll give you a good night’s sleep,” which is purely an excuse to invite his partner to spend a night at his place. “We can also listen to today’s recording and see if you have any…uh, advice.”
“You can play it now. Let’s listen to it together,” Vezalius wipes his mouth. His tone sounds like he’s telling Vantacrow that he’ll lose every single bit of patience and willingness to be “professional” right after returning home—which implies that he’s still in the professional mode during the date. This scatters a sprinkle of bitterness on Vantacrow’s heart as Vezalius sprinkles some powdered cheese onto his salad. He expects a date to be a relaxing moment shared by a relaxed couple and brings up the recording merely because he is running out of topics.
He has never been so short of topics in his life that he has nothing to use except the poor recording he did as something to kill time with. Now that Vezalius (indirectly) turns down his invitation of sharing a night together, he pulls out his earphones and hands the right one to his partner. Hearing his own voice—which probably won’t meet anyone’s expectations—embarrasses him. Unlike his visible anxiety, Vezalius listens rather attentively but frowns whenever he almost fails to hit the notes and still bites the bullet to complete the song. Countless attempts prior to this one are also labeled and saved in his phone, so that once Vezalius expresses his dissatisfaction he’ll present the proof of his efforts.
Remaining silent for quite a few minutes (Vantacrow is in fact now sure how much time has passed) after the song finishes playing, Vezalius turns his face to Vantacrow with a soft smile, “Vanta, I’m impressed! You sounded pretty good…” but then he closes his eyes, lets out a sigh, takes off the earphone and hands it back to Vantacrow. He scratches his stiff limbs and rolls his neck. “Work has not been easy, huh? You’ve tried your best and I get it.”
His comment sounds incomplete and Vantacrow is certain there definitely is something left unsaid, while he’s not sure if Vezalius does so to protect his dignity or for some other intention he wouldn’t want to know about. Yes, what a considerate man he is! Vantacrow believes he purposefully leaves some blank space in between those short sentences out of elaborate consideration. Before they get up and proceed to pay the bill, Vezalius adds, “You did a really good job today and I mean it. Vanta, I love when you try.”
Despite the slight sarcasm in his tone (which Vantacrow feels the instant he says so but not anymore one second later), Vezalius never lets his smile fade once he puts it on. Somehow this still sounds like a poor yet undisguised attempt to criticize his performance, but Vantacrow has determined to put any negative associations out of his mind and attributes all these to his exhaustion and “the thing” dwelling in his throat.
While strolling along the deserted street, Vezalius hums a soft, pleasant melody that can’t be more familiar to both of them, and holds Vantacrow’s hand more tightly. The gloves are too thick for them to either interlock their fingers or feel each other’s warmth, but the closing distance itself is a testament of their bond. “Would you mind if…” Little puffs of breath steam in the frosty air as Vezalius pronounces each syllable slowly and sweetly. “If I stay the night at your place?”
Stepping into the apartment, Vantacrow is immediately warmly greeted by his puppy that rubs its cheeks against his sweater. Giggling, Vezalius reaches to hold the puppy with bare hands but gets a static shock right as his fingers touch Vantacrow’s sweater. He hisses, wrapping the prickling finger in his other hand; the puppy jumps from Vantacrow’s arms and sprints away into his bedroom. “You good?” The worried man carefully holds his lover’s fingers to check them one after another; such a scene amuses Vezalius. As he is about to say “no worries,” Vantacrow takes his fingers against his lips and kisses each knuckle with utmost care.
“Hey, it really isn’t a big deal…” he blushes, trying to pull his hand away from his partner’s thicker palm, only to be gripped more tightly. “…I love you,” turns out to be the first and only thing Vantacrow utters with a hoarse voice. “Merry Christmas,” is Vezalius’s response. The clock strikes twelve the moment their lips part.
On the following day, the condition of Vantacrow’s voice only worsens. However, none of the arranged events in his schedule can be cancelled at the last minute; therefore he is left with no choice but to grit his teeth to finish all the recordings and interviews with a voice which can’t be more ingenuine. Next week comes his first live concert featuring an unannounced new song, he shall pray he can show up with a fresh and energized self, unlike how he looks right now—dark circles around his half-lidded eyes, a drooping mouth, and discouraged spirits he’s unable to lift. In a word, he’s a mess.
The previous night shared between him, his lover, and his puppy made him so elated that he failed to fall asleep until dawn, and he was awakened by Vezalius’s movements and sounds of footsteps when he got up. It’s nearly impossible for him to sleep again, and his senses only turn especially keen once waken up. What a nightmare.
Since Vezalius is supposed to attend a gathering with several singers as well as producers, their dinner date has been cancelled beforehand. Seeing Vantacrow’s disappointed look, he caressed his flushed cheeks before going out and was about to land a goodbye kiss on his moisturized lips—but Vantacrow dodged instinctively, turning his head away. The reason was unbeknownst to even himself, so he stuttered, “Uh, hm…maybe, not now.”
“Vanta, you should go see a doctor,” was the second-to-last sentence Vezalius muttered before departing. The last one was a brief “Goodbye” right before he shut the door. Unfortunate for Vezalius, perhaps, is that the only doctor Vantacrow is willing to consult is Vezalius himself.
“Why?” He mumbles, into the void before him. It is nothing but endless white in front of his eyes. Nothing other than Vantacrow Bringer, the young, sick singer, and a raven crow are present in the streets covered by thick snow. Lights are out. Vehicles are absent. He walks alone wearing a scarf, a birthday gift from Vezalius. It starts raining. He soon receives a message saying, “Vanta, are you home?” and the next one is “Take a hot bath or you’ll get sick,” with a selfie of Vezalius in a bathrobe attached. His heart skips far more than a beat.
Intensive rehearsals for his first concert never cease engulfing Vantacrow, pushing him beyond his mental and physical limits every single day. Continuous worries about the lack of improvement in his performance deprive him of sleep and appetite, causing him to lose nearly three kilos within one short week. His stage costume turns out too loose for him; he has to tie a belt around his waist to prevent his pants from slipping. His pale face—now perfectly covered by makeup—fills his manager with visible disconcertion, yet Vantacrow insists on stepping onto the stage and presenting his best self to the audience. “It’s the greatest monument of my singing career. I know I can and have to be there,” he reassures his manager before walking onto the stage with fans’ enthusiastic cheers.
Although he has only become more ill after that night’s pouring rain and his voice is so raspy that it’s barely audible, he forces himself to enunciate each word loudly and clearly into the microphone. Some fans sitting in the front row show great concern on their faces—apparently he’s not capable of concealing the fact from his most loyal fans, and the only feedback he gives after having eye contact with a girl at the center is beaming at her and making a heart with a hand beside his face. “Let’s begin the show! The first song for today is…”
When the lights are out, Vantacrow closes his eyes, takes a breath as deep as possible, and coughs quietly before putting on his professional smile and singing along to the melody. Managing to strike the right notes, he lets out a long sigh during the interlude—but as he raises the microphone against his mouth at the beginning of the chorus, it’s a lightning that strikes and keeps him stranded in a smothering emptiness. He can see nothing but endless white, and despite wearing earphones, he cannot hear anything more than the annoying buzzes occupying his ears. Sensing his paleness and feebleness, his manager rushes onto the stage, but fails to reach him when he drops to the floor. Fans’ screams and rackets immediately fill the venue, while Vantacrow’s manager’s voice is left drowned by the noises by the unsettled audience. It is no surprise that this incident soon hits the headlines that evening. “HORRIFYING MOMENT: YOUNG SINGER VANTACROW BRINGER COLLAPSES ON STAGE DURING HIS FIRST CONCERT,” the title of the news with most clicks reads.
The next time Vantacrow comes to consciousness, he’s already lying in an infirmary. With no one around, he abruptly sits up and tries to get off—only to be caught and pressed back into the bed by Vezalius, who dashes into the ward in a hurry while careful enough not to pull the IV line attached to the back of his hand. Not a word is uttered by either of them except for Vezalius’s “get some rest” as he pours a glass of water and hands it over.
Vantacrow empties the glass in two gulps, and leans his head against the pillow, pretending to be dozing off. Vezalius’s voice now emerges in his head so clearly that it almost appears creepy: “Vanta, you should go see a doctor.” Yes, he should, without a doubt. He should go to a doctor and be diagnosed with some incurable disease as an excuse of blacking out on stage in front of thousands of pairs of eyes during his first live concert.
Now what? His fans were freaking out on the spot and his manager even got injured while stopping some of them from rushing onto the stage. Needless to say, his inbox must have been filled with all kinds of messages—from his panicked fans worrying about his conditions, from gossip columnists seeking fresh, juicy materials, from those haters gloating over him. He’s completely robbed of courage to face anything or anyone. What should he do next? He has not the faintest idea. His mind is preoccupied with nothing but “I should do more! Show up at more events! Release some songs! An album would work, right?”
After waking up the following morning, he tells Vezalius, “Zali, I, uh…I’m thinking, I want to release an album. I believe it’s gonna be a good idea.”
But the response is Vezalius’s hesitation with a vexed expression. “Uh, yeah, an album. We should do that, but maybe not now, not until you recover from your sickness.”
“I’ve been thinking…” Vantacrow’s eyes flutter shut. “What does it mean to be a singer, to produce songs anyway?” He gazes at Vezalius’s gold eyes briefly before fixing his eyes on the empty glass in his hands. “Bringing happiness to my Crew, protecting their smiles is my utmost goal of being a singer. Zali, you’re my biggest inspiration. I couldn’t have been here without those songs we made together in your attic.”
“…Those memories motivated me to be a songwriter. But…”
“But?”
“Ah, nothing,” Vezalius responds hesitantly with a bitter smile. “I should go now. I’ll have a meeting, actually multiple ones, today and the next few days too. But I’ll come here whenever I get to.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Don’t miss me too much,” he leaves after planting a featherlight kiss on Vantacrow’s forehead. What Vezalius just said sounds like a farewell for some reason.
-
Placing piles of folders onto the table, Vezalius lets out a long sigh indicating his tiredness over the previous week. “Vanta told me he wanted to launch an album.” Vantacrow’s manager, anxiously sipping water from his bottle, almost spits out the liquid in his mouth upon hearing this. “Seriously? Now? Right after he passed out during his concert? You know, as much as I highly respect this young man, this time I have to say no.”
“Not right now, but soon. After the incident, there’s been rumors of Vanta being mistreated by management, and surely he has heard about them. We need to let Vanta take a short break before debunking those rumors ourselves.”
“But, don’t you think the break may be a proof of ‘mistreatment’ instead?”
“Vanta’s health should be our top priority.” The manager immediately yields to Vezalius’s unbreakable determined look. “A rest is definitely necessary now, but releasing an album doesn’t sound like a bad plan, to be honest.”
“Why? He just had his first concert that ended up a failure. For what reason do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Uh, I mean, why not? Unlike individual songs, an album is a whole story that links all the episodes of a singer’s life. It’s also the most memorable monument for young artists like Vanta. Vanta now has seven songs, and these are all about stories before he became a singer, but in the album he may wanna try a different narration…”
“…So, this album is basically a gift for Vanta.” Vantacrow’s manager exhales, reaches for one of the folders before him, turns to the page with many sticky notes, and rotates the folder so that it faces Vezalius, who’s sitting opposite to him. He clears his throat before reading the text on that exact page, “Listen carefully. ‘Factors to consider when releasing albums include but aren’t limited to: time distribution, budget allocation, and other opportunity costs…’ You wrote this when you first had a meeting with us. Did you forget it all?”
“These don’t contradict with what I just said. During the process of producing a song these are what we should have in mind, and we’ve all done so for many times before. But just as I mentioned, Vanta’s health is our top priority, and this album is what can help him retrieve his confidence.” Vezalius glances at the manager, hoping for approval, only to be responded with a doubtful expression.
“…Vezalius, I get it. Your lover said he wanted to make an album, so you believe it’ll be the best cure for his sickness. I was once young and in love like you—but, will the album improve or worsen Vanta’s health? This is what we should take into consideration in the first place.”
“You’re a good songwriter and you tell good stories in Vanta’s songs, but you’d do even better writing children’s books.”
However, the plan isn’t officially denied in the end. Organizing the folders neatly, Vantacrow’s manager strides out of the conference room and spares Vezalius one last glimpse. “I’ll try my best to communicate with them, but you already know how strict she is—so Vanta must submit a demo good enough for her to agree with your plan.”
The last sentence he drops before finally leaving lingers in Vezalius’s mind, “Vanta is a singer…both of you had better reconsider your priorities.”
-
Recollecting memories, especially those belonging solely to another person, requires tremendous efforts. Narrating them with creativity in songs is a torturous process that Vezalius doesn’t quite enjoy. He finds more pleasure in writing memories that resonate with himself. Writing songs for others feels different from writing a biography (he views neither of them fun, though)—the former is like faking one’s identity under a false name, while the latter for him is purely putting whatever he finds memorable into words. Writing songs about some other person is a matter of creativity or loyalty, and he is currently trapped in such a dilemma.
According to some points he has jotted down and scribbles on his notebook, Vantacrow wants the motif of this album to be self-discovery and self-exploration, featuring songs about his turbulent youth, dozens of failed auditions, vulnerabilities and resolutions after starting his singing career, and most significantly, messages he wishes to convey to every one of his Crew. Although Vezalius is indeed grateful for all the efforts he’s poured into coming up with the concept, he feels like he himself is not the ideal person to translate his stories into lyrics.
To put it simply, he can’t relate to what he is writing.
Even though he has heard Vantacrow rambling on about these memories whenever they start talking about their past, he is always no more than an outsider and listener. Unlike Vantacrow, he remembers those events as “facts,” not “memories.”
Of course, the lines he writes down taste as plain and flavorless as soup he forgets to add seasonings to. Last Sunday morning, as a distraction from the tormenting process of lyric writing, he made some chicken soup before paying a visit to his partner, whose voice has yet to fully recover from overuse. As he picked up a spice jar, a lightning of inspiration struck him, tempting him to mark down the most incredible lines throughout his career, and therefore he left the spices behind. He was so thrilled by the surge of inspiration that even the bland soup tasted like the most flavorful cuisine in the world, but this was not the case for Vantacrow, who savored the soup slowly but didn’t give any immediate positive response as usual.
After the muse disappeared, Vezalius could finally taste the blandness of the soup. Those lines no longer seem as mind-blowing as they first came to his mind; Vantacrow’s compliments might have made them not as valuable—perhaps art isn’t meant to be understood after all, especially a work of art created by someone but based upon another individual.
That’s why it felt odd when he heard Vantacrow saying he loved those lines from the bottom of his heart. Seeing his eyes sparkling with anticipation and his voice rising in excitement, Vezalius replies, “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” and his heart tastes sweetness from his lover’s hearty smile and bitterness from the ingenuity of everything he wrote.
From his perspective, he simply wrote down everything he witnessed as an amateur songwriter and friend (they hadn’t started dating then) by this rising star’s side with full honesty. This is exactly the reason he has no idea why Vantacrow, the center of spotlights, appreciates those lyrics. Does he not feel like he’s going to tell his stories as someone else at all? Is this really the story he wants to tell? Is this what he insists on creating despite his illness?
Vezalius comprehends nothing that’s going on in Vantacrow’s mind but chooses to respect.
“The core concept of this album is a compilation of my stories as an innocent teenager and a singer losing direction, so basically it’s like a, um…kaleidoscope, if I was to visualize my thoughts.”
“Hm, that’s a nice one, doesn’t it?”
“Right, but that’s too—I mean, I kinda want some clever wordplay. I hope the title is muti-faceted, so my Crew’s gonna have their own ways to interpret my messages. For them, they may be looking into my world and seeing fragments of my life and career, and that makes a kaleidoscope, but I’m presenting my past and present to them like artworks on display.”
“I like the way you think, Vanta,” Vezalius nods, an approval of his creativity. He has always believed Vantacrow has that inherent imaginativeness in him, which he, as a songwriter, can never achieve. This is why he has faith in Vantacrow that he can write better lyrics as the protagonist himself. Yet he wants to help, to be part of this ambitious dream, to be present in his accomplishments. The only thing he’s able to do is to pen Vantacrow’s flows of inspiration on his own. “So ‘art’ is the core of this album, and it’s a work of art itself.”
“Exactly. Art is what shapes me as myself and as a singer, after all. Actually, everything is a type of art. My singing, my Crew’s comments on my songs, and of course, your writing…. I hope whoever listens to this album can not just feel the artistic spirit but be part of the songs.”
“Vanta, you really are a man of great creativity,” Vezalius stage whispers. His response goes unheard, but Vantacrow can feel the temperature of the room dropping, and the room turns unpleasantly chilly. He has that feeling again. A mass of thick air presses him, smothering him with pressure. Once again Vezalius starts speaking with that shallow, hollow tone and whatever he says sounds like sarcasm. The slight discomfort he felt during that dinner date on Christmas emerges and spreads rapidly across his whole mind. The last thing he wants in the world is to have distrust of his partner, who has been accompanied through his ups and downs even before he rose to fame—but he can’t convince himself to ignore the change in Vezalius either. As much as Vezalius remains gentle, levelheaded, and supportive, he doesn’t sound as genuine as he used to. He sounds like he is always forcing himself to do something for the sake of meeting expectations or fulfilling his duties as a songwriter and partner.
What would Vezalius do if he reached a point where he couldn’t bear all these burdens? What would he himself do, then? What would either of them do and how would they reveal their truest feelings gently enough not to hurt each other?
Finishing the recording of the first demo, Vantacrow lets out a long sigh of half relief and half distress, and gobbles almost one whole bottle of water. He can say he is quite confident in his performance after recovering from that nightmare altogether. The song is presented with moderate emotional intensity, corresponding to Vantacrow’s role as a narrator looking back to his past and stepping toward the future. The lyrics Vezalius wrote while cooking soup almost perfectly project his perception on his memories, except for the lack of profound emotions, which Vantacrow makes up for with his voice. This turns out to be the first time he doesn’t feel repulsed by his own voice while listening to the recording, and soon he sends the demo—his best one ever—to his manager. In the meantime, he scribbles a word on his notebook, a French word he finds perfectly suitable as the title of this album.
“I have an idea now—Zali—the title! I have a perfect name for the album—” Vantacrow bursts out enthusiastically as Vezalius places his phone aside, readying himself for conversations. “It’s ‘Mu-see!’ Yes, that’s what I want it to be called,” Pronouncing the unfamiliar word (which he’s only seen and known the meaning of) awkwardly, he anticipates Vezalius’s response.
Vezalius tilts his head in confusion, “Music? That’s a nice one, Vanta…”
“Ah no, no. It’s umm…‘Mu-se.’ that’s how I suppose it’s pronounced.”
“Um, Muse?”
“Wait, oh! It’s Musée! Yeah, Musée.”
“Hmm…” Vezalius mumbles with his fingers under his chin. “Museum?”
Vantacrow sighs. Before the first syllable of Vezalius’s nickname slips out of his lips, Vezalius interrupts him. “Just joking. Musée is such a nice name for an album.” Vezalius is giggling as Vantacrow blushes and repeats the word over and over again. “I heard you just finished recording the first demo, good job.”
“You…” Vantacrow asks nervously, his lips visibly shaking. “You wanna listen to it together?” Vezalius hesitates before replying with a nod. Vezalius closes his eyes when listening to the demo (which isn’t his habit as far as Vantacrow knows), and Vantacrow steals several quick glances at him, an attempt of reading microexpressions, but comprehends nothing at all. Even after the song finishes playing, Vezalius’s eyes stay shut and he neither takes off his earphone nor moves at all. Vantacrow clutches at his own pants with his sweaty hands apprehensively.
“…You did amazing, Vanta. That was exceptional—your voice carried way more emotion than I could ever write,” Vezalius breathes out quietly before parting his lips and beginning to speak. Despite his smile, he looks…gloomy, that’s the best description Vantacrow can find for the bitterness veiling his whole face. Dark circles emerge under his eyes, paleness colors his lips, his wrists seem much thinner since they last met—why hasn’t he noticed all these until now? “You should be proud of yourself,” Vezalius covers his hands on top of Vantacrow’s. Vantacrow flips his hand, lets his palms face upward, and takes Vezalius’s hands in a desperate grip. Why hasn’t he held Vezalius’s hands until now?
Why has he been ignorant of the fact that Vezalius is more ill than him this whole time? He has been so invested in his own dream and fantasy that he totally neglects his partner’s mental stability. He is, indeed, the center of spotlight, the protagonist on the stage, but the star isn’t necessarily the only one who burns out. The person who raises the curtain, carries the spotlights to light up the star, and lowers the curtains when the show ends also faces the risk of falling from the edge. Now Vezalius is falling; he needs to catch him before he shatters into pieces.
“Vanta, you’re full of vigor and passion and emotion and…” Vantacrow’s ears are filled with shrill noises of sharp metal tableware scratching a plate. Is it Vezalius who’s doing so with the knife and fork by his hand? He can hear Vezalius calling him and feel Vezalius tapping his shoulder no more.
With his eyes tightly closed, Vantacrow grabs Vezalius’s hands by the thumbs, and covers them on his cheeks. “Vanta,” Vezalius whispers. “Your performance was stunning. The growl? I don’t think I can ever do that.”
“No…Zali, you’re a writer so it doesn’t matter. You write the best lyrics in this world—”
“…But you could do even better if you wrote the lyrics yourself, right?” The deafening soft voice strikes Vantacrow that he nearly loses the ability to organize any thoughts drifting in his mind. He has expected Vezalius to drop this exact sentence the moment he notices his exhaustion from taking care of him, from writing songs that don’t belong to himself, from being his partner in not only his career but also his personal life. He can finally pinpoint that core change in Vezalius—everything stems from his own selfishness and the unrealistic ambition to launch an album right after that incident. Hardly has he asked for his partner’s opinions once he determines to take a step forward.
Vezalius may be the only doctor Vantacrow is willing to consult, but he’s also the last partner he would consult when it comes to decision-making.
Perhaps Vantacrow has always been too self-complacent that he considers his own decisions right by default. Vezalius is far from the perfect victim either. He thinks too much while talking too little. He has feelings and thoughts but never conveys any of them verbally, enabling Vantacrow to steer the ship carrying the two of them and end up leading them to collide with an iceberg. But they haven’t lost their last breath, and the lifeline is still within reach. As long as either of them manages to catch the life-saving straw and hold the other’s hand, possibilities of continuing their journey still exist.
A notification from Vantacrow’s manager pops up on his phone screen. Neither of them spares a glimpse. The message states that the producers are utterly impressed with Vantacrow’s singing skills, that they encourage him to try out different genres when he can properly control his voice, and that they look forward to the other songs and lyrics written by this young singer’s dear boyfriend. “No one but Vezalius can write these lyrics for your songs,” the manager typed in his last message.
Certainly, the show must go on, yet the protagonist Vantacrow has no faith in himself. He can sing with a voice but not write with a pen. Now the only person able to write his songs has declared his defeat, where can he find another writer to write songs for him? Even if he could find someone, he would not voluntarily let anyone else probe into his life, stories, and even traumas.
The album named Musée is an album exploring different faces and sides of Vantacrow, and only someone who knows can put these artworks—Vantacrow’s most intimate memories—on display. That one is no one but Vezalius.