schmoopy dream high drabble set
all three of these are dedicated to this here anon who encouraged me and gave me prompts. ilu :(
contact/hyemi/samdong/g/560w
in new york, samdong keeps in touch.
Samdong spends most of his free time in New York writing. Sometimes it’s songs, sometimes it’s handwritten letters to his mother, but most of the time it’s dozens of little e-mails for Hyemi.
The ones he sends most often are the ones that matter the least. He’ll link to English-language news sites or tabloids he sees the producers reading and ask her, shyly, Who’s this? ^^ He reads her replies and can almost hear her sighs from across the Pacific, her exasperated typing. That’s Hillary Clinton, don’t you at least know her? she says. Oh my god I can’t believe you don’t know who Christina Aguilera is, I’m embarrassed to know you. He knows she’s not really embarrassed; if there’s one thing Hyemi likes, it’s being able to teach someone else for a change.
Other times, he sends photographs of bags and jewelry he sees in store windows. He doesn’t understand American sizes, let alone women’s, but he’s determined to get his mother the most expensive underwear in town with his first paycheck; his second is reserved for Hyemi’s gift. Which one do you like best? He writes in the body. Hyemi, obviously on to him, insists she doesn’t want anything, and Samdong ends up asking the much more receptive Pilsook about her taste in Tiffany keys.
He sends her pictures of him at all the landmarks, at restaurants, with the few friends he makes in the city. Hyemi seems to like these, and cheerfully sends him pictures of her backstage or sitting in restaurants with the rest of the group.
The messages Samdong really wants to send take the longest. It’s not that he writes more, but that he hovers over the send button, biting his lip. There’s a part of him that worries about scaring her. Hyemi~ I went to the top of the Empire State Building today. I really want to take you there! You have to come visit and we’ll go again, okay? What did you do today? Are you eating? I miss you.
The CEO took me to lunch today! The food was really expensive but the restaurant was so pretty. It’s morning at home, right? Have you eaten breakfast? Don’t eat anything Jingook cooks. I’m much better. I’ll make pancakes when you visit.
I went ice skating at the Rockefeller Center today, Hyemi. You should have seen all the people! There was hardly any room to skate, it was just like home. Don’t worry, I didn’t go alone, but I’d have liked it better if you had been there. We could wear those couple gloves that Jason and Pilsook have, huh? Well it’s really late here so I’m going to bed now. I miss you a lot, Hyemi.
She takes much longer to respond to these, and sometimes she just ignores them altogether. She’s unnerved by him, and although it’s disappointing it doesn’t surprise him. But then sometimes, out of nowhere, Hyemi sends a message just as he’s waking up--I miss you, too. Do you remember the program I put on your computer? --and lets her guard down.
She still sighs at him when he takes ten minutes to open Skype, but it’s worth knowing that she hasn’t forgotten about him. She never says love, or even like, but Hyemi smiles at her webcam, sending him a fuzzy picture, and it’s more than enough.
"if you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets."/hyemi/samdong/g/440w
samdong loses his innocence, but only sometimes.
Sometimes Samdong thinks he’s learned too much.
No Korean has had a top hit in the United States, they tell him. In fact, only three Asian artists have had one at all. They name off everyone that’s tried, as if it’ll lift his spirits-Rain, BoA, Se7en, the Wonder Girls, JYJ. Instead, he feels even more insignificant. “What did they do wrong?” he asks quietly, reaching for his tuning fork with a sweaty hand.
His vocal coach frowns. “Sometimes a lot,” she says. “Sometimes nothing. It’s a hard industry.”
It’s not much of an answer. Samdong hates when people walk around questions, particularly when they’re about what could be the rest of his life. “If they couldn’t do it,” he says, “Why do you think I can?”
She pauses, sitting on the piano bench. “We’ve learned from our mistakes,” she says. Nothing about him being the right one, nothing about his talent. It’s an answer, but not an encouraging one.
Some days he thinks about the time before Kirin, when he was living in the past, singing old trot songs and wearing rice sack hoods. That Song Samdong had a fearlessness he lacks now, if only because he didn’t know any better. Challenging Jason in front of the whole class was nothing, even if he didn’t know the song; telling Hyemi exactly how he felt was simply the most straightforward thing to do. There was nothing he couldn’t do, and Samdong, all of a sudden, is seeing-living-the flaw in that logic now. The world isn’t his to control.
His English isn’t good enough for deep conversations, so he turns to home. It’s Jason, oddly enough, that turns out to be the most understanding, responding to his e-mails with thoughtful insights about just what it is Americans like. Samdong prints them out and puts them on his wall, just close enough to his bed so he can look at them before he sleeps.
On other days, Samdong feels strangely immortal. He walks to Times Square and stands in the middle of it all, imagining his face across every ad. He orders coffee at Starbucks under the name K and wonders if years later they’ll regret not asking for an autograph. At night, he lies on his bed and looks at the ceiling, thinking that if just one girl remembers him, it doesn’t matter if the rest forget.
It’s on one of those days that the producers give him the first copy of his debut CD. He presses a kiss to the cover, wraps it in a pink box, and sends it, express mail, to Hyemi.
of germs and xylophones/hyemi/samdong/g/770w
hyemi and samdong babysit ohhyuk and kyungjin's little girl.
Kang Minhee is, basically, the cutest child Samdong has ever seen. She has long, black pigtails and an affinity for the color blue, particularly when it’s on bows and dresses. Her favorite toy is a shiny, colorful plastic xylophone, which she promptly shoves into his face just five minutes after their first meeting. “Play with me,” she coos, and he falls hard.
So Samdong’s a little biased. He’s also doomed, if Hyemi keeps looking at the both of them like they’re thirsty mosquitoes. He keeps an eye on her as he taps out Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star on Minhee’s xylophone, smiling to beckon Hyemi from her place on the couch. She doesn’t move, pointing to the little girl and mouthing germs.
“Hyemi-unni doesn’t look happy,” Minhee observes, obediently tapping each note after him. He doesn’t think she’s dirty at all, but Hyemi’s cleanliness standards have always been mysteriously high.
“That IS her happy face,” Samdong says, covering a giggle with his hand when Hyemi glowers. “I’ll show you. Hyemi-ah, sing a harmony for us!”
Hyemi’s eyebrow twitches, but she complies, and Samdong cheerfully taps out the melody, Minhee’s hands not far behind him. She smiles, big and toothless, and Hyemi inches a few feet closer. She returns to the end of the couch, however, when Minhee trips over the xylophone and ends up wailing into Samdong’s chest-small steps, he thinks.
They put Minhee to bed an hour later, but not before Samdong teaches her satoori and gives her five piggy back rides up and down the stairs. Hyemi keeps a safe distance the whole time, finally proclaiming herself the Official Chicken Ordering Babysitter and sneaking away to the kitchen. Minhee falls asleep next to an array of stuffed animals, and Samdong tiptoes into the kitchen, grinning when he sees Hyemi sitting next to their dinner. “She’s not that bad, you know,” he says, taking a pair of chopsticks. “I’m sure they gave her a bath right before we came, anyway.”
“I hate kids,” Hyemi says, stabbing a piece of chicken. “They’re loud and they cry and they smell and they’re needy.”
“Like you.”
Hyemi frowns. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry,” he says blankly, “I can’t hear you.”
She taps the side of his cheek with a dirty chopstick. “Don’t even try that, Song Samdong.” She taps him again. “Take it back.” He shrugs, reaching for a piece of chicken, and she pokes him again. “Take it back.”
“Okay!” he says between bites, grinning up at her. “Go Hyemi is nothing at all like a four-year-old child.”
She seems satisfied with this, slumping contentedly into her chair. “Hey,” she says. “Do you think she’ll ever look back on this and realize that the Go Hyemi and the Song Samdong babysat her?”
“No,” he says, flatly. “Kids don’t remember anything.”
“Another reason to hate them, then. All this work for nothing.” She takes another piece of chicken, suddenly quiet and almost pensive-looking. Samdong plays with his phone while she eats, sneaking a picture to post online later. Hyemi’s too occupied with finishing the box to notice.
“I know you hate kids,” he says, finally, “But I…I’m glad you came here.”
She looks up at him and, slowly, her lips curve into a perfect smile. “Me too,” she says, and squeezes his hand.
contact/hyemi/samdong/g/560w
in new york, samdong keeps in touch.
Samdong spends most of his free time in New York writing. Sometimes it’s songs, sometimes it’s handwritten letters to his mother, but most of the time it’s dozens of little e-mails for Hyemi.
The ones he sends most often are the ones that matter the least. He’ll link to English-language news sites or tabloids he sees the producers reading and ask her, shyly, Who’s this? ^^ He reads her replies and can almost hear her sighs from across the Pacific, her exasperated typing. That’s Hillary Clinton, don’t you at least know her? she says. Oh my god I can’t believe you don’t know who Christina Aguilera is, I’m embarrassed to know you. He knows she’s not really embarrassed; if there’s one thing Hyemi likes, it’s being able to teach someone else for a change.
Other times, he sends photographs of bags and jewelry he sees in store windows. He doesn’t understand American sizes, let alone women’s, but he’s determined to get his mother the most expensive underwear in town with his first paycheck; his second is reserved for Hyemi’s gift. Which one do you like best? He writes in the body. Hyemi, obviously on to him, insists she doesn’t want anything, and Samdong ends up asking the much more receptive Pilsook about her taste in Tiffany keys.
He sends her pictures of him at all the landmarks, at restaurants, with the few friends he makes in the city. Hyemi seems to like these, and cheerfully sends him pictures of her backstage or sitting in restaurants with the rest of the group.
The messages Samdong really wants to send take the longest. It’s not that he writes more, but that he hovers over the send button, biting his lip. There’s a part of him that worries about scaring her. Hyemi~ I went to the top of the Empire State Building today. I really want to take you there! You have to come visit and we’ll go again, okay? What did you do today? Are you eating? I miss you.
The CEO took me to lunch today! The food was really expensive but the restaurant was so pretty. It’s morning at home, right? Have you eaten breakfast? Don’t eat anything Jingook cooks. I’m much better. I’ll make pancakes when you visit.
I went ice skating at the Rockefeller Center today, Hyemi. You should have seen all the people! There was hardly any room to skate, it was just like home. Don’t worry, I didn’t go alone, but I’d have liked it better if you had been there. We could wear those couple gloves that Jason and Pilsook have, huh? Well it’s really late here so I’m going to bed now. I miss you a lot, Hyemi.
She takes much longer to respond to these, and sometimes she just ignores them altogether. She’s unnerved by him, and although it’s disappointing it doesn’t surprise him. But then sometimes, out of nowhere, Hyemi sends a message just as he’s waking up--I miss you, too. Do you remember the program I put on your computer? --and lets her guard down.
She still sighs at him when he takes ten minutes to open Skype, but it’s worth knowing that she hasn’t forgotten about him. She never says love, or even like, but Hyemi smiles at her webcam, sending him a fuzzy picture, and it’s more than enough.
"if you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets."/hyemi/samdong/g/440w
samdong loses his innocence, but only sometimes.
Sometimes Samdong thinks he’s learned too much.
No Korean has had a top hit in the United States, they tell him. In fact, only three Asian artists have had one at all. They name off everyone that’s tried, as if it’ll lift his spirits-Rain, BoA, Se7en, the Wonder Girls, JYJ. Instead, he feels even more insignificant. “What did they do wrong?” he asks quietly, reaching for his tuning fork with a sweaty hand.
His vocal coach frowns. “Sometimes a lot,” she says. “Sometimes nothing. It’s a hard industry.”
It’s not much of an answer. Samdong hates when people walk around questions, particularly when they’re about what could be the rest of his life. “If they couldn’t do it,” he says, “Why do you think I can?”
She pauses, sitting on the piano bench. “We’ve learned from our mistakes,” she says. Nothing about him being the right one, nothing about his talent. It’s an answer, but not an encouraging one.
Some days he thinks about the time before Kirin, when he was living in the past, singing old trot songs and wearing rice sack hoods. That Song Samdong had a fearlessness he lacks now, if only because he didn’t know any better. Challenging Jason in front of the whole class was nothing, even if he didn’t know the song; telling Hyemi exactly how he felt was simply the most straightforward thing to do. There was nothing he couldn’t do, and Samdong, all of a sudden, is seeing-living-the flaw in that logic now. The world isn’t his to control.
His English isn’t good enough for deep conversations, so he turns to home. It’s Jason, oddly enough, that turns out to be the most understanding, responding to his e-mails with thoughtful insights about just what it is Americans like. Samdong prints them out and puts them on his wall, just close enough to his bed so he can look at them before he sleeps.
On other days, Samdong feels strangely immortal. He walks to Times Square and stands in the middle of it all, imagining his face across every ad. He orders coffee at Starbucks under the name K and wonders if years later they’ll regret not asking for an autograph. At night, he lies on his bed and looks at the ceiling, thinking that if just one girl remembers him, it doesn’t matter if the rest forget.
It’s on one of those days that the producers give him the first copy of his debut CD. He presses a kiss to the cover, wraps it in a pink box, and sends it, express mail, to Hyemi.
of germs and xylophones/hyemi/samdong/g/770w
hyemi and samdong babysit ohhyuk and kyungjin's little girl.
Kang Minhee is, basically, the cutest child Samdong has ever seen. She has long, black pigtails and an affinity for the color blue, particularly when it’s on bows and dresses. Her favorite toy is a shiny, colorful plastic xylophone, which she promptly shoves into his face just five minutes after their first meeting. “Play with me,” she coos, and he falls hard.
So Samdong’s a little biased. He’s also doomed, if Hyemi keeps looking at the both of them like they’re thirsty mosquitoes. He keeps an eye on her as he taps out Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star on Minhee’s xylophone, smiling to beckon Hyemi from her place on the couch. She doesn’t move, pointing to the little girl and mouthing germs.
“Hyemi-unni doesn’t look happy,” Minhee observes, obediently tapping each note after him. He doesn’t think she’s dirty at all, but Hyemi’s cleanliness standards have always been mysteriously high.
“That IS her happy face,” Samdong says, covering a giggle with his hand when Hyemi glowers. “I’ll show you. Hyemi-ah, sing a harmony for us!”
Hyemi’s eyebrow twitches, but she complies, and Samdong cheerfully taps out the melody, Minhee’s hands not far behind him. She smiles, big and toothless, and Hyemi inches a few feet closer. She returns to the end of the couch, however, when Minhee trips over the xylophone and ends up wailing into Samdong’s chest-small steps, he thinks.
They put Minhee to bed an hour later, but not before Samdong teaches her satoori and gives her five piggy back rides up and down the stairs. Hyemi keeps a safe distance the whole time, finally proclaiming herself the Official Chicken Ordering Babysitter and sneaking away to the kitchen. Minhee falls asleep next to an array of stuffed animals, and Samdong tiptoes into the kitchen, grinning when he sees Hyemi sitting next to their dinner. “She’s not that bad, you know,” he says, taking a pair of chopsticks. “I’m sure they gave her a bath right before we came, anyway.”
“I hate kids,” Hyemi says, stabbing a piece of chicken. “They’re loud and they cry and they smell and they’re needy.”
“Like you.”
Hyemi frowns. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry,” he says blankly, “I can’t hear you.”
She taps the side of his cheek with a dirty chopstick. “Don’t even try that, Song Samdong.” She taps him again. “Take it back.” He shrugs, reaching for a piece of chicken, and she pokes him again. “Take it back.”
“Okay!” he says between bites, grinning up at her. “Go Hyemi is nothing at all like a four-year-old child.”
She seems satisfied with this, slumping contentedly into her chair. “Hey,” she says. “Do you think she’ll ever look back on this and realize that the Go Hyemi and the Song Samdong babysat her?”
“No,” he says, flatly. “Kids don’t remember anything.”
“Another reason to hate them, then. All this work for nothing.” She takes another piece of chicken, suddenly quiet and almost pensive-looking. Samdong plays with his phone while she eats, sneaking a picture to post online later. Hyemi’s too occupied with finishing the box to notice.
“I know you hate kids,” he says, finally, “But I…I’m glad you came here.”
She looks up at him and, slowly, her lips curve into a perfect smile. “Me too,” she says, and squeezes his hand.