There were many people Sung-Ho admired.

His parents were only a small portion of the list. Followed by his primary school teachers, his current professors, Ji-Yeong, and above everyone else, lay the multitude of musicians he was brought up listening to. Their skilful playing and enchanting voices kept Sung-Ho desperate for more. He was always fascinated by the way a guitarist moved their fingers expertly over the strings, never once faltering. When he was younger he secretly bought a guitar, to learn to be like the best of the performers. Although he was certain his parents knew of the purchase, he was glad they didn't try to dissuade him from the hobby.

Music had always been home to Sung-Ho. Be it fast-paced rock, or slower melodies of a ballad, Sung-Ho could find himself falling into the comfort of the sound. Soft tunes bringing him out of his introverted shell, letting him move to the predetermined beat. He wrote himself in between the notes of every song he learned; his heart yearning for recognition through the gentle performance from the protection of his room. Music, to Sung-Ho, was escape from reality. It was safety dispersed through uncertainty. A blanket of trust covering him in confidence.

Sometimes Sung-Ho shared the songs he valued most, but only with the people he valued almost as much as the chords entwined through the music. They were moments of vulnerability. Moments which felt like cutting off pieces of himself and offering them for someone's entertainment.

But he was OK with that; sharing a portion of one's soul was both terrifying yet also exhilarating. To the point where the rush made Sung-Ho crave for someone's affections just so he could share a piece of himself with them. Be it music, sports, food.

Sung-Ho wasn't obsessed with music, more so the passion music brought out in people, himself included.

"Sam, I won't be asking you again, grab that amp and move it to the stage right now." George yelled across the room, voice pushing against the bassline vibrating throughout the backstage.

Sung-Ho looked up at the sound of his English name. In his hands were rectangular pieces of card, a stack of them, each with a different piece of information varying from international trade, to political economics. For the past month, Sung-Ho has been trying to read ahead of the next semester, all while attending his work and maintaining somewhat of an acceptable social life. One of his housemates--Stefan, he recalled--joked about Sung-Ho wasting his summer away through constant distractions such as his job, or his studies. Although now Sung-Ho wasn't sure it was a joke. In just over a week university would start up again, and for the most part, Sung-Ho had spent barely any time relaxing before the inevitably stress-induced all-nighters he would have to pull to get the degree he desired.

"One sec," he called back.

Careful to not bend any of the corners of his cards, he placed them into the side pocket of his bag. After he secured his bag in his locker he moved to the backroom. It was cramped, as usual. Filled to the brim with rows of instruments and accessories. Pedal loopers on the high shelf to the far right, spare drum sticks in a wide rack in the corner by the door, even music stands for the less confident performers, for when they wanted to test their skills but weren't so sure they would remember the notes. They had everything an upcoming musician could want.

He made haste with grabbing the amp--in a clump hiding behind the spare drum kit they kept in case of emergencies--which he then moved through the backstage to set up for the next band. He wasn't entirely sure who was playing tonight, he stopped bothering to familiarise himself with the line-up after his second month of work. It started becoming too bothersome. There were a few people he liked the sound of, but he was picky with who he listened to on the regular. His spotify was an insight into his soul.

When he walked back through to the backstage, George walked up to him in long strides, clipboard in hand and brows furrowed deep into each other. He had impeccable eyebrows. Naturally thick but well kept. Sung-Ho was kind of in love with George's eyebrows.

They were a deep black, matching the shade of his buzzcut. His eyes were dark brown and hooded and when Sung-Ho looked at them for long enough he would begin noticing the green dots running through the irises. He frequented at the gym which his arms were proof of but he rarely spoke about the gym, choosing to discuss topics he thought others would find interesting, too. Yet even that was rare. George was modest with his words, favouring a stoic expression over anything else, but it fit his aesthetic well enough that Sung-Ho didn't mind. Or perhaps his aesthetic reflected his personality.

"Finally," said George. "Sorry, we're running behind and the next guys are somewhat rude. If they have to wait even a minute they'll get on my ass about it."

Sung-Ho chuckled. "Don't worry, I understand. Plus I'm literally at work, I should pay attention to what's going on."

Noticing the pen in George's clipboard, he gestured towards it. George nodded his head in acknowledgment of Sung-Ho's question. "Go for it."

He offered George a quick thanks, noted on his hand a reminder to tidy the backroom again, and handed the pen back to George. "It's a tip back there," he said before George could ask.

"Oh, I know." George said with a chuckle. "There's a reason I gave that task to you."

Sung-Ho gave, what he hoped was, his most offended look, jaw hanging open comically wide with his eyes mimicking his mouth. He drew his hand to his chest in mocking heartbreak.

"Tidy the back room if you're that disheartened by it."

"It was all a ploy to get me to clean, you know my weakness." He said dramatically.

George looked at him, expression blank.

"Fine, fine, I'll go." Sung-Ho bowed away from George. "Sorry, your highness." Before George could tell him off, Sung-Ho weaved his way through to the back corner.

During the performances Sung-Ho usually had at least three minutes to himself. Each night there were around seven to ten musicians playing, each with up to a twenty minute act. Between every act they kept a five minute break to set up and give the crowd time to relax without loud music beating through their ears. If Sung-Ho managed to organise the backroom in fifteen minutes he would be able to study before it was time to set up for the next act.

He didn't much care for the music of this performance, anyway. It wasn't bad, but it was a lot more generic, clearly drawing inspiration from current trends and going with what they thought would get them a couple likes on a video, not actual music the performers enjoyed making. So Sung-Ho didn't mind missing this act. He knew the band from their previous performances: Flying Colours they called themselves. They opted for weekly shows, and had the personality of wannabe rockstars with a considerable lack of respect and, well, fame. Sung-Ho actively avoided them.

Before he could even turn on his heel, he was called over by a different colleague, this time asking him to help fix something he managed to pull off the wall.