[B.A.P; yongguk/himchan] drabbles
title: miss the forest for the trees
pairing: yongguk/himchan
rating: pg-13
1325w. / pre-debut
summary: there's himchan and music until there's himchan and music and yongguk.
a/n: himchan plays other instruments, too, but i kinda fell in love with the janggu so:) inspired by this: "the janggu is usually classified as an accompanying instrument because of its flexible nature and its agility with complex rhythms."
Music is everything to Himchan. When there’s nothing left to say, no words to carry him forward, he relies on music; counts on the melody to express his emotions, thoughts, and sometimes even his deepest secrets get laid out for everyone to see if only they knew how to look.
He joined the agency on an impulse because he’s Kim Himchan (a little reckless but knows his limits, likes to take risks but never gets himself hurt, never that). TS Entertainment might not be one of the biggest managements in the country but it gets the job done. People there are so very nice to him right from day one. Everyone’s courteous and friendly, and he doesn’t question their sincerity until he overhears a few trainees expressing their dissatisfaction after his first few months there.
“They never yell at him or tell him to do anything! What is he even here for?”
“Well you know, a pretty face gets you far…” The other boy Himchan recognizes faintly says with a click of his tongue.
“I bet his role is to stand still and look pretty for the cameras.”
It hurts more than it should because Himchan doesn’t know those guys and frankly, they know nothing about him either. He shouldn’t care yet those words, they haunt him for the rest of the night and the sun rises before he manages to shoo away hideous nightmares and fears.
Afterwards, he starts to question everything and everyone around him. A pat on the back might not be an encouragement or praise but a deliberate deceptiveness in behavior to make him believe otherwise-and words, well, words tend to never be what they appear to be, he knew that already.
After another tiring day of practice (dance, singing, dance, variety, dance, dance), he pulls out his worn gig bag with straps that are a faded black and molded to softness on his shoulder. The weight of the janggu against his back is comforting and familiar, even if the environment he’s now in is nothing if not new. The hallway’s lighting is crucially bright and it makes Himchan feel like he’s a guinea pig in a laboratory running on an endless circle, though, he knows it’s for the sake of the trainees staying awake and alert at all times. In this building, it didn’t matter if the sun had risen outside or if it was the moon that colored the sky dark blue, dinner was when they were offered food, not at six pm, and rest did not mean closing your eyes for seven, six, five hours.
Rest is for ones that have earned their places in the business, Himchan was told.
Lucky for Himchan, people have always found him likable. It’s another outcome of years of practicing and then finally mastering the art itself; being nice is kind of like playing instruments and creating music: you can only become good with practice and hard work. Only a few are born with so-called natural talent.
His vocal teacher was one of those who grew fond of him right from their first meeting. The man was nice enough to sneak a spare key for the empty practice room into Himchan’s pocket and thus offering him a chance to go back to his roots, back to his high-school days of abandon and mellowness. It’d been a few weeks too long since the last time his hands had met the even surface of the soft hide, fingers traced the wooden body of the janggu. For the first time, Himchan finally understood the role music played in his life.
The practice room was tiny and it looked unused, like it wasn’t spacious enough for use.
It was just perfect for him.
Himchan settled on the floor, his legs folded, as he pulled the gig bag off his shoulder and unzipped it. The zipper ran smoothly across and over the thick material and he couldn’t help a smile at something so familiar. Putting the bag away, he lifted the janggu into his lap, hands smoothing the round edges and running across the hourglass-shaped wood. Himchan was just about to grab the yeolchae with his hand when a quiet, yet loud enough to draw his attention, cough interrupted him.
“Uh, sorry, am I not supposed to be here?” There was a male close to his age in one corner of the room whom he didn’t notice past the excitement that clouded his mind. The face was unfamiliar to him, all wide mouth and straight nose and a voice too low for a kid that age, or face, should he add.
“I thought they weren’t using this room anymore…” The boy continued on and woke Himchan up from his daze as he dropped his drumstick while trying to find words that got stuck in his throat somehow.
“They’re not. Using this room, I mean.” Himchan’s awkward when caught off-guard and only social when there’s no music to swallow up conversations made out of meaningless words.
“Oh. Well then, can I stay here?” He asked Himchan, eyes cautious yet never losing the aura of confidence glowing around him. Himchan was a little jealous, maybe.
“Sure, I guess.” He shrugged off the doubt eating up his insides by shifting his gaze from the boy to the floor and the janggu. It’s oddly calming to have an audience made of one man so Himchan picked up the yeolchae with his right hand, fingers curling around the wooden stick.
When his janggu comes alive, it makes the most beautiful sounds, quiet enough to blend into the background but still there and essential in its own way. The sounds are deep and full like the smell of a thick forest breathing on you, when Himchan strikes the center of the buk with his left hand. The bass tone is like a growl trees breathe out when their leaves get caught by the wind.
Himchan gets lost in the moment in which there’s just the janggu and him becoming one. They say the flow’s the most important thing you need to master when it comes to playing the janggu; you need to breathe life into the instrument, feel its sounds with your heart as each beat blend together and become the music.
Fifteen minutes turned into hours but Himchan was still there, on the floor, with his janggu like it was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years yet it felt the same, so familiar, safe and soothing, like they were never apart to begin with.
“Wow. That was good,” Himchan was startled by the boy’s voice. He managed to close his eyes somehow, playing the janggu, and forgot about his audience altogether (which is something that should never, never happen to an artist, Himchan was told).
“You’re still here.” He blurted out before he could think to stop himself.
“Yeah, I never left since you said I could stay. And to be honest, I was here first, so…” The boy grinned and all Himchan could see was teeth and gums that made his brain mushy and useless for a second too long.
Sorry,” It came out awfully timid and weak and Himchan beat himself up mentally. He avoided eye contact, shoving the instrument back into the bag and gathering his stuff as quickly as possible. The room felt so stuffy and tiny, which basically summed up everything Himchan hated about public places. He was on his feet and ready to flee the scene before the boy interrupted his intentions with a hand flailing in mid-air.
“Hey, wait up! You didn’t even tell me your name,” It’s said in an oddly accusing tone that Himchan didn’t get. They didn’t know each other and truthfully, weren’t they supposed to hate on each other by default?
“Himchan. It’s Kim Himchan.”
“Well, nice to meet you too, Kim Himchan. I’m Bang Yongguk.”
And that was how Himchan made a friend out of a once-supposed-to-be enemy.
title: mess me up, write on my skin
pairing: yongguk/himchan
rating: pg-13
555w.
summary: himchan and yongguk recording.
himchan's sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. they’re in one of those tiny studios with sheets of lyrics spread on the floor black and white, messy with scribbles. it's another night followed by a long day and he's exhausted. the tiny room feels stuffy and way too warm from the recording equipment running on a low buzz. he puffs out a frustrated breath of recycled air and brings a hand to rub the side of his face, fingers pressing into the temple.
"you're tired boneless, go to sleep." yongguk says, sitting on a chair a few feet from him. yongguk's got his back to him, head hanging a little from the lack of sleep and voice stern, stretched tight around the edges. he doesn’t need to look to know sleep is tugging at the corners of himchan’s eyes. they share everything from cheap ramen cups and imported german beer to late nights and early mornings spent in the depths of the studio, limbs sprawled across the tiny space on the floor, messy and tangled from exhaustion -- so telepathy comes with everything, naturally.
"we need to finish editing the song, don't we?” himchan tries to hide a yawn, covering his mouth sheepishly with a hand, “now speak less and work more," he says, trying to sound stern and serious but fails miserably at that. he mutters a few curses under his breath and shifts, tearing his gaze away from yongguk's back. unwilling or not, no one’s here to witness it.
yongguk heaves a sigh at himchan’s words, sets the pen on the desk and wills his chair to spin around.
“you’re not exactly doing much, kim himchan.” it’s droopy eyes and dark blueish circles underneath but himchan finds it enchanting all the same. he pouts, lower lip jutting out and brows furrowing. yongguk hates how there isn’t even a fight before himchan wins the war or whatever this is; is stupid, pointless really.
“stop that.” yongguk hisses and blinks, eyelashes landing and departing like those aeroplanes himchan sees on the busy sky of seoul.
“stop what?” himchan grins, eyes glistening like there’s raindrops in them and yongguk wants to find out, wants to touch the delicate skin of the outer corner of himchan’s eye with his thumb, smooth out crinkles that aren’t supposed to be there.
“do not tempt me.” yongguk speaks, each word tense and rough. the man’s almost as scary as a teddy bear, himchan reckons and smiles wider. it’s no surprise to find yongguk getting up seconds later, hands pushing the chair back against the desk, furniture meeting with a dull thud. himchan shifts on the floor, papers ruffling underneath his hands as he backs away to the wall.
“you’ll mess up the papers.” himchan tells him, using his last bit of self-control to make the words coherent.
“i don’t care.” yongguk spits, limbs bending as he meets the floor on his fours.
“the song won’t be finished tonight.” himchan threatens but his breath hitches and yongguk grins, victorious and sneaky like the bastard that he is behind cameras.
“i don’t care.” comes out as a growl from yongguk.
“so you say.” himchan smirks and yongguk thinks this is hell, whatever this is, before he closes his eyes and meets himchan’s lips.
pairing: yongguk/himchan
rating: pg-13
1325w. / pre-debut
summary: there's himchan and music until there's himchan and music and yongguk.
a/n: himchan plays other instruments, too, but i kinda fell in love with the janggu so:) inspired by this: "the janggu is usually classified as an accompanying instrument because of its flexible nature and its agility with complex rhythms."
Music is everything to Himchan. When there’s nothing left to say, no words to carry him forward, he relies on music; counts on the melody to express his emotions, thoughts, and sometimes even his deepest secrets get laid out for everyone to see if only they knew how to look.
He joined the agency on an impulse because he’s Kim Himchan (a little reckless but knows his limits, likes to take risks but never gets himself hurt, never that). TS Entertainment might not be one of the biggest managements in the country but it gets the job done. People there are so very nice to him right from day one. Everyone’s courteous and friendly, and he doesn’t question their sincerity until he overhears a few trainees expressing their dissatisfaction after his first few months there.
“They never yell at him or tell him to do anything! What is he even here for?”
“Well you know, a pretty face gets you far…” The other boy Himchan recognizes faintly says with a click of his tongue.
“I bet his role is to stand still and look pretty for the cameras.”
It hurts more than it should because Himchan doesn’t know those guys and frankly, they know nothing about him either. He shouldn’t care yet those words, they haunt him for the rest of the night and the sun rises before he manages to shoo away hideous nightmares and fears.
Afterwards, he starts to question everything and everyone around him. A pat on the back might not be an encouragement or praise but a deliberate deceptiveness in behavior to make him believe otherwise-and words, well, words tend to never be what they appear to be, he knew that already.
After another tiring day of practice (dance, singing, dance, variety, dance, dance), he pulls out his worn gig bag with straps that are a faded black and molded to softness on his shoulder. The weight of the janggu against his back is comforting and familiar, even if the environment he’s now in is nothing if not new. The hallway’s lighting is crucially bright and it makes Himchan feel like he’s a guinea pig in a laboratory running on an endless circle, though, he knows it’s for the sake of the trainees staying awake and alert at all times. In this building, it didn’t matter if the sun had risen outside or if it was the moon that colored the sky dark blue, dinner was when they were offered food, not at six pm, and rest did not mean closing your eyes for seven, six, five hours.
Rest is for ones that have earned their places in the business, Himchan was told.
Lucky for Himchan, people have always found him likable. It’s another outcome of years of practicing and then finally mastering the art itself; being nice is kind of like playing instruments and creating music: you can only become good with practice and hard work. Only a few are born with so-called natural talent.
His vocal teacher was one of those who grew fond of him right from their first meeting. The man was nice enough to sneak a spare key for the empty practice room into Himchan’s pocket and thus offering him a chance to go back to his roots, back to his high-school days of abandon and mellowness. It’d been a few weeks too long since the last time his hands had met the even surface of the soft hide, fingers traced the wooden body of the janggu. For the first time, Himchan finally understood the role music played in his life.
The practice room was tiny and it looked unused, like it wasn’t spacious enough for use.
It was just perfect for him.
Himchan settled on the floor, his legs folded, as he pulled the gig bag off his shoulder and unzipped it. The zipper ran smoothly across and over the thick material and he couldn’t help a smile at something so familiar. Putting the bag away, he lifted the janggu into his lap, hands smoothing the round edges and running across the hourglass-shaped wood. Himchan was just about to grab the yeolchae with his hand when a quiet, yet loud enough to draw his attention, cough interrupted him.
“Uh, sorry, am I not supposed to be here?” There was a male close to his age in one corner of the room whom he didn’t notice past the excitement that clouded his mind. The face was unfamiliar to him, all wide mouth and straight nose and a voice too low for a kid that age, or face, should he add.
“I thought they weren’t using this room anymore…” The boy continued on and woke Himchan up from his daze as he dropped his drumstick while trying to find words that got stuck in his throat somehow.
“They’re not. Using this room, I mean.” Himchan’s awkward when caught off-guard and only social when there’s no music to swallow up conversations made out of meaningless words.
“Oh. Well then, can I stay here?” He asked Himchan, eyes cautious yet never losing the aura of confidence glowing around him. Himchan was a little jealous, maybe.
“Sure, I guess.” He shrugged off the doubt eating up his insides by shifting his gaze from the boy to the floor and the janggu. It’s oddly calming to have an audience made of one man so Himchan picked up the yeolchae with his right hand, fingers curling around the wooden stick.
When his janggu comes alive, it makes the most beautiful sounds, quiet enough to blend into the background but still there and essential in its own way. The sounds are deep and full like the smell of a thick forest breathing on you, when Himchan strikes the center of the buk with his left hand. The bass tone is like a growl trees breathe out when their leaves get caught by the wind.
Himchan gets lost in the moment in which there’s just the janggu and him becoming one. They say the flow’s the most important thing you need to master when it comes to playing the janggu; you need to breathe life into the instrument, feel its sounds with your heart as each beat blend together and become the music.
Fifteen minutes turned into hours but Himchan was still there, on the floor, with his janggu like it was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years yet it felt the same, so familiar, safe and soothing, like they were never apart to begin with.
“Wow. That was good,” Himchan was startled by the boy’s voice. He managed to close his eyes somehow, playing the janggu, and forgot about his audience altogether (which is something that should never, never happen to an artist, Himchan was told).
“You’re still here.” He blurted out before he could think to stop himself.
“Yeah, I never left since you said I could stay. And to be honest, I was here first, so…” The boy grinned and all Himchan could see was teeth and gums that made his brain mushy and useless for a second too long.
Sorry,” It came out awfully timid and weak and Himchan beat himself up mentally. He avoided eye contact, shoving the instrument back into the bag and gathering his stuff as quickly as possible. The room felt so stuffy and tiny, which basically summed up everything Himchan hated about public places. He was on his feet and ready to flee the scene before the boy interrupted his intentions with a hand flailing in mid-air.
“Hey, wait up! You didn’t even tell me your name,” It’s said in an oddly accusing tone that Himchan didn’t get. They didn’t know each other and truthfully, weren’t they supposed to hate on each other by default?
“Himchan. It’s Kim Himchan.”
“Well, nice to meet you too, Kim Himchan. I’m Bang Yongguk.”
And that was how Himchan made a friend out of a once-supposed-to-be enemy.
title: mess me up, write on my skin
pairing: yongguk/himchan
rating: pg-13
555w.
summary: himchan and yongguk recording.
himchan's sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. they’re in one of those tiny studios with sheets of lyrics spread on the floor black and white, messy with scribbles. it's another night followed by a long day and he's exhausted. the tiny room feels stuffy and way too warm from the recording equipment running on a low buzz. he puffs out a frustrated breath of recycled air and brings a hand to rub the side of his face, fingers pressing into the temple.
"you're tired boneless, go to sleep." yongguk says, sitting on a chair a few feet from him. yongguk's got his back to him, head hanging a little from the lack of sleep and voice stern, stretched tight around the edges. he doesn’t need to look to know sleep is tugging at the corners of himchan’s eyes. they share everything from cheap ramen cups and imported german beer to late nights and early mornings spent in the depths of the studio, limbs sprawled across the tiny space on the floor, messy and tangled from exhaustion -- so telepathy comes with everything, naturally.
"we need to finish editing the song, don't we?” himchan tries to hide a yawn, covering his mouth sheepishly with a hand, “now speak less and work more," he says, trying to sound stern and serious but fails miserably at that. he mutters a few curses under his breath and shifts, tearing his gaze away from yongguk's back. unwilling or not, no one’s here to witness it.
yongguk heaves a sigh at himchan’s words, sets the pen on the desk and wills his chair to spin around.
“you’re not exactly doing much, kim himchan.” it’s droopy eyes and dark blueish circles underneath but himchan finds it enchanting all the same. he pouts, lower lip jutting out and brows furrowing. yongguk hates how there isn’t even a fight before himchan wins the war or whatever this is; is stupid, pointless really.
“stop that.” yongguk hisses and blinks, eyelashes landing and departing like those aeroplanes himchan sees on the busy sky of seoul.
“stop what?” himchan grins, eyes glistening like there’s raindrops in them and yongguk wants to find out, wants to touch the delicate skin of the outer corner of himchan’s eye with his thumb, smooth out crinkles that aren’t supposed to be there.
“do not tempt me.” yongguk speaks, each word tense and rough. the man’s almost as scary as a teddy bear, himchan reckons and smiles wider. it’s no surprise to find yongguk getting up seconds later, hands pushing the chair back against the desk, furniture meeting with a dull thud. himchan shifts on the floor, papers ruffling underneath his hands as he backs away to the wall.
“you’ll mess up the papers.” himchan tells him, using his last bit of self-control to make the words coherent.
“i don’t care.” yongguk spits, limbs bending as he meets the floor on his fours.
“the song won’t be finished tonight.” himchan threatens but his breath hitches and yongguk grins, victorious and sneaky like the bastard that he is behind cameras.
“i don’t care.” comes out as a growl from yongguk.
“so you say.” himchan smirks and yongguk thinks this is hell, whatever this is, before he closes his eyes and meets himchan’s lips.