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writetomyheart2015-07-19 06:30 pm
nachtegael.livejournal.com) wrote in writetomyheart2015-07-19 06:30 pm
Entry tags:
[ Team Five ] Hearts Strung with Deceit
Set in post-war Italian alps, thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bluedreaming for helping me come up with this au long, long ago ♡ It ain't done yet, but here's the first scene at least.
From the start, it was a melody he could not forget. It had chased him halfway across the world and up a mountain, winged note stems like parasitic talons clinging to the lining of his suitcase.
That is the reason Jiyong gave for his sudden appearance in the ancestral village, braying over the rim of a shotglass. Jaejoong sipped warm beer in the back of the publican house and listened. It was not the origin of Jiyong's ancestors of course, nor of Jaejoong's either, but that was the closest the violin maker could come to summing up the atmosphere of the place in a word.
The bricks of the villas on the hillsides and the river bluffs crumbled in the heat like Jaejoong's resolve had over the course of the decade he'd survived there. The grape vines pulled trellises and foundations into noose like embraces green with summer virility. Goats wandered in and out of the rocky clefts obscured by brush, chewing whatever they could sink their teeth into--and whatever they couldn't.
Jaejoong hadn't laid eyes on the newest stranger in town for hours after his arrival, not until he invaded the bar after siesta with his skinny chested bravado and his chemical blond bouffant. But Jaejoong had smelled him. As soon as the imported French car started a rattling ascent up the mountain the oily smell of unrusted metal invaded Jaejoong's studio, twining among the airborne tendrils of cedar and rosewood aromas.
The smell that had made him gag was the stench of stewed lilies that echoed in his nostrils like excessive vibrato forced onto a soaring soprano descant. Too much of a good thing is just...unbearable. At least in the heat that somehow managed to continue baking Jaejoong's skin indoors after sunset. He wriggled his hips on the wooden bench fixed to the wall with a handful of rusty nails and sighed at the lack of foam floating on his half drained beer.
He was an internationally renowned violinist, Jiyong continued to explain in an imperious manner as if he had bought the rights to the floor with a round of drinks on the house (he hadn't), but he hated the violin. He hated the sheen of the finished wood gleaming under the firmament of stage lights, he hated the lustre of the strings under skilled fingers, the way the chords could deceive an audience with the shrieks and laments of an almost human voice.
And, he hated music. That last declaration he made in a flat tone, as if the words were inflammatory enough to speak for themselves with no personal instillation of passion. It didn't matter. The words themselves were enough to turn Jaejoong's stomach with such a torrent of disgust he couldn't finish the last swallows of his beer. He left his mug on the table and flipped a coin to Giuseppe standing sentinel behind the bar on his way out.
Who was that? The sharp edged question clattered in Jaejoong's ears through the open doorway like a knife dropped on the tile floor, an accidental invitation to duel. Perhaps the newest stranger asked because he did not expect to see another Korean native in a rural village clinging to the craggy slopes of the alps. Or perhaps he was just in the habit of being nosy about everyone else's business. Jaejoong told himself that he didn't care, either way.
That is Maestro, someone answered in a voice tinged with shock, as if he had forgotten that the newest stranger arrived only a few hours before could not have become acquainted with the identity of the locals. Maestro, you know, (the voice continued in shock) he can craft string instruments that sing like an exact replica of any voice. He could recreate the sounds of your dead mother, or the sweet timbre of your first love that married another. You really haven't heard of him?
I don't have a mother, Jaejoong could hear the strident tones of Jiyong's voice ring against the rocks as his sandals slipped and grappled with gravelly slope, And I don't love anyone.
Tagginglaughingvirus
bluedreaming for helping me come up with this au long, long ago ♡ It ain't done yet, but here's the first scene at least. From the start, it was a melody he could not forget. It had chased him halfway across the world and up a mountain, winged note stems like parasitic talons clinging to the lining of his suitcase.
That is the reason Jiyong gave for his sudden appearance in the ancestral village, braying over the rim of a shotglass. Jaejoong sipped warm beer in the back of the publican house and listened. It was not the origin of Jiyong's ancestors of course, nor of Jaejoong's either, but that was the closest the violin maker could come to summing up the atmosphere of the place in a word.
The bricks of the villas on the hillsides and the river bluffs crumbled in the heat like Jaejoong's resolve had over the course of the decade he'd survived there. The grape vines pulled trellises and foundations into noose like embraces green with summer virility. Goats wandered in and out of the rocky clefts obscured by brush, chewing whatever they could sink their teeth into--and whatever they couldn't.
Jaejoong hadn't laid eyes on the newest stranger in town for hours after his arrival, not until he invaded the bar after siesta with his skinny chested bravado and his chemical blond bouffant. But Jaejoong had smelled him. As soon as the imported French car started a rattling ascent up the mountain the oily smell of unrusted metal invaded Jaejoong's studio, twining among the airborne tendrils of cedar and rosewood aromas.
The smell that had made him gag was the stench of stewed lilies that echoed in his nostrils like excessive vibrato forced onto a soaring soprano descant. Too much of a good thing is just...unbearable. At least in the heat that somehow managed to continue baking Jaejoong's skin indoors after sunset. He wriggled his hips on the wooden bench fixed to the wall with a handful of rusty nails and sighed at the lack of foam floating on his half drained beer.
He was an internationally renowned violinist, Jiyong continued to explain in an imperious manner as if he had bought the rights to the floor with a round of drinks on the house (he hadn't), but he hated the violin. He hated the sheen of the finished wood gleaming under the firmament of stage lights, he hated the lustre of the strings under skilled fingers, the way the chords could deceive an audience with the shrieks and laments of an almost human voice.
And, he hated music. That last declaration he made in a flat tone, as if the words were inflammatory enough to speak for themselves with no personal instillation of passion. It didn't matter. The words themselves were enough to turn Jaejoong's stomach with such a torrent of disgust he couldn't finish the last swallows of his beer. He left his mug on the table and flipped a coin to Giuseppe standing sentinel behind the bar on his way out.
Who was that? The sharp edged question clattered in Jaejoong's ears through the open doorway like a knife dropped on the tile floor, an accidental invitation to duel. Perhaps the newest stranger asked because he did not expect to see another Korean native in a rural village clinging to the craggy slopes of the alps. Or perhaps he was just in the habit of being nosy about everyone else's business. Jaejoong told himself that he didn't care, either way.
That is Maestro, someone answered in a voice tinged with shock, as if he had forgotten that the newest stranger arrived only a few hours before could not have become acquainted with the identity of the locals. Maestro, you know, (the voice continued in shock) he can craft string instruments that sing like an exact replica of any voice. He could recreate the sounds of your dead mother, or the sweet timbre of your first love that married another. You really haven't heard of him?
I don't have a mother, Jaejoong could hear the strident tones of Jiyong's voice ring against the rocks as his sandals slipped and grappled with gravelly slope, And I don't love anyone.
Tagging
laughingvirus