[fanfiction] Philharmonia
Title: Philharmonia
FANFICTION: TVfXQ
ONE SHOT
Rating: PG
Comments: Written for the 2nd round of the Yunchun timeline exchange at yunchun_ywh. For hoyah, as a timeline remix of her lovely piece of work, Fiction. Couldn't continue from where she left off though, since hers was set in the future =( But I found a way! *dramatic* o__O I just hope it's OK... and that it fits *fidgets*
Hope you like it, hoyah! ♥
And just to keep track of this 'entry'... @yunchun_ywh and @hug______.
As well: [ Round 1 entries] [ Round 2 entries]
A pencil and scraps of paper define his life, coupled with the sprites of imagination and inspiration. They must always be within his reach, otherwise the ideas born green into his head will tumble over each other in their attempts to mature and develop. His thoughts by themselves are already an incomprehensible mess at any given time (even in his sleep), and he doesn’t want the trouble of forgetting what he feels is important to him.
Which sure explains why he walks by the school's piano room with empty hands.
Threads of notes spill from the gap of the slightly ajar door, pushing his thoughts aside as they dance their way into his mind, leaving behind a refreshing clarity. He finds himself frozen to the spot as he lets the emotions surround him, speak to him. This, he thinks in a daze to himself, is something that is truly indescribable.
He seats himself rather clumsily beside the door and stays there for who knows how long, until finally his fingers itch with an overwhelming urge to create a message without words (but alas, he is only a pseudo-master of written expression). Then he finds himself suddenly in his room, not really knowing how and when and not remembering the details of the dimly lit hallway with a fluorescent flickering over the room next door. He hears only the pure music captured in his mind as they weave themselves together into a story to put onto paper.
It doesn't help that the next time he passes by the room he has only his literary analysis essay (major, major marks; due the next day!) and a red pen at his possession.
He sits down in horror at his predicament, torn between academic grades or spiritual satisfaction. He remains still as he debates his available options (go home, stay without writing, write over his assignment, oh woe and mercy please). His papers beckon and cry at the same time, and he doesn't know what to do. In the end he compromises by writing minutely in between his essay words. Red ink flows slowly and evenly as he takes his time, revelling in the warmth of the music that envelops him in a harmonious embrace.
He leaves with a light heart when he doesn't want to completely ruin his assignment, the white of the paper barely visible within the tangle of black and blue and red.
The red pen lies forlornly outside the door, forgotten.
When he comes prepared with crisp pieces of blank paper and a new box of pens, the room is eerily dark and silent. He stares blankly at the locked door, thinking that someone somewhere must be laughing at him for being such a foolish fool. So much for being prepared.
Thus he sticks to improvising on the spot, fitting his jigsaw of ideas onto scraps and loose bits which pile up with a gradual tidiness on his desk, amidst the flurry of schoolwork. He comes often enough to feel at home within the shelter of music, even if he doesn't know the mysterious pianist behind the magic. It never crosses his mind even once to peek through the cracked door window, not even for the briefest glimpse. He's too engrossed drinking up his fill of this source of continuous inspiration.
And inspired he is, exploring parts of himself and the world that he hasn't contemplated before, his thoughts surprisingly compliant and coherent. He sees life through new eyes, through the eyes of the musician, which eventually leads to a nostalgic familiarity with the soulful whimsies of the anonymous performer. There is a tale floating on each unravelling spool of notes, and he wonders, wonders about the meaning behind it all. Wonders if he'll ever understand.
It's the pensive moments like these when time passes by unnoticed, or at least at a different pace when he’s outside the piano room. An hour alone stretches into countless minutes and countless pages. And while the music beckons for him to stay longer, he tries his best to not linger or else he would stay forever and never leave.
Besides, the melodies are already ingrained into his brain.
But then the day comes when the music stops. The sharp noise of the chair scraping across the floor snaps him out of his state of bliss and the soft squeak of footsteps are a warning for him to go run away even though he hasn't done anything wrong (unless he's supposed to pay for listening) and it should be perfectly all right for him to admire the aptitude of the approaching musician. Up and away he goes with a strange panic in his chest and a strong desire to hide himself as he drops and picks up his chaotic sprawl of possessions that slip loose from jittery fingers.
Nothing is left of him when the door clicks open, save for a scrap of paper on the dusty floor that is picked up by long, slender fingers. The owner of these fingers takes in the product of his overheard compositions, instantly recognizing a fellow kindred spirit. He tries to find his invisible audience, wanting to meet despite knowing that no one is within the vicinity now. After a time of fondly fingering the writing in his hand he folds the paper and pockets it, humming to himself.
He walks away, his pockets full of scribbled sheet music, the piece of incomplete writing and a red pen.
... like fairies that would twirl upon the flickering candlelight, so she turned away from him abashedly innumerable times, denying a love that was perfectly within her reach. Perhaps she would only call for him when the candle grew dark enough to blow smoke into her face, but she also didn't know that by that time it would be too late, for he lived solely in the light of truth and honesty.
And by that time she would become someone that had been lying to herself.
Jung Yunho
FANFICTION: TVfXQ
ONE SHOT
Rating: PG
Comments: Written for the 2nd round of the Yunchun timeline exchange at yunchun_ywh. For hoyah, as a timeline remix of her lovely piece of work, Fiction. Couldn't continue from where she left off though, since hers was set in the future =( But I found a way! *dramatic* o__O I just hope it's OK... and that it fits *fidgets*
Hope you like it, hoyah! ♥
And just to keep track of this 'entry'... @yunchun_ywh and @hug______.
As well: [ Round 1 entries] [ Round 2 entries]
A pencil and scraps of paper define his life, coupled with the sprites of imagination and inspiration. They must always be within his reach, otherwise the ideas born green into his head will tumble over each other in their attempts to mature and develop. His thoughts by themselves are already an incomprehensible mess at any given time (even in his sleep), and he doesn’t want the trouble of forgetting what he feels is important to him.
Which sure explains why he walks by the school's piano room with empty hands.
Threads of notes spill from the gap of the slightly ajar door, pushing his thoughts aside as they dance their way into his mind, leaving behind a refreshing clarity. He finds himself frozen to the spot as he lets the emotions surround him, speak to him. This, he thinks in a daze to himself, is something that is truly indescribable.
He seats himself rather clumsily beside the door and stays there for who knows how long, until finally his fingers itch with an overwhelming urge to create a message without words (but alas, he is only a pseudo-master of written expression). Then he finds himself suddenly in his room, not really knowing how and when and not remembering the details of the dimly lit hallway with a fluorescent flickering over the room next door. He hears only the pure music captured in his mind as they weave themselves together into a story to put onto paper.
It doesn't help that the next time he passes by the room he has only his literary analysis essay (major, major marks; due the next day!) and a red pen at his possession.
He sits down in horror at his predicament, torn between academic grades or spiritual satisfaction. He remains still as he debates his available options (go home, stay without writing, write over his assignment, oh woe and mercy please). His papers beckon and cry at the same time, and he doesn't know what to do. In the end he compromises by writing minutely in between his essay words. Red ink flows slowly and evenly as he takes his time, revelling in the warmth of the music that envelops him in a harmonious embrace.
He leaves with a light heart when he doesn't want to completely ruin his assignment, the white of the paper barely visible within the tangle of black and blue and red.
The red pen lies forlornly outside the door, forgotten.
When he comes prepared with crisp pieces of blank paper and a new box of pens, the room is eerily dark and silent. He stares blankly at the locked door, thinking that someone somewhere must be laughing at him for being such a foolish fool. So much for being prepared.
Thus he sticks to improvising on the spot, fitting his jigsaw of ideas onto scraps and loose bits which pile up with a gradual tidiness on his desk, amidst the flurry of schoolwork. He comes often enough to feel at home within the shelter of music, even if he doesn't know the mysterious pianist behind the magic. It never crosses his mind even once to peek through the cracked door window, not even for the briefest glimpse. He's too engrossed drinking up his fill of this source of continuous inspiration.
And inspired he is, exploring parts of himself and the world that he hasn't contemplated before, his thoughts surprisingly compliant and coherent. He sees life through new eyes, through the eyes of the musician, which eventually leads to a nostalgic familiarity with the soulful whimsies of the anonymous performer. There is a tale floating on each unravelling spool of notes, and he wonders, wonders about the meaning behind it all. Wonders if he'll ever understand.
It's the pensive moments like these when time passes by unnoticed, or at least at a different pace when he’s outside the piano room. An hour alone stretches into countless minutes and countless pages. And while the music beckons for him to stay longer, he tries his best to not linger or else he would stay forever and never leave.
Besides, the melodies are already ingrained into his brain.
But then the day comes when the music stops. The sharp noise of the chair scraping across the floor snaps him out of his state of bliss and the soft squeak of footsteps are a warning for him to go run away even though he hasn't done anything wrong (unless he's supposed to pay for listening) and it should be perfectly all right for him to admire the aptitude of the approaching musician. Up and away he goes with a strange panic in his chest and a strong desire to hide himself as he drops and picks up his chaotic sprawl of possessions that slip loose from jittery fingers.
Nothing is left of him when the door clicks open, save for a scrap of paper on the dusty floor that is picked up by long, slender fingers. The owner of these fingers takes in the product of his overheard compositions, instantly recognizing a fellow kindred spirit. He tries to find his invisible audience, wanting to meet despite knowing that no one is within the vicinity now. After a time of fondly fingering the writing in his hand he folds the paper and pockets it, humming to himself.
He walks away, his pockets full of scribbled sheet music, the piece of incomplete writing and a red pen.
... like fairies that would twirl upon the flickering candlelight, so she turned away from him abashedly innumerable times, denying a love that was perfectly within her reach. Perhaps she would only call for him when the candle grew dark enough to blow smoke into her face, but she also didn't know that by that time it would be too late, for he lived solely in the light of truth and honesty.
And by that time she would become someone that had been lying to herself.
Jung Yunho