[One-Shot] The Way I Sing.
Title: The Way I Sing.
Pairing: Jaejoong/Yoochun, Junsu/Yoochun
Rating: G
Genre: fluff
Warning: Nonexistant time-sequence
"It's not you - he's always like this."
He doesn’t like Korea - at least not that much anyways.
It’s too crowded, and people have the same blank expressions (he also notes the identical wide eyes, sharp noses, pale skins). They lack personality; everything falls under what is black and what is white. He knows that he, of all people, shouldn’t be the one to judge - but hell, he’s from New York City; it’s his given right to judge -, it’s suffocating, and he can’t breathe.
He decides that this is a bad idea. He’s a composer, not in international relations (besides, Hollywood and New York City is as global as it gets). But his agent talks him into it- he’s thinking about the cash - and Yoochun finds himself here.
He drums his fingers against the conference room, white earplugs peeping through his sweater. He’s hardly formal, Yoochun knows, but when did music ever become so uptight?
“Park Yoochun-sshi?”
Someone taps him on the shoulder gently (Yoochun flinch - they’re way too close), and soon four men pile into the room, one after another. And it must be the way their hair is style so perfectly, or the way thattwo of the four wear sunglasses indoors - but it’s intimidating.
“It’s very nice to meet you.”
The taller man sticks his hand out across the table, and Yoochun considers staring at it just to see how he would react. It’s immature, it’s insulting, and it’s a job well done by a true New Yorker - but this is Korea, Yoochun is reminded, and he takes the hand.
The meeting is long and lengthy and boring. He is told that this group of young men (boy band) needs something different, something special, something incredible for their fifth album.
They’re putting a price on his music, and Yoochundoesn’t know whether to smile or to frown (they, or rather some of them are clearly disinterested - the shortest of the group, hair spiked and red, twirls his pen, eyes uncomfortably resting on Yoochun ). So he nods at everything the representative says, pretends to scribble illegible words and refuses to sign anything without his agent, like a good businessman would do.
Like he mentioned, he doesn’t like Korea - at least not that much anyways.
---
He feels like stabbing himself on the other side of the recording studio. They can sing - oh boy, can these men sing - but it’s methodical, too thought-out, over analyzed, and this is heartless.
(He wonders if pencils can penetrate glass.)
“Could you sing that again please?”
Yoochun talks into the mike, hand running through his short hair, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
“I’m sorry?”
“Could you sing that? The second line on that verse -”
“Why?”
He is left speechless.
Because this Kim Junsu (self-proclaimed as the main vocal) is oh-so arrogant, and it makes his fingers curl. His eyes; the narrow, sharp, frightening, cold eyes stare at him, into him, through him, and Yoochun almost wishes that he could take his words back.
Nevertheless, a sense of righteousness takes over - he is the knight of music, all things in tune and in tone - and he clears his throat (nervously).
“You were just singing it.”
“And?”
“You can’t just sing it, Junsu-sshi. You’re too detached from the music.”
Kim Junsu mutters something under his breath, and rips the head phones off of his ears. Yoochun almost expects him to come and sock him in the guts (his expression pretty much says it all), but Junsu leaves the recording booth, raids the room for his pack of cigarettes and leaves.
He’s had experiences with divas - 16 years old pop sensations, superstars with attitudes biggerthan life - but this Kim Junsu is something different, something more difficult.
Then again, the pencil-penetrating-glass might just work.
“It’s not you - he’s always like this.”
Yoochun jumps at the voice, and clutches his heart.
Kim Jaejoong has hair that changes color every other week, and an obsession with color contacts. Yoochun thinks he’s too muscular, but amongst the four, Kim Jaejoong is the most genuine.
(Jung Yunho smiles too tightly and shakes his hand too often - he talks too articulated, like his life depends on every syllable. Kim Junsu, well, he sings well and is very much in love with his voice. And Shim Changmin is just too tall, too cold, too emotionless.)
Yoochun chuckles, because he simply doesn’t know how to respond. Jaejoong pulls up the leather chair next to the composer, and sits too close, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“We’re not the easiest group to work with.”
“Yes, well, I figured that out already.”
He shifts, hands rubbing his fatigued eyes. They’re bigger than life, Yoochun learns, but this life alone is hard enough for Yoochun to handle.
“I’m surprised. Aren’t artists in the states more difficult to work with?”
“No, they don’t walk out on me in the middle of recording a song.”
Jaejoong smirks.
“You Americans.”
They talk;
Yoochun complains about the smoggy weather, and Jaejoong heartily agrees - he talks about Saipan, and their 3 day photo shoot. They both discuss the music market, like how there are 50, 000 children playing dress up on stage. Jaejoong asks about his family, and Yoochun, nonchalant, talks about his estranged parents - Jaejoong finds it funny.
(“I don’t talk to my parents.”
“Hmm, that’s funny.”
“Why?”
“I don’t talk to my father - the biological one, I mean.”)
And they forget about the passing time, or the unfurnished title song - Yoochun enjoys Jaejoong’s presence.
---
When the recording of the last word of the last phrase of the last verse is complete, Yoochun tries to smile (and fails) at Kim Junsu. Again, Junsu rips the head phones off and stomps out of the booth - Yoochun wonders if his worldis full of black eyeliners and tight jeans and lip-rings. But this time, instead of leaving as soon as he is finished, Junsu leans against the wall.
Kim Junsu watches him.
Yoochun gathers his notes, and one by one the staffs leave the studio. He can feel the other man’s gaze upon his back, and he shivers - it’s unusual.
“Can I - uh - can I help you?”
“You don’t like the way I sing?”
He’s is acutely aware of the dead-end behind him and the door past Junsu’s shoulder. He considers bolting under his arm, and racing out the doors (to Jaejoong, perhaps), but he finds himself pinned against the wall.
Yoochun stutters - not the unattractive, saliva-y speech impediment, but the kind where his cheeks turn rosy and his eyes grow extra big - and explains.
“No, it’s not that I don’t like the way you sing. I - I actually quite like it, Junsu-sshi. I just -“
One minute he’s looking at Kim Junsu’s unreadable face, next minute someone else’s lips are over his mouth. His breath hitches, his hands tighten, and he feels like a hormone-challenged teenager, but his stomach flutters.
It’s wet and messy and hungry - mouth devouring Yoochun - but it’s like hot chocolate on a winter’s day. He melts into Kim Junsu’s hands (and lips).
“If you don’t like the way I sing, you should at leastlike the way I kiss.”
- And dear God, he’s kissing Kim Junsu.
(Jaejoong waits by the van, ignoring the manager hyung’s less-than-exciting description of the Music Video concept, pursing his lips, annoyed. In the corner of the vehicle, Yunho hums the melody of Yoochun’s song - off key - and Changmin closes the book with a scowl. Moments later, the book finds itself colliding with the side of Yunho’s head, and the leader yelps - “What the hell?!”)
Park Yoochun doesn’t like Korea - but it’s not anything he can’t handle.
Pairing: Jaejoong/Yoochun, Junsu/Yoochun
Rating: G
Genre: fluff
Warning: Nonexistant time-sequence
"It's not you - he's always like this."
He doesn’t like Korea - at least not that much anyways.
It’s too crowded, and people have the same blank expressions (he also notes the identical wide eyes, sharp noses, pale skins). They lack personality; everything falls under what is black and what is white. He knows that he, of all people, shouldn’t be the one to judge - but hell, he’s from New York City; it’s his given right to judge -, it’s suffocating, and he can’t breathe.
He decides that this is a bad idea. He’s a composer, not in international relations (besides, Hollywood and New York City is as global as it gets). But his agent talks him into it- he’s thinking about the cash - and Yoochun finds himself here.
He drums his fingers against the conference room, white earplugs peeping through his sweater. He’s hardly formal, Yoochun knows, but when did music ever become so uptight?
“Park Yoochun-sshi?”
Someone taps him on the shoulder gently (Yoochun flinch - they’re way too close), and soon four men pile into the room, one after another. And it must be the way their hair is style so perfectly, or the way thattwo of the four wear sunglasses indoors - but it’s intimidating.
“It’s very nice to meet you.”
The taller man sticks his hand out across the table, and Yoochun considers staring at it just to see how he would react. It’s immature, it’s insulting, and it’s a job well done by a true New Yorker - but this is Korea, Yoochun is reminded, and he takes the hand.
The meeting is long and lengthy and boring. He is told that this group of young men (boy band) needs something different, something special, something incredible for their fifth album.
They’re putting a price on his music, and Yoochundoesn’t know whether to smile or to frown (they, or rather some of them are clearly disinterested - the shortest of the group, hair spiked and red, twirls his pen, eyes uncomfortably resting on Yoochun ). So he nods at everything the representative says, pretends to scribble illegible words and refuses to sign anything without his agent, like a good businessman would do.
Like he mentioned, he doesn’t like Korea - at least not that much anyways.
---
He feels like stabbing himself on the other side of the recording studio. They can sing - oh boy, can these men sing - but it’s methodical, too thought-out, over analyzed, and this is heartless.
(He wonders if pencils can penetrate glass.)
“Could you sing that again please?”
Yoochun talks into the mike, hand running through his short hair, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
“I’m sorry?”
“Could you sing that? The second line on that verse -”
“Why?”
He is left speechless.
Because this Kim Junsu (self-proclaimed as the main vocal) is oh-so arrogant, and it makes his fingers curl. His eyes; the narrow, sharp, frightening, cold eyes stare at him, into him, through him, and Yoochun almost wishes that he could take his words back.
Nevertheless, a sense of righteousness takes over - he is the knight of music, all things in tune and in tone - and he clears his throat (nervously).
“You were just singing it.”
“And?”
“You can’t just sing it, Junsu-sshi. You’re too detached from the music.”
Kim Junsu mutters something under his breath, and rips the head phones off of his ears. Yoochun almost expects him to come and sock him in the guts (his expression pretty much says it all), but Junsu leaves the recording booth, raids the room for his pack of cigarettes and leaves.
He’s had experiences with divas - 16 years old pop sensations, superstars with attitudes biggerthan life - but this Kim Junsu is something different, something more difficult.
Then again, the pencil-penetrating-glass might just work.
“It’s not you - he’s always like this.”
Yoochun jumps at the voice, and clutches his heart.
Kim Jaejoong has hair that changes color every other week, and an obsession with color contacts. Yoochun thinks he’s too muscular, but amongst the four, Kim Jaejoong is the most genuine.
(Jung Yunho smiles too tightly and shakes his hand too often - he talks too articulated, like his life depends on every syllable. Kim Junsu, well, he sings well and is very much in love with his voice. And Shim Changmin is just too tall, too cold, too emotionless.)
Yoochun chuckles, because he simply doesn’t know how to respond. Jaejoong pulls up the leather chair next to the composer, and sits too close, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“We’re not the easiest group to work with.”
“Yes, well, I figured that out already.”
He shifts, hands rubbing his fatigued eyes. They’re bigger than life, Yoochun learns, but this life alone is hard enough for Yoochun to handle.
“I’m surprised. Aren’t artists in the states more difficult to work with?”
“No, they don’t walk out on me in the middle of recording a song.”
Jaejoong smirks.
“You Americans.”
They talk;
Yoochun complains about the smoggy weather, and Jaejoong heartily agrees - he talks about Saipan, and their 3 day photo shoot. They both discuss the music market, like how there are 50, 000 children playing dress up on stage. Jaejoong asks about his family, and Yoochun, nonchalant, talks about his estranged parents - Jaejoong finds it funny.
(“I don’t talk to my parents.”
“Hmm, that’s funny.”
“Why?”
“I don’t talk to my father - the biological one, I mean.”)
And they forget about the passing time, or the unfurnished title song - Yoochun enjoys Jaejoong’s presence.
---
When the recording of the last word of the last phrase of the last verse is complete, Yoochun tries to smile (and fails) at Kim Junsu. Again, Junsu rips the head phones off and stomps out of the booth - Yoochun wonders if his worldis full of black eyeliners and tight jeans and lip-rings. But this time, instead of leaving as soon as he is finished, Junsu leans against the wall.
Kim Junsu watches him.
Yoochun gathers his notes, and one by one the staffs leave the studio. He can feel the other man’s gaze upon his back, and he shivers - it’s unusual.
“Can I - uh - can I help you?”
“You don’t like the way I sing?”
He’s is acutely aware of the dead-end behind him and the door past Junsu’s shoulder. He considers bolting under his arm, and racing out the doors (to Jaejoong, perhaps), but he finds himself pinned against the wall.
Yoochun stutters - not the unattractive, saliva-y speech impediment, but the kind where his cheeks turn rosy and his eyes grow extra big - and explains.
“No, it’s not that I don’t like the way you sing. I - I actually quite like it, Junsu-sshi. I just -“
One minute he’s looking at Kim Junsu’s unreadable face, next minute someone else’s lips are over his mouth. His breath hitches, his hands tighten, and he feels like a hormone-challenged teenager, but his stomach flutters.
It’s wet and messy and hungry - mouth devouring Yoochun - but it’s like hot chocolate on a winter’s day. He melts into Kim Junsu’s hands (and lips).
“If you don’t like the way I sing, you should at leastlike the way I kiss.”
- And dear God, he’s kissing Kim Junsu.
(Jaejoong waits by the van, ignoring the manager hyung’s less-than-exciting description of the Music Video concept, pursing his lips, annoyed. In the corner of the vehicle, Yunho hums the melody of Yoochun’s song - off key - and Changmin closes the book with a scowl. Moments later, the book finds itself colliding with the side of Yunho’s head, and the leader yelps - “What the hell?!”)
Park Yoochun doesn’t like Korea - but it’s not anything he can’t handle.