Chapter Text
Lee Minho had been obsessed with music from the start of his existence. In the beginning, it was him kicking his mother’s womb as a response to classical music being played outside her swollen belly. According to his parents, it had been the only way to get physical proof-of-life from the fetus. After being taken home from the hospital on his birthday, Minho was told he wouldn’t stop crying- loud, open mouthed, newborn wails- until his mother had sung to him in her soft voice. Around two years old, when he figured out how to put his barely-comprehensible thoughts into words, he started asking his father to play music for him. He had moved on from his mother’s simple-sung nursery rhymes and into the world of CD’s and vinyls. He distinctly remembered, at an age where not many memories were kept, his father placing an orchestral vinyl on the record player and swinging him around, dancing with him to the beat. Later into his toddler years he picked up on his ‘favorite songs’, which were really just his father’s favorites, and found himself singing along to them more often than not. Because his music taste had been based upon his parents’ so far, his life was filled with classical and instrumental, soft blues and opera, smooth jazz and French bossa nova. It wasn’t to say that he didn’t like those genres- in fact, he loved them- but the introduction of more modern music changed everything. And thus, the monstrous menace of teenage Minho was born.
His parents had both been born on the lower side of the middle class and had worked their way up to the top. His mother was a well-renowned psychologist and therapist, becoming so respected that she had several books and podcasts incorporating her knowledge. His father was a neurosurgeon, and one of the most trusted in the area. All of this to say, Minho and his family were fairly well-off. His house, made of beautiful, classic architecture, was the size of most hotels and had a water feature in front. His father owned more cars than most people had socks. He had an entire waiting staff in his home. However, even with all of this, his parents stayed true to their upbringing and wanted to raise Minho the same. So, he was sent to public school. It was in public school that Minho, like most teens, was introduced to rock music through his friend sneaking an IPod into the classroom in 6th grade.
“You have to hear this, Minho. It’s the greatest music ever made!”
Minho had snorted. “Yeah, right. My dad says that the greatest music ever made was Beethoven and always will be.”
“Your dad is old as fuck, Minho. You’ve got to start living in modern times like the rest of us. Trust me.” The friend pulled Minho’s head down and forced a cheap, plastic earbud into his ear.
“Come on, dude. This is nothi-”
A series of power chords interrupted his complaint. Minho felt his eyes widen a bit, blinking. Sure, he had listened to guitar before. Electric guitar as well, every so often. But he had never heard it like this. The same power chords were played again, in the same catchy series. Minho had a difficult time not bobbing his head. It was a few more seconds in, out of nowhere, that drums joined in as well. Not the steady rhythm of snare drums or bongos that he was used to, but a heavy pound of bass drums and cymbals that fit the power chords with ease. When the bass guitar joined, Minho couldn't stop his foot from tapping in unison with the music. All of the instruments meshed together, building up for the first verse. Minho’s eyes bugged out of his head. The man’s voice was rough as if he had been screaming or was just about to. He sang in a low register and had inflections seemingly at random. It was nowhere near the grace and ease the bossa nova singers sang with and polar opposites of the opera his parents played on the daily. And yet, he was obsessed with it.
“Jesus man, what is this?” He asked, subconsciously head-banging along as the chorus came.
“Smoke On The Water. Deep Purple. They said it’s one of the most iconic rock songs of all time.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Minho asked though he couldn’t help but agree with whoever ‘they’ were. This song was fantastic.
“I don’t fuckin’ know dude. The Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame judges? The general public? Who gives a shit. It’s good music.”
“It’s great music,” Minho responded, still a bit in awe as the song comes to a close. It started up again right after, playing on a loop in Minho’s ears. Each time he listened to the song it managed to get even better.
Minho whistled through his teeth around the 14th time the song played. “You got any more like this? I’m down to listen to a whole playlist.”
“Of-fucking-course I do,” the friend said, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He grabbed the iPod from Minho and pressed a few buttons. Soon, the beginning of Back in Black was blasting directly into Minho’s eardrums. “Welcome to the world of Rock n’ Roll, baby.”
Minho went home that night and added every single one of the songs he heard that day to his library. ACDC, Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, Van Halen swam in front of his eyes and through his ears. The Beatles, Queen, Def Leppard, Jimi Hendrix. An entirely new Minho was being created with each band he added to his mind. A world was opened up to him- a world of smashing guitars on stage, wearing ludicrous makeup and unhinged clothes, making political statements in songs, lead guitar and bass guitar and drums and everything happening at once, fucking and flirting with every person in sight, getting arrested at the height of your fame, and, most important of all, rerouting the course of so many people’s lives. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before.
Each day that he got home, he would research a new band. His mind was a well of information on every member, song, backstory, line distribution, and lyricism of each. It wasn’t until a few weeks into this process, when Minho was far past obsessed that his parents found out.
Minho had been sitting at a desktop computer, screen pulled up on a large picture of Debbie Harry’s face, blasting Call Me through the speakers, when his father arrived home early.
“Hey Min, I was wondering if-”
Both of the men froze, staring at each other. His dad’s eyes shifted from the picture, to the speakers, to Minho’s hand on the mouse, to his son’s face. Minho felt his heart drop. A panic spread throughout him. Would his father make him turn it off? Would he tell him to stop listening to it? Would he tell him to stop listening to all of it? Was Minho’s interest over for good?
Suddenly, his dad’s face split into a grin. “Blondie?” He asked, simply.
Minho gaped like a fish. “I- yeah?”
His father pulled a chair up right next to him and grabbed the mouse from him. “Call Me" is definitely not their best song. Haven’t you ever listened to Victor?”
“Huh?”
“Call Me. The song you're listening to? It isn’t their best. You should know that just because something is popular doesn’t mean that thing is the most elite.”
Minho shook his head violently, like a dog trying to get water off of its back. “You listen to Blondie?” He exclaimed.
“Yep,” he responded, popping the ‘p.’ “You know, your mother loves Debbie Harry. She always wanted to look like her.”
The unholy guffaw that Minho let out was less than attractive. “You knew about rock music this whole time and you never told me a thing?” He screeched.
His dad, on the contrary, just laughed. “It’s better if you find it yourself. Now, if you want to come to my room I’ll teach you how to play Helter Skelter on the guitar.”
Minho had never stood up so fast in his life.
For the rest of his middle and high school career, Minho took guitar lessons, along with violin, practically every day. The violin was chosen by his grandmother, who was less happy about the ‘other genre obsession’ (as she called it) than his parents. His mother told him to follow his heart and that in the end, whether he picked guitar or violin, they would still love him either way. His grandfather told him that if he picked guitar he was out of the will.
Even as the years went on, Minho never lost his love and obsession with rock music. Into his senior year, he was still blasting that station in the car each morning and afternoon. It felt like such an integral part of him now. Minho spent most of his days in classrooms, taking SATs and prep courses, looking at colleges, obsessing over APs, and practicing guitar and violin. There was barely a moment of his time spent otherwise and, as expected, that time was spent on listening to and looking at music.
Halfway through his senior year, Minho was called into the counselor's office. When he sat down, the man across from him, an old, graying, wrinkly man by the name of Mr. Cho, had a deeply grave look on his face.
“Minho,” he said, in his uncomfortably rough voice. “You applied to only two scholarships.”
Duh, Minho wanted to say. Why was this guy telling him about himself?
“We advise against that because of the chances that neither of them works out. However, you got lucky.”
Minho scooted up to the edge of his seat. Earlier that year, Minho had applied to two different schools- one, a music and arts school with a guitar-based scholarship, and the other, a prestigious private music university with a violin-based scholarship. He was aware that it had been dumb to not have a backup if neither worked, but there was nowhere else he wanted to go and nothing else he would’ve wanted to be. The next sentence out of his counselor’s mouth would dictate the way his entire future would turn out but could be boiled down to one simple question. Violin or guitar? Violin or guitar? Violin or guitar?
“You were accepted on scholarship for your superior violin skillfulness and musical expertise.”
Oh.
Violin it was.
Minho tried to convince himself that he was happy with the outcome. He loved the violin- a beautifully built instrument that sounded angelic and could portray extreme emotion with no words. He tried to convince himself that was what he wanted when he told his friends, his parents, his grandparents, and the board of trustees for the scholarship. He tried to convince himself late at night when he was all alone and during the day when everyone was bustling around him. He tried to convince himself it was what he wanted when he gave his favorite guitars to charity before packing his violin with him. He tried so hard to forget what all guitar had meant to him- to forget the rock music, the vinyls he now owned, the people he had been obsessed with. His life was violin now- orchestras in black and white suites, finger foods and tapas, glasses of wine, soft voices, pearls and gold. It would be better if he left the other, more untamed part of him behind.
The shift was difficult, but once he arrived at the university it became easier. He got a dorm room, introduced himself to his teachers, accustomed himself to the campus, and met new people. He became close friends with Lia, a girl in his orchestra, early on. She was helping Minho fit in more, even if she didn’t know it. Her clothing, dialect, and friends led Minho even farther from his past until he fully gentrified teenage-Minho. Then, he didn’t look back. Not once. He was private school, violin, orchestra, Minho now.
—--
From then on, Minho had been re-living the exact same day, every day. He woke up to the same alarm, put on the same basic clothing, made the same breakfast, walked the same way to class, sat in the same seat, listened to the same teachers, and went to bed at the same time- over and over and over again. It was like he was in a bad remake of Happy Death Day, but instead of being murdered every day, he just listened to some old man drone on about music theory and played violin until his hands cramped. Before going to bed every night, he prayed to whatever deity was out there to make an asteroid hit the earth or start a zombie apocalypse- anything that would reroute his tedious daily routine. He was too much of a coward to change anything himself.
When Minho sat down at his stand on this particular morning, there was an unusual heaviness in the air. Most everyone in the class was tuning their instruments with grave expressions. Only whispers were exchanged every so often- nothing like the usual buzz that permeated the music school’s classroom. Feeling like he was left out on an inside joke, Minho leaned over to Lia.
“Am I missing out on something? What’s with the vibe in here right now?” He asked.
Lia looked around carefully as if she was about to share top-secret information. “Someone heard that Mr. Park is having us perform improvisations today. Like, on the spot.”
Minho raised his eyebrows. “We haven’t even gone over improvs. Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s a bastard who likes to tell us we suck?” Lia shrugged. “That’s my best guess.”
Minho had originally chosen JYP University over other colleges because of the famed Jinyoung Park. He had been a musical prodigy and world-renowned cellist at the height of his fame. When he retired to become a teacher, it was believed that he would pass his talent onto each of his students and create a new generation of successful musicians. In truth, the guy was just an asshole who got annoyed at the fact that not everyone was up to his standards.
When Jinyoung Park entered the room, the students rose from their seats and an eerie silence blanketed the class. Mr. Park took a few minutes to set down his bags and organize his things before speaking.
“You may take a seat. As I’m sure you must all know, we are beginning improvisations today. Each student will stand up, one at a time, and perform a one-minute improv. If I hear anything that sounds even similar to something we’ve played before, you will fail this assignment.”
Nervous mumbles erupted throughout. Minho felt his heart crawl up his throat.
Jinyoung Park spread his arms wide, palms open and hands facing up.
“Let us begin,” he smiled, grabbing a clipboard board from his desk. “Shin Yuna. You’re up first.”
The said girl stood up quickly. Minho could see the way her hands shook as she brought her trumpet up to her mouth. When Mr.Park gave the signal to start, she began.
Yuna was an impressive trumpet player. Though nervous, she played with ease and grace. Minho found himself thoroughly impressed at her ability to make up a song on the spot. When she finished, Minho saw Lia give Yuna a thumbs up from the corner of his eye. The latter responded with a shaky smile.
“Well done, Ms. Shin,” Mr. Park said. “Your notes were clear and your movements were smooth. I would be impressed.”
Minho didn’t even recognize the strange wording until a loud bang sounded throughout the room. Mr. Park had thrown his folder against the wall. “I would be impressed with your playing, Yuna, if it weren’t for you stealing a goddamn melody! Improv is improv . Do you hear me? You failed. You had one job, Ms. Shin. And you played a motherfucking copyrighted song. Sit down.”
Yuna sat down quickly with her head lowered, but Minho swore he saw a tear drip from her face. He also swore that Yuna was playing improvised music, though, so Minho’s opinion can’t be trusted.
Mr. Park ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “Alright, let’s learn from Ms. Shin’s mistakes, shall we? Don’t play a song you know. Play improvised notes. Understood?” Another deep breath. “Next is Kim Wonpil.”
Wonpil stood up slower than Yuna but looked exponentially shakier. He was the best viola player in the class but still looked like he was about to be sick. Minho didn’t blame him; It was understandable.
Mr. Park gave the command to begin. When Wonpil began playing, Minho winced. He was no ‘perfect pitch’ genius like Mr. Park, but it was obvious that Wonpil had no idea what he was doing. The notes were clear, as was expected of the expert violist, but they didn’t flow. It seemed there was no thought going into which notes he played. He only got through about 40 seconds before Mr. Park threw a cup full of pens across the room.
“Stop. Stop!”
Wonpil froze, hand still on the bow.
“What the fuck was that?” Jinyoung Park seethed. “You call that music? Are you fucking deaf?”
The classroom was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
“I don’t even want to look at you right now. Sit down and beg God for forgiveness. He had to listen to that shit.” Mr. Park rubbed a hand down his face. “Next is Lee Minho.”
He said it so simply, so quickly, that it didn’t register in Minho’s mind. Lia put her hand on his thigh.
“Min?” She whispered.
Oh. Oh fuck. His heart dropped down to the soles of his feet. He was not prepared for this. Oh God, he was going to throw up. The thought crossed his mind that he was taking way too long, and now Mr. Park was going to be even madder at him for being slow. He sprang to his feet so fast that his chair screeched across the floor behind him.
Mr. Park rolled his eyes at the obvious signs of stage fright. Minho was sure he would pass out right there. Hands shaking, stomach turning, Minho’s brain raced to try and figure out what tune to play. It seemed virtually impossible to not play something already created. In a state of panic, Minho's brain slammed him with what seemed like the perfect suggestion- play in the wrong genre. It would be too easy to fall into a well-known tune if he played classical violin, right? So the obvious solution was to play violin in a genre he had never memorized violin in.
Jinyoung Park gave the signal. Minho began playing. Immediately, he went fast-paced. It wasn’t similar to anything they had played in class that year- it wasn’t even similar to anything he had listened to that year. It came out of the depths of his memory from his prepubescent teen years. Hard and fast, he played the sounds of black clothing and metal jewelry. The sounds of drag races and bars at night. The sound of dealing drugs in a back alley and making out with a woman you just met. He played sounds that a guy wearing a cream sweater and gelled hair shouldn’t know, sounds that shouldn’t come out of an instrument as preppy as a violin. He played it and he felt it, deep in his bones. He connected to his music like he hadn’t in a long time. And then, the signal to stop.
Minho pulled his bow off of the strings. Mr. Park tilted his head to the side and studied Minho. It made his skin crawl.
“Well,” Mr. Park spoke carefully. “You didn’t play an existing song. You didn’t fuck up your notes. You played for a minute straight, and you didn’t repeat material.”
Minho felt like a dumbbell was lifted off his chest.
“However,” A bead of sweat dripped down Minho’s forehead. “I don’t know where the fuck that came from.”
A few giggles erupted behind him and Minho felt the tips of his ears burn red.
“That is not even close to the kind of music we are looking to perform this year, Mr. Lee. I suggest you go brush up on Paganini and Kreisler’s finest. Besides that, it was good enough. 65, Mr. Lee. You pass with a 65.”
Minho collapsed into his chair. He passed. Thank God , he passed. A small voice in the back of his head reminded him that he hadn’t gotten a grade as low as a 65 since elementary school, but he chose to ignore that for the time being. His self-pity for the desperate claw at academic excellence could wait. For now, he just zoned out for the rest of the class and accepted his 65.
–
Minho and Lia sat down at the library table and both released exhausted sighs.
“Today was rough ,” Lia muttered, smushing her face against her two palms.
“Tell me about it,” Minho replied. “I thought I was going to have a brain aneurysm standing there.”
“At least you passed. Imagine being Yuna. He really laid into her. I couldn’t even figure out what tune she was playing. Mr. Park may be a dick, but he really is a genius. I would’ve never picked up on that.”
“Me neither.”
Minho reached down to his backpack and pulled out his laptop. Despite how stressful today was, Mr. Park still decided to give them 3 homework assignments due by the end of the week. If Minho didn’t get started on them now, he would never finish all of them.
When he set his computer on the table, he noticed Lia narrowing her eyes at something behind him.
“Dude, don’t turn around, but he’s totally staring at you right now,” she said.
“What? Who?” It took everything in him not to flick his eyes toward where Lia was looking.
“The weird one. You know, the cellist with the fishnets and the bleached hair.”
“Felix? Why would Lee Felix be staring at me?”
“Probably because you played some weird-ass devil music today and summoned his father or something. I don’t know. I’m going to stop looking, though. He freaks me out. Someone that tiny shouldn’t be so intimidating.” She sounded genuinely worried. Minho snorted.
Lee Felix was a character well-known throughout the school. It was expected. He stood out like a sore thumb, the dictionary definition of ‘anti-social goth kid.’ He wore ripped tight, skirts, and eyeliner to school and dyed his hair platinum blonde over the summer. Minho had never spoken to the guy in his life but heard plenty of rumors about him. Felix was a need-based scholarship recipient; he was a fantastic cellist but poor as dirt. In a school full of spoiled rich brats, he was everything that everyone else wasn’t. There was always something going around about him.
Minho chalked the staring up to the fact that Felix, like everyone else in the class that day, was just curious as to how a guy like Minho created improv like that. He shrugged off the heavy gaze Felix was pushing against his back and began his homework.
Lia left the library around an hour later when Minho was halfway done with his second assignment. She ruffled his hair as she left, warning him about staying here too late and getting sacrificed by Lee Felix. He just batted her hand away and stuck his tongue out at her. She walked away laughing.
Once she was completely gone, Minho felt the weight of his grade today fully hit him in the chest. A 65. Barely passing. Basically a failing grade, to Minho. It felt like a big red mark on his perfect record. He tried to bring his focus back to the assignment, but the words ‘sixty-five’ were whispered in his head repeatedly without ceasing. He got antsy, sitting there and typing words. A 65. He needed to fix that. A 65 wasn’t good enough.
Minho shoved his things in his backpack and sprung up. His homework could wait a little longer. A 65 needed to be fixed. He needed practice.
Almost brainlessly, Minho headed to one of the private practice rooms on the other side of the school. He pulled out his violin and sat down in one of the chairs. Instead of putting music on the stand in front of him, he placed his phone and began recording.
Closing his eyes, Minho started improvising. He was instantly lost in the music. He couldn’t tell you what notes he was playing, he just knew they were right. They flowed out of him easily, as if he had been playing this song his entire life and knew it by heart. It pulled him away in its current. Each note that was strung from his bow brushed at his heart on the way out, as if it was taking a small part of Minho with it, as if a tiny sliver of Minho’s soul was integrated into the music. Finally, he slowed it down and gradually stopped moving the bow.
When he ended, he checked his phone and his eyes bulged. Four minutes. He had just played improv for four minutes straight without realizing it. It couldn’t be true. The time passed with such ease. Filled with pride at his newfound improv abilities, Minho pressed play and began watching the video.
The longer it went on, the more his jaw dropped. When he was playing, he had been in a state of bliss and calmness. And yet here, on film, proved that he was yet again performing some hard-rock, metal, violin garbage . He had been memorizing classical composers for years now. Where was this coming from? Why could he imitate something he listened to as a child and not the subject of his studies every single day for years now?
Getting progressively angrier, Minho set his phone up again and began playing. After his set was over, he watched the video. Fury spilled from him like sweat. What was happening ? He started recording again. He watched it again. It was the same type of music. He started recording again. He watched it again. It was the same type of music. In a fit of misery and red-hot wrath, Minho picked up his music stand and threw it across the room.
“What is wrong with me?” He screamed, gripping at his hair.
“Hi.”
Minho froze. He slowly turned to the doorway in a horror movie-esque motion.
“Sorry for interrupting, but you’re Lee Minho, right?”
Minho blinked four times. Standing in the doorway was a man who seemed to be around Minho’s age but looked worlds apart from him. He had long, wavy black hair, dimples, and a pretty smile. He was wearing ripped, black skinny jeans, a band t-shirt with holes in it, a beaten-up leather jacket, and combat boots. He was decked out in jewelry, with rings on practically every finger, several chain necklaces, silver bracelets that jingled on his wrists, multiple earrings on both sides and, to top it off, a lip piercing and eyebrow piercing.
Minho was so busy gaping that he missed the question. The man took a step forward and offered out a hand. Minho eyed it quizzically.
“My name is Chan. Bang Chan.”
Minho shook his hand slowly, still trying to make his brain catch up to the situation.
“Um, okay? Why are you here?” He asked, flinching at the rude way it came across.
Chan just laughed. “I have a proposal for you, ” He said simply as if he was talking about the weather rather than making some type of James Bond villain conversation.
“Okay?” Minho felt like he had a fish brain.
“I want you to join my band.”
Minho shook his head as if swinging around could block the insane words Chan spoke from entering his brain. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I am in a rock band. We need a guitarist. I want it to be you.”
Minho pinched himself, assuming that he had fallen asleep at the library and was currently having a very strange dream. Alas, pain spread throughout his arm. Chan was a real person, who was truly asking him this stupid question.
“I’m not a guitarist,” he said simply.
“I don’t really care. Felix isn’t technically a guitarist either, and he’s the best bassist in the tri-state area.”
That explains a bit , Minho thought. Chan was a friend of Lee Felix’s. Now that he said it, it seemed obvious- they had the same energy.
“Felix sent you here? Because of the improvisation thing?”
Chan nodded and flashed Minho another smile. It made him a little weak in the knees. “We’ve needed a new lead guitarist for a while. Our last one was an asshole. He quit on us after we called him out for his dickhead tendencies. Everyone in the band is very particular about who we should let in now. When Felix told me one of his private school classmates had the potential, I didn’t really believe him. Today, he called and told me you performed in class and it sealed the deal for him. He wanted you in the band. Now that I’ve seen you play myself, I can’t help but agree.”
Minho felt like the world was spinning around him. From the way Chan had said it, it sounded like Felix had been looking at Minho for a while before the improv. There was something in him that caught Felix’s eye, and now the same thing caught Chan’s too. Minho was invited to be in a rock band.
“I can’t join a rock band,” Minho mumbled, dipping his head away from Chan.
“Why not?” The boy responded. “We’re not losers, by the way. We’re not some up-and-coming wannabe rock stars. We have followers and fans. You won’t be trying to get us off the ground. We’re already pretty big.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m not a rockstar. That isn’t my life.” He looked Chan up and down. “I’m not like you guys.”
Minho wore khakis and polos. Chan looked like he hadn’t worn khakis since middle school graduation.
“That’s not true. You just pulled 15 minutes of rock music out of your ass. You’re as much of a rocker as the rest of us. You just don’t dress like it. That’s fine! What matters is your love for the music, not the style.” Chan spoke calmly. From the words he said, it was clear that he was filled with wisdom and intelligence. Minho decided that he liked him.
“I’m still not sure.”
“That’s okay! I didn’t really expect you to make a decision right away. I can give you a few days-”
“I have an idea,” Minho interrupted. “Do you have any shows coming up soon?”
Chan raised his eyebrows. “Uh, yeah. We have at least one every week.”
“You can give me tickets, and I’ll come to watch you guys play. If I like you, I’ll join the band. If I don’t, I won’t. Simple as that.”
Chan drew his lips into a thin line and then nodded. “Okay, deal.”
They exchanged numbers, and Chan sent him the tickets, time, and place of their next show.
“We’re having a sub-guitarist play for us, so don’t judge the riffs. Focus on the rest of it- I’m the lead singer. Felix, who you know, plays bass. You can meet Changbin, he plays drums.” Chan turned to walk away but stopped to look over his shoulder. “You can raise our music to its height, Minho. I know you can. Think about it. I trust you’ll make the right decision.”
With that, Chan left. Minho stood there in the empty music room, mind spinning.