By the time they return to the inn, sunset bleeds over the sky in a dramatic wash of vermillion and amber. The horizon burns as the day leaves, falling into night sooner now that autumn has settled over town.
Kuro leaves to attend a meeting with the festival organizers, having to play the role of manager when it was his idea to get Iseul into the concert lineup. Kotone and Aoi are accommodating late arrivals as he enters the lobby, and Iseul manages a nod at Aoi's look of acknowledgement as he finds his way back to the room.
Down the hallway, Baekhyeon heads in his direction with a lightweight gym bag slung over his body. Iseul’s prepared to greet him briefly and be on his way, but he didn’t expect him to stop right in front of him.
“Hey, Han Iseul.”
He can’t exactly ignore Baekhyeon when he initiated conversation first, standing in his way as though he has more to say. He knows that he can come off as ill-mannered, but for a newcomer like Baekhyeon, he should strive to make a better impression.
Iseul quickly glances over Baekhyeon’s shoulder. “Heading out now?”
Baekhyeon’s dressed for working out, wearing a loose track jacket and matching sweatpants. Maybe he’s trying to find a fitness center around here, but Iseul doubts that he’ll come across anything other than a small studio. He noticed more people around here running outdoors along the promenade and doing calisthenics in the park.
“I’m going to practice at the studio.” Baekhyeon looks around the hallway, over his shoulder. “Do you want to come with me?”
He thinks back to Kuro’s mood this morning. If Kuro were here, he certainly wouldn’t encourage him to go. While he wouldn’t express this to him vocally, it’s easy to imagine him sulking as he did earlier.
Uncertain, Iseul tells him, “I still have some preparation I need to finish.”
Baekhyeon nods in understanding. “I’d be happy to give you a preview of my performance. Everything’s finished from the song to the choreo, and I was thinking that it’d be nice to get some feedback before the concert. I understand if you’re busy though.”
If Iseul goes, then he would know what to expect for the concert. Although he has much more experience than Baekhyeon when it comes to the industry, this shouldn’t mean undermining Baekhyeon’s talent.
It’s not a competition, but still.
He wants to do well.
“If it won’t take too long,” Iseul eventually says, reminding himself to send a message to Kuro, “then I wouldn't mind coming along.”
“Cool.” There’s nothing in Baekhyeon’s face that suggests he’s pleased in the slightest, but maybe he’s just stoic by nature. “Follow me.”
They head back out into the cool evening air, and the moment they’ve walked through the streetlamp lit parking lot, Iseul faintly regrets what he’s doing. It’s not as though Kuro owns his time during his time here, but there’s something about Baekhyeon that clearly displeases him, even though he doesn’t know what that could be.
Perhaps, he’ll find out.
“Feedback from Lee Kuro would be more useful,” Iseul says, breath fogging up in the cold. It's chillier tonight, and his collarbones are bared by Kuro’s black sweater, two sizes too large. “So I’m not sure how helpful I can be.”
“I doubt it.” Baekhyeon waves a hand to dismiss the idea. “I’ve watched you for a while, so I mean it when I say that I respect your opinion.”
“Watched me?”
“I liked your songs even before I debuted. I learned your songs for the monthly evaluations at my company, partly because Lee Aera’s a huge fan of yours,” Baekhyeon explains, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but you have this strong aura when you perform that really drew me in. So I’m honored to be performing on the same stage as you this time around.”
“Ah,” Iseul says, faintly surprised. Apparently, there are people out there who cover his songs the same way he covers Kuro’s songs. “The honor’s all mine.”
Because Baekhyeon seems to already know him, Iseul asks about his satisfaction with his debut album, his experience on television programs, what he’s looking forward to with the festival. He learns that Baekhyeon actively takes part in the production of his albums and music videos, never gets asked the right questions on variety shows, and wants to eat amezaiku in the form of Shiratori’s swan. He’s very serious about his music and doesn’t like spending time on variety shows—the same as Iseul—but he understands that entertainment is just as important as music in this industry.
The studio is housed in an unremarkable stone building without windows on the first floor, and if it weren’t for Baekhyeon leading him here, he would have never known it was here. The front door unlocks with Baekhyeon’s card access.
The light flickers on the moment they step in. The scent of lacquered wood blends with the pungence of camphor, filling his nose and reminding him of all those nights spent practicing in the studio and soothing bruises on his body with pain relieving balm. A wall-length mirror runs along the front of the room and a grand piano sits at the back of the room, near the unused speakers against the wall. The space isn’t as large as the studios he’s used to dancing in, nor is it as glamorous, but there’s comfort to be found here.
Baekhyeon beckons him over to the piano. “I have something I want to show you first.”
He slides into the piano bench, and pats the empty space beside him. With a questioning look, Iseul takes a seat next to him.
“It’s been a while since I’ve played for someone,” Baekhyeon says, rolling his shoulders, “so I hope this doesn’t sound too bad.”
Without a score in front of him, his hands settle idly over the keys. If he feels hesitation, he doesn’t show it, when composure is apparent in his posture and facial expression.
Iseul catches a curious glint in his eyes as his gaze flickers to him, but then he begins to play. The piece starts slow, his fingers finding where they need to be, and—
Iseul knows every beat of this song.
Out of all the songs he could play, Iseul never imagined hearing his own debut song reinterpreted by a fellow artist.
He doesn’t know if Baekhyeon understands the love in Iseul’s song, but he listens. It builds up slowly, a warmth that spreads through the notes, something like steadfast devotion. He hears loyalty and what it means to be so dedicated to someone that he can’t care for anything else.
The pace picks up now. It’s clear and honest, but instead of playing this as gently as Iseul would, Baekhyeon goes for urgency towards the end of the piece. Through it all, there’s a steady calm in Baekhyeon’s eyes, an understanding of what he wants to play even if he doesn’t convey the intended meaning of the piece.
Hearing his own song like this is like being forced to face the shortcomings of his own performances, as though there was always something amiss but Iseul never realized it then. At the time, he couldn’t afford to reinterpret his song at risk of sounding insincere, because love wasn't something he ever considered beyond the principle of it. But hearing this piece played this way imparts upon him the awareness that Baekhyeon has an understanding of some form of love, even if it isn’t about falling in love with someone else.
The music fades, and there’s a fleeting moment of a smile on Baekhyeon’s face when he turns to look at him. It’s gone the moment Iseul blinks.
“That was wonderful,” Iseul says. He has the tendency to default to criticism rather than praise, but he means the latter this time around. “I never heard my song covered before and—you did really well.”
“I wanted you to hear this,” Baekhyeon reveals. “I wanted to have worked hard enough to earn the right to play this, let alone stand on the same stage as you. Every artist has their inspirations and—you just happened to be mine.”
Inspiring.
He finds Iseul inspiring.
Iseul works around the sudden dryness in his throat. “Why? There are so many other—”
“Because you never give up,” Baekhyeon answers in a quieter tone, and he says this in the present tense. “It was always hard for me, having to choose between going back to university and living a normal life, or continuing with training without any prospect of debuting. I think you’ve always been focused when it came to what you wanted, and I thought that was admirable.” He runs his fingers over the keys, but doesn’t press down on them. “I saw you perform in person, and you always gave it your all, like any of your stages could be your last. That kind of desperation was really earnest.”
You never give up, Iseul repeats in his mind.
Baekhyeon might be right.
Noh Media left him in a liminal space with his hiatus, like notes on a score never to be played again. He wasn’t going to be in top form forever, especially when idols in the industry had a time limit. He compensated with his lack of promotions by continuing to practice, always a hair's breadth away from damaging his body from overexertion. There was only so long he could keep his muscles stretched and seized impossibly tight before something gave out, but Iseul never, ever gave out.
His mindset wasn’t as healthy as Baekhyeon would believe it to be, when all he did was hurt over and over again.
“Thank you,” Iseul murmurs, because it’s better than saying I’m sorry to everyone who has been waiting for his return. “I’m happy that my performance could give you that kind of strength—but enough about me. Why don’t we hear your song now?”
Baekhyeon cracks his knuckles. “Alright.”
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