Fic: Crescendo
Title: Crescendo
Word count: 1,216
Pairing: Chundoong/ Ji-eun (or more celebrity-wise known as Thunder/IU)
Summary: This is not a love story. It is a story about love. More so, it is a story of music, musicians, and finding heart in an increasingly cluttered Korean music industry.
Additional notes: Read- as inspired by Akdong Musician duo and their music, and then realizing they reminded me of this. Title taken from the song, Crescendo. Also, couldn't resist the little sprinkles of MBLAQ love. Cathartic writing at work here after a looonnng drought period so do understand. Nevertheless, it was lovely just rambling feels all over this piece. Enjoy!
The love of guitar riffing brings them together, a boy with shaggy fringe and a girl with a guitar larger than her body. But this is not a love story.
Whittled down to two from their fixed group of four trainees in the company, much of their free time is spent between vocal lessons and the recording studio. They find a ledge near the emergency window on the fifth floor, where passersby are few and the acoustics work against the warm beams of sunlight streaming against her straight hair. Youtube videos become a monthly production.
Two years pass, and management debuts a shiny male group to ear-piercing techno latin music. She is reduced to plucking depressing tunes on her strings for a week. He’s reticent, more so than his usual self. (He doesn’t mention that he rejected a spot on the group- at any rate, heart-thumping beats were never his style.)
Instead, they pack their dreams into guitar-shaped cases and wander Hongdae, serendipity (and a sudden afternoon shower) guiding them to a coffee shop only spotted by single wooden door against red bricks in a back alley. The wind-chime tinkles in a succession of chords as she pushes open the door and is greeted with oven-warmth, the smell of ground coffee beans, and the most colorful array of doughnuts behind a glass display. He can tell she’s already fallen hard.
They become regular performers in the shop, at a little corner stage on Friday nights. (The boss of the café, a stoutly man with a strong glare and perpetual dark eye circles, invited them to be co-investors since they were helping to boost revenue after all.)
Sometimes she adlibs and sings the harmony instead, hiding a giggle behind her smile as he squints at her and takes over the main chorus instead. Other times he abruptly stops playing just to hear the pitch-perfect upsurge as she hits the climax of the song.
She takes to painting perfectly manicured nails that shine with crystal pink bows when she takes the mike. (He won’t understand that it’s her way to adamantly keep him by her side.) Her guitar case collects a fine layer of dust. His collects scratches and a chip that was definitely not due to a caffeine rush.
♩♪♫♬
They join the competition more out of a Sunday afternoon boredom. She’s somewhat distracted by a boy two lanes across their audition queue, blonde ruffled hair and voluble Jeollanam-do accent making him stand out of the crowd. She repeats his cute inflected rap under her breath, adding a few yo-s for effect. He punches her shoulder and she sticks out her tongue at him.
Making it into top twenty allows them to showcase their little soundbites and scribbles of musical notation off napkins. It’s double the requisite, but the audience loves their performances, and he knows that its no turning back, when one of the producers take them aside and tell them their songs will be recorded for the market (even before they’ve officially debuted).
It’s a thrill to hear their penned songs mastered and digitized, charting well on iTunes even as they enter the finals of the competition. Korea is smitten with the pint-sized girl with the sparkling voice and the boy with the manga-like looks with a mysterious aura and rap like raindrops off roof eaves. They personify Hongdae’s graffiti back alleys and verandah coffee houses, her voice as a balmy summer, straw hats and chiffon peach on skin; his like thick honey toast with breadcrumbs dusting over worn-in denim jeans.
♩♪♫♬
Runner-up satisfies him; the ones who won were too strong anyway. She frowns, worry lines across her forehead, fringe pinned up in a bunny clip. But they are offered contracts from two of the three big companies. They spend a night thrashing out the contract conditions. A week later, the newspapers announces news of them signing into an almost unknown management company instead.
Given the fame bestowed by the competition, their favorite hangout still remains the same at the doughnut shop with complimentary caramel puddings for regular customers. There’s a new employee at the cashier front today with delightful eye smiles for the ladies. He, apparently also tries to be a part-time cupid, given the innocuous wink as he places only one plastic wrapped spoon beside their caramel puddings. (A passing thwack on the head by the owner however, has him pulling out another spoon with a sad whine.)
They are humbled by the interest Korea has in the little snippets of life that they weave into the tapestry of music scores. In their interviews post-win, he still introduces them as a decidedly indie-influenced duo that breathes music. He adds, that he’s still not over the win. It’s still like a dream, unbelievable like magic, unbelievable like how she can make a chocolate cookie doughnut disappear in five seconds. (He enters the shop a week later to a foot long bill of twenty cookie doughnuts.)
Management allows them a small recording studio within the building that promptly becomes their second home. It’s there that they paint emotions into words, chalking up electricity and heating bills over the winter when inspiration strikes. His eyes become even smaller, slits hidden by puffed eye bags. Her face becomes bloated in mornings.
(But they now have appearances to keep up.)
She takes to wearing huge black frames to hide her tired eyes. He takes to maroon beanies over cowlick hair. They both learn the secrets of liquid eyeliner.
(It’s worth it when their songs continuously chart after release. They celebrate it with more doughnuts.)
Their manager taps her by the elbow backstage at one of the music shows, and tells her one of the boys asked for her number. He’s immediately protective of her, eyeing the culprit (whose five-second talent is a lousy imitation of a chirping bird) with an intense look of distaste. But his worries are unfounded; he’s a perfect gentleman to her, and she sings with an extra smile in her voice.
♩♪♫♬
He falls into producing as she falls into acting. He gifts rookie groups with stellar hit songs. She captures the heart of audiences all over again with her tearful heartbreak on screen. We’ve accomplished so much, they sometimes wonder in amazement.
(We accomplished it together.)
Years later, they decide to do a Hongdae circuit tour, a tribute to small beginnings, the romanticism of heart-shaped foam-frosted café lattes, sugary doughnuts with insanely pastel glazing (that now cannot be taken without a worry at diabetic pills), and drop into bars and cafes for little performances. Management nearly goes insane at crowd control, but they make it work.
His wedding band shines under the warm incandescence. Her ring-free hand is still waiting for the right person to complete it.
He tweaks his guitar (to a few womanly shrills); she grasps the mike in her hand.
And in music they find each other.
♩♪♫♬
Afterword:
This is not a love story.
(This is also an imaginary story.)
They laugh it off as trainees and he debuts in a masculine idol boy group with a English name after a weather element, while her guitar playing skills become well seasoned in late night music programs, where she dances with a large marshmallow mascot.
(They never tell each other that it is an imaginary story, because then he would have always loved her, and her, him in return.)
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Word count: 1,216
Pairing: Chundoong/ Ji-eun (or more celebrity-wise known as Thunder/IU)
Summary: This is not a love story. It is a story about love. More so, it is a story of music, musicians, and finding heart in an increasingly cluttered Korean music industry.
Additional notes: Read- as inspired by Akdong Musician duo and their music, and then realizing they reminded me of this. Title taken from the song, Crescendo. Also, couldn't resist the little sprinkles of MBLAQ love. Cathartic writing at work here after a looonnng drought period so do understand. Nevertheless, it was lovely just rambling feels all over this piece. Enjoy!
The love of guitar riffing brings them together, a boy with shaggy fringe and a girl with a guitar larger than her body. But this is not a love story.
Whittled down to two from their fixed group of four trainees in the company, much of their free time is spent between vocal lessons and the recording studio. They find a ledge near the emergency window on the fifth floor, where passersby are few and the acoustics work against the warm beams of sunlight streaming against her straight hair. Youtube videos become a monthly production.
Two years pass, and management debuts a shiny male group to ear-piercing techno latin music. She is reduced to plucking depressing tunes on her strings for a week. He’s reticent, more so than his usual self. (He doesn’t mention that he rejected a spot on the group- at any rate, heart-thumping beats were never his style.)
Instead, they pack their dreams into guitar-shaped cases and wander Hongdae, serendipity (and a sudden afternoon shower) guiding them to a coffee shop only spotted by single wooden door against red bricks in a back alley. The wind-chime tinkles in a succession of chords as she pushes open the door and is greeted with oven-warmth, the smell of ground coffee beans, and the most colorful array of doughnuts behind a glass display. He can tell she’s already fallen hard.
They become regular performers in the shop, at a little corner stage on Friday nights. (The boss of the café, a stoutly man with a strong glare and perpetual dark eye circles, invited them to be co-investors since they were helping to boost revenue after all.)
Sometimes she adlibs and sings the harmony instead, hiding a giggle behind her smile as he squints at her and takes over the main chorus instead. Other times he abruptly stops playing just to hear the pitch-perfect upsurge as she hits the climax of the song.
She takes to painting perfectly manicured nails that shine with crystal pink bows when she takes the mike. (He won’t understand that it’s her way to adamantly keep him by her side.) Her guitar case collects a fine layer of dust. His collects scratches and a chip that was definitely not due to a caffeine rush.
♩♪♫♬
They join the competition more out of a Sunday afternoon boredom. She’s somewhat distracted by a boy two lanes across their audition queue, blonde ruffled hair and voluble Jeollanam-do accent making him stand out of the crowd. She repeats his cute inflected rap under her breath, adding a few yo-s for effect. He punches her shoulder and she sticks out her tongue at him.
Making it into top twenty allows them to showcase their little soundbites and scribbles of musical notation off napkins. It’s double the requisite, but the audience loves their performances, and he knows that its no turning back, when one of the producers take them aside and tell them their songs will be recorded for the market (even before they’ve officially debuted).
It’s a thrill to hear their penned songs mastered and digitized, charting well on iTunes even as they enter the finals of the competition. Korea is smitten with the pint-sized girl with the sparkling voice and the boy with the manga-like looks with a mysterious aura and rap like raindrops off roof eaves. They personify Hongdae’s graffiti back alleys and verandah coffee houses, her voice as a balmy summer, straw hats and chiffon peach on skin; his like thick honey toast with breadcrumbs dusting over worn-in denim jeans.
♩♪♫♬
Runner-up satisfies him; the ones who won were too strong anyway. She frowns, worry lines across her forehead, fringe pinned up in a bunny clip. But they are offered contracts from two of the three big companies. They spend a night thrashing out the contract conditions. A week later, the newspapers announces news of them signing into an almost unknown management company instead.
Given the fame bestowed by the competition, their favorite hangout still remains the same at the doughnut shop with complimentary caramel puddings for regular customers. There’s a new employee at the cashier front today with delightful eye smiles for the ladies. He, apparently also tries to be a part-time cupid, given the innocuous wink as he places only one plastic wrapped spoon beside their caramel puddings. (A passing thwack on the head by the owner however, has him pulling out another spoon with a sad whine.)
They are humbled by the interest Korea has in the little snippets of life that they weave into the tapestry of music scores. In their interviews post-win, he still introduces them as a decidedly indie-influenced duo that breathes music. He adds, that he’s still not over the win. It’s still like a dream, unbelievable like magic, unbelievable like how she can make a chocolate cookie doughnut disappear in five seconds. (He enters the shop a week later to a foot long bill of twenty cookie doughnuts.)
Management allows them a small recording studio within the building that promptly becomes their second home. It’s there that they paint emotions into words, chalking up electricity and heating bills over the winter when inspiration strikes. His eyes become even smaller, slits hidden by puffed eye bags. Her face becomes bloated in mornings.
(But they now have appearances to keep up.)
She takes to wearing huge black frames to hide her tired eyes. He takes to maroon beanies over cowlick hair. They both learn the secrets of liquid eyeliner.
(It’s worth it when their songs continuously chart after release. They celebrate it with more doughnuts.)
Their manager taps her by the elbow backstage at one of the music shows, and tells her one of the boys asked for her number. He’s immediately protective of her, eyeing the culprit (whose five-second talent is a lousy imitation of a chirping bird) with an intense look of distaste. But his worries are unfounded; he’s a perfect gentleman to her, and she sings with an extra smile in her voice.
♩♪♫♬
He falls into producing as she falls into acting. He gifts rookie groups with stellar hit songs. She captures the heart of audiences all over again with her tearful heartbreak on screen. We’ve accomplished so much, they sometimes wonder in amazement.
(We accomplished it together.)
Years later, they decide to do a Hongdae circuit tour, a tribute to small beginnings, the romanticism of heart-shaped foam-frosted café lattes, sugary doughnuts with insanely pastel glazing (that now cannot be taken without a worry at diabetic pills), and drop into bars and cafes for little performances. Management nearly goes insane at crowd control, but they make it work.
His wedding band shines under the warm incandescence. Her ring-free hand is still waiting for the right person to complete it.
He tweaks his guitar (to a few womanly shrills); she grasps the mike in her hand.
And in music they find each other.
♩♪♫♬
Afterword:
This is not a love story.
(This is also an imaginary story.)
They laugh it off as trainees and he debuts in a masculine idol boy group with a English name after a weather element, while her guitar playing skills become well seasoned in late night music programs, where she dances with a large marshmallow mascot.
(They never tell each other that it is an imaginary story, because then he would have always loved her, and her, him in return.)
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