#Accelerando | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

catiuskaa · 4 months ago

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EACH OTHER’S SOUNDTRACK.

summary: the need to know more and to keep listening to the music: attention, the begining of devotion —you have had each other’s from the start.

series masterlist (☆) collab with @dalamjisung !

wc: 3.7k

cw: fluff! using my (10!) years of music lessons, so technical lingo [use of italian], i’m making jisung a pianist, he’s playing lalaland’s piano theme and other piano studios, another soundtrack too (i won’t spoil it!), they are so whipped it’s hilarious, shoutout to debussy, sibelius and rimsky-korsakov, they’re a bit dead but yk contribution is always appreciated

[🔷 ☆🎼☆ 🔷]

His presence made itself noticeable in slow beats of tempo.

Da capo. From the start.

It was a quiet night. Or rather it had been, until the tranquil sound of a piano came from above you. The melody sang to you, unspoken words below it’s charming notes, D natural, F sharp, A flat, A natural, A flat, F sharp, C sharp, the rich tone of the instrument reaching your ears, cheekily waking you up from your short-lived slumber, as if you were the one who was meant to be listening.

Your sleepy brain recognized the melody, and you almost brushed it off to your new neighbour watching that soul-crashing movie, until the tempo started to speed up.

Crescendo. Accelerando.

A new octave joined in, and the melody changed, fluctuated, its sweet sweet tone almost like a stroke, tender, kind, and loving. Like a summary to the first half of the movie, the melody was cheerful, and almost cheesy when it doubled, now being accompanied by a lower version of itself. Until it started turning lower, deeper, faster, faster, and then, it exploded.

You couldn’t listen to the music anymore. It wasn’t a matter of notes or melody when all that was there was an artist screaming to be heard, and for a second, it almost felt like he was right in front of you, a scale, large and strained, yet beautiful, being tortured out of the piano as the instrument seemed to yell what the artist couldn’t.

And alas, it stopped.

Lonely nights you spent waiting for his piano, as his music, calm and tranquil, charmed you in the arms of Morpheus. And when soon after, summer weather arrived, it only worsened. Summer nights were always hot, so it was understandable that he kept his window open, and because the both of you lived in the same crappy studio-room departments, only a staircase away from each other, same thing went for you.

But today —tonight— you were sweaty and awake, yearning for that mysterious pianist to lull you back to sleep. You couldn’t help but need more. Maybe not sleep, solely a peek. A bit over a week had passed, so maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late for introductions.

Well. There was only one way to know.

Surreal. It’s how it feels when you stand up and halphazardly grab a jacket and a hair clip, to at least pretend you had the energy to do your hair propperly before heading upstairs.

Your steps don’t echo when you head outside, warm in your squirrel-themed loafers, completely different to the door, whose loud bang when it closed caught you by surprise, fully waking you up.

Making your way upstairs seems harder than you had though way back when you were half asleep, but you push through until you’re in front of his door. Your fist is barely an inch away from the wooden surface, and there’s nothing stoping you now until there is.

The piano comes back.

If it’s a popular tune, much like the one he had just played, you didn’t recognize it. Being this close was different. Closer. Closer. The music reverberated underneath you, sneaking under the wooden door, as if calling you in, an invite.

Your arm falls limp by your side, your body frozen, held hostage by the sound some unknown hands produced just a few metres in front of you as the realisation hits.

You don’t dare. What if opening the door ends the music? And running back down the stairs, a small part of you wonders if you ever will. But, worry not. In between you and me, dear reader, no one can run away from the power of a meet cute.

It’s late morning already when you get out of the shower and dry your hair. You’re early for work, you always are, so you relish the small fragment of time remaining between the moment you are ready and the moment when the rest of the world is. Turning on your record player, settling the vinyl in place, gently and ever-so-slowly placing down the needle to free the music from its plain and rounded cage, letting it flow through your whole apartment and out the windows.

Scheherazade dominates every space of your studio apartment, filling up each and every corner with its sound. The now familiar melody of the violin claims its throne and rules over the kingdom that it has conquered, as you move along the space it has claimed, far from being solely yours when the bassoon slowly creeps up.

Largo e maestoso. Fortíssimo.

What you never expected —let alone imagined—, was being interrupted by a knock on the door.

The orchestra doesn’t mind it. How could it, when its sound thoroughly overpowers that of the door. Whoever had knocked had been hesitant, at least the first time, because then its intensity heightens.

“Coming!” You claim, because what else could you say? So you quickly put on your shirt and messily tuck it under your long skirt that reaches just below you knees, wondering whether it could be your landlord or not, rushing to the record player to lower its volume until you finally rush and open the door.

A mix of vanilla and cinnamon. The scent of his cologne hits you and you can’t help but blink hesitantly.

What welcomes you behind the door isn’t the middle-aged man with hearing problems that smelled of the warmth homemade lemon pie left behind, having tasted it yourself already hundreds of times before whenever his daughter made it. No, it was far from whatever you could’ve guessed.

And a small part of you wonders if it could be him, which is almost revealed by the first thing he utters, that threatens to give him away, if the suit he’s dressed in hadn’t already.

The pianist.

“The tale of the Kalendar Prince?”

It’s almost a mumble, one that could almost end up hidden by the music that still sounds, a combination of notes that turns the melody melancholic, a slow-paced yet not quite ritardando, F sharp, G sharp, A natural, and a scale that follows, a soundtrack to your first encounter.

“Rimsky-Korsakov.” You nod with a hesitant smile, confused as to which could be the reason for him to stand before you.

He smiles, and you find it impossible for any chord or melody to describe what it does to your heart. It’s heart-shaped brightness softens you, and your hand gingerly lowers from the door, your grasp weakened by the force of the feeling that overcomes you.

“I’m much more of a Debussy kind of guy.”

He says it almost as if the sentence had unwillingly escaped from his lips, wondering if such a statement should’ve been left in the back of his mind, not wanting to upset you.

You could kiss him.

Instead, you sheepishly chuckle. “Is there something I could do for you?” It’s a faint attempt to ground yourself. He’s a stranger, the closest stranger you’ve ever met. Like a language you’re no longer fluent in but still remember how to read. The language, a combination of sounds.

The sounds of music.

“Right.” His snicker comes out bashfully, and you wonder how could he had escaped from your pocket. “I, uh, my name is Han Jisung. I moved upstairs a week ago.” He propells his hand forward, his eyes gente and kind, a shy dust on the colour of his irises.

You smile, and the shy dust weakens when you grab his hand, overpowered by a glow you don’t dare to try and decipher.

“Pleasure to meet you.” It so was. You followed suit, introducing yourself.

His grin doesn’t falter for a second, and you wonder how fast one could be charmed by someone else. Pretty fast, judging by how reluctantly you let go of his soft grasp, his hands in pristine condition, and funnily enough, his nails painted black with pink stars, a shade of pink similar to your own.

It’s almost as if, for a second, he forgets why he’s there, until he lets out a low chuckle.

“I hadn’t presented myself, but meeting you, I’m not sure if you could help…”

You blushed, a shy bit confused. “Try me.” Your tone is playful, and surely enough, —maybe it wasn’t just for your tone, but that, you didn’t know— he matches, his cheeks dusted with pink.

“Okay, then.” He giggles, killing you slowly. “This is the only white shirt I have, and I need one today, but I didn’t know it needed cufflinks.” Jisung shows you, the cuff of his sleeves open, no buttons on sight. “I doubt you have men cufflinks.”

You nibble with your lower lip, and while pondering, staring at the wooden floor of the hallway, staring to something that Han couldn’t see, you miss the way his eyes soften and his pupils dilate, as if wanting to observe you, much like the way a musician hears a piece for the first time, the familiar notes mixing to create something new.

“Maybe I don’t, but…” you mumble with a cheeky smile, and it disarms him.

Confidently, you too miss the way his eyes never leave your silhouette as you walk to the door on the other way of the hallway.

You knock, and with a flick of your hand, usher him to your side.

“Hey, Artie?”

There’s a shy beat of silence, your music not travelling far away from your apartment.

“If it’s the IRS, Artie isn’t here!”

You can’t help but laugh at the way Jisung shows his surprise at the low and chirping tone that replies to your sweet call.

“A kind neighbour?” He questions teasingly, looking down at you slightly, barely noticing the sudden closeness in between you.

“The landlord’s wife.”

He doesn’t have time to react before the door opens, and a short, old woman appears, the strength on her unexpected, but her grin softens at the sight of you.

“Remember me? Gina’s friend?” You smile sheepishly, proving yourself by mentioning her granddaughter’s name.

“Of course I remember you, silly,” she grins, chuckling. “These bones of mine may be old, but I couldn’t forget such a pretty face like yours. And your flower shop is still my favourite.”

Jisung’s eyes soften when he looks at you. Her wrickled yet soft hands craddle your face, and you giggle. But then, she squints her eyes at Han, pursing her lips.

“Who is this young man? Your boyfriend?”

You know you’re a cheeky bastard when you speak before him, stopping him from correcting her.

“He needs cufflinks. You think Richie will mind if we borrow a pair?”

Artie doesn’t miss the blush that settles on both Jisung and you.

“Kids flirt so weirdly nowadays.” She mumbles, a little confused, but she enjoys the way it flusters you two.

“Wait here. I’ll see if I can find ones that aren’t covered in batter or flour.” Her grin feels teasing when she heads back inside.

You looked at Han and answered the question he had written on his expression. “They own the bakery that’s under this building.”

It was almost as if you couldn’t stop looking at him. The way his cheeks rounded when he smiled at Artie. How his laugh reverberated between the walls of your apartment when you told him the woman’s name was Artemisa and he hadn’t expected it. How his pianist fingers trail on the edges of your vinyls, swiftly looking at your collection, making appreciating comments and initiating banter.

He already had his cufflinks, but Jisung just couldn’t seem to leave.

“Oh, shit.” Sadly, even if he hadn’t left, you had to go. “This was fun.” You chuckle, and he smiles too, nodding. “I uh, I’m kinda late for work.”

“Did I keep you from leaving?”

His eyes are tender, and the softness of his voice weakens you. For the first time in what feels like forever, you hesitate, wondering if you should really go to work.

“No! No, gosh, you’re fine.” Yes, he was. That was part of the issue, honestly. “I lost track of time. But… it was very nice meeting you.”

“You too,” he grins, taking your hand in his again. “It’s refreshing to talk to someone who likes music almost as much as me.”

And reluctantly letting go of his hand again, you rush downstairs, heading to work.

[🔷 ☆🎼☆ 🔷]

You can still smell the mix of flowers and different types of green on you. Its scent lingers on you and you cherish it, walking back home slowly on a warm summer night.

Lost deep in thought, as always. Gingerly skipping as you make your way through the street, relishing the way the moon beams, stepping on the little traces of water that the summer showers had left while you were still in the flowershop. It’s by no means cold, but your hands never leave your pockets.

That’s how you notice that you hadn’t picked your keys before you left home.

You curse, your mood a bit pissed off, but you shrug and accept it, still a bit lost in the depths of your mind when you get close to your apartment complex.

It may seem like leaving without your keys happens a lot —and sometimes it did, to be honest— by how organic it feels when you jump and lower down the fire escape stairs and grunting lightly you climb them, not allowing them to fall to the floor completely so its easier for you to put them back in place. It’s dull and boring. It’s the end of the day and the start of the night.

But then, as you go up the stairs, you start hearing the piano.

It’s different from what you have heard from him before. You recognize the piece, the trickiness of Sibelius, the speed of the music, the pacing and how it gets faster and faster, in an accelerando that almost makes you walk faster up the stairs, and you can’t help but smile, basking in the glowth of the moon and what now seems to be your soundtrack as you go up the fire escape stairs and plan to head through your open window.

But when you turn to face the window and groan slightly when trying to open it, the music stops.

You must have focused on the music too much, because you got into the wrong fucking house.

“Shit, Jisung.” You mumble, even if your leg is stepping into his living room already.

“Oh. You are here.” He giggles. “Thought I had fallen asleep on the piano again for a minute.”

“I was just… and then I heard you play, and I, uh…”

Staring at the floor, looking for something that could justify the sudden break in, you miss how Jisung gets close to you and helps you lift the old window higher, smiling.

“It’s okay. I could use the company.”

The sincerity on his voice stops your scheming, leaving you with no excuse, and you take your shoes off and leave them by the window, feeling like some cartoon character who had followed the scent trail of a homemade pie, floating behind it.

It’s silly. And if you were in the right state of mind, and not sleep deprived like usually, you’d probably feel a bit self-concious. Yet when you retell it to Jisung, the whole story just seems funny. Stupidly funny. So funny that he almost spills the cups of decaf coffee he makes for the both of you.

Taking your jacket off, you sip from the coffee mug he hands you, your heart cheekily spinning inside you when your fingers brush against each other.

He scratches his eyes, thoroughly amused, as he sits back on the piano stool. Even to you, the motion seems organic from the outside, and you wonder how many times could he have done the same action, how many scratches had the wood below it taken from settling the stool just right, in the space enough to be in front of the correct note and scale, close enough for his arms to rest on the black and white keys comfortably, and far enough so that it forces his back to stand in a position that won’t make him end up with crippling backpain.

“What were you playing before?” You smile as he too sips, warming his hands by holding the coffee with both.

“Before you entered a private property?” He snickers, and you snort, rolling your eyes.

“I haven’t heard you play like that before.” You are avoiding his eyes, because the moonlight does nothing but make him even more handsome, and you’re flustered enough already.

“I knew that the piano could be heard.” He mumbles. “The couple upstairs already told me off the first day, but when I told them I was a musician, they turned full-on proud parents mode.” He chuckles, and you snicker too, crossing your legs and sitting comfortably on the armrest of his sofa, so to face him. “I was wondering if you’d come tell me off too.”

You just blink at him, blushing. “I liked it.”

He blushes, and changes the topic, sheepish.

“It was Sibelius. What I was playing before you dared tresspass my property.”

“Very funny, pianist.” He snickers, and your heart screams at you to hurry up and start looking for an engagement ring. “Weren’t you a Debussy guy?”

“Absolutely. Nothing beats Debussy.” He nods proudly, as if the dead musician had been a close friend. “Like this one.”

You can’t distinguish the melody, but the light melancholy of it gives away Debussy in a second.

“Debussy is a trickster,” he says lowly, still playing. B flat, C natural, D natural, G natural, and then back down. “He always makes one think he’ll be going easy. Until he keeps going.” You enjoy the way he lets the music flow, the feeling that gives you uncomparable to that of your vinyls, because nothing could beat a real-life interpretation. You smile at the difference in tones, in the way the cadences complete each other.

The music continues, and his hand follows the other. Easily, the long piano fills his apartment with its music. It’s efervescent, how it turns dramatic, how he plays with the intensity, talent flowing over how his fingers move along and over the keys, the skill of a musician showing, playing by memory.

Jisung’s enthralled on his play, and you know it by how he takes a second to look up at you after you move closer. The mug he gave you is settled next to his, on the piano, and you both giggle shyly when he moves and gives you a bit of space to sit on the piano stool next to him.

He keeps playing, and for a second, it takes you back to your own apartment, threatening to lull you to sleep.

You don’t, though. Gently, you clap when he finishes playing, and you chuckle when he bows, overly exaggerated.

“Teach me,” you say, smiling, in your eyes a glow that matched that one he had hours ago, below your doorframe. “Something easy.”

He ponders for a second, and gingerly takes his mug and finishes his coffee, brushing your shoulders together when he takes the mug and when he settles it back next to yours.

His hand comes and he lays it over yours. Han doesn’t speak, and you don’t either, not daring to interrupt. You hold back a shiver when you notice his breathing hitting your neck, instead focusing on how his hand moves yours.

“D natural, G natural… B… no, B flat, D natural.” He announces in a low mumble, pressing each key with your fingers, smiling when he sees you nod, so concentrated. “Try that a bit faster, apprentice.”

You snicker, and even if he tells you to try it on your own, his hand barely leaves yours when you try it yourself.

“Good.” He grins. “Now,” he starts, his tone still low, speaking gently a bit over your shoulder, and his hand back to where it belongs. Back on yours as he keeps playing. “D natural, C natural, B flat, A natural, B flat.”

“Wait,” you giggle, finally recognizing the piece. “That’s Howl’s Moving Castle!”

He smiles, unable to do anything else as he stares at you giddy self while you play the simple melody back again and again. You giggle, and smile at him a wide, toothy grin that kills him.

But as your eyes meet each other’s, your smile gently fades away.

His skin seems to glow under the moonlight that enters through the open window, it’s almost impossible to look away. You lean backwards slightly, impressed, and he moves to you, your arm hugging your waist, not letting you fall from the piano stool.

Han swallows dry, the force he uses to save you pushing you further against him.

You’re a mess when he looks away, and both of you miss each other when his arm falls back to his side. Standing up, you head back to the window, sitting on the windowsill to put your shoes back on.

He’s going to kill himself if his hopeless romantic heart doesn’t do him the favour, drowning him for ruining the moment. The mugs you two used, the rim on yours slightly stained by a faint pinkish shimmer, tug at his heart strings.

“I uh, thanks for letting me in. Sorry to have barged in, too…” you cringe at your tone, staring at the floor again, your hand on the window, still sat on the windowsill, a moment from stepping outside.

And once more, he approaches you. But this time, his hands don’t reach to the window to help you open it further.

With the shy music you two just played still lingering in the air, Jisung bends down and reaches to your cheek, and presses a bashfull kiss on your lips.

“My window will be open for you.” He grins, blushing like crazy.

He doesn’t tell you the title of the Debussy piece he played a moment ago. He knows, though, as much as he knows what inspired him to play it.

You.

Reverie. A dream.

A dream come true, on a warm summer night.

[🔷 ☆🎼☆ 🔷]

kats, a flutist —very much piano enthusiast, as little as I can play it—, who can figure out notes as they sound (it’s called perfect pitch!)

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