mathryoshka

[mathryoshka]

Flowers In Your Hair.

Pairing: Bang Chan/Han Jisung.

Genre: Angst, Tragic Romance, Friendship.

Summary: Two months ago, Han Jisung failed spitting flowers from his lungs. On the verge of his life, he left a confession directed to his leader; Bang Chan, who's now fighting against the demons of guilt and self-abhorrence. When Changbin is tired enough to see his 'family' struggling, he finally unveils the secret of him being able to travel across the other dimension, in hope his brother will heal from the pain of loss. Chan quickly learns that there's still a chance to see Jisung again.

[ Read the entirety of the work here, and support this new AO3 member! » https://archiveofourown.org/works/15646377/chapters/36344325 ]

[mathryoshka]

Next Door. | 1

genre: i love bromance. slash fluff slash.

chapter(s): ½

summary: ever since seo changbin moves to this apartment block, he’s been hearing his neighbor singing. one day, he decides to sing along.

wordcount: 3.1k

there’s logic in your sadness. -kings.

Seo Changbin hears it everyday. First, Portland by Drake. Second, Pray For Me by Kendrick Lamar. Third, Everybody by Logic. Tonight, Therapy Session by NF. It’s often on seven, seldom eight. Sporadically nine. The singing of his mysterious neighbor rings across Seo Changbin’s bathroom, filling it with diverse emotions every night.

His new apartment complex is almost decrepit, but the advantage it holds is frequently economical, thus becoming the main background of his decision. School’s is merely blocks away, and Changbin guarantees himself to not be affording any late arrival. The apartment itself is only a few floors high, painted in broken white, and only occupied by a small lobby, two rows of lockers for mails, and an empty receptionist table often used to sign forms from the couriers. The entire facility is completed by a small parking lane and a pond full of fishes maintained by the landlord herself. That’s all his new house can provide. Despite its physical flaws, the people living there are friendly. Most of them are generous people with their own beliefs in religions. Changbin occasionally finds them arguing about politics at night in the first-floor veranda, but that’s it. When his stay ages into two weeks, he has already acknowledged most of them … except one. The neighbor living on a room next to him, the strange man who sings and raps every night.

It all begins with a young mother sending him carrot cakes. Following after, a teenage boy handing out fresh cookies. After that, all people residing within the dryness of the fifth floor. The last one coming is a female student donning yellow uniform giving him blueberry muffins. Changbin asks her of the gifts, and she says it’s a tradition. Whenever a new person appears, all people living on the same floor are obliged to give at least something as a welcoming benefaction. Until now, he and his schoolmates have only eaten eight plates. There are nine people inhabiting the fifth floor, excluding himself.

For the past two weeks, Changbin’s routine gets no major change. He goes straight home after his rap trainings in the agency, receives a warm, simultaneous “good evening” from the men smoking cigarettes downstairs, passes the children ward, and hurries himself to his room. Six past thirty, he will take off his shirt and enters the bathroom—busy making himself clean. At seven, the man next-door begins singing different song every night. The man gets a voice so lavishly deep, Changbin might kill to listen overnight. The lilt of his rich, tender voice befittes a rapper in general, but there’s an uncanny quality that holds a power to reflect off the dominating emotion of each song he brings—from joy to woe, from rage to poise. His voice is like fuel to fire. If only sound is the greatest power to move everyone’s heart, Changbin will absolutely vote his voice to be put on speakers. It is indeed, a decrepit house. Changbin reminds himself. If he can hear the unknown man’s voice every night, it means the walls that separate them are thin enough to let the all noises travel through. For some reason, he’s glad that he lives alone. As the male carols and trills, Changbin memorizes a splitting part of the lyrics, hoping he can surf the internet to figure out the title of the track by using Jisung’s phone at the agency the next day.

“It’s Bon Iver’s,” Jisung says on the fifth day, “715-Creeks? That sounds awesome, hyung!” Changbin flinches at the experimental glitches and processed voices that help construct the artwork. The harmony of the track—itself is a ghost from the deepest sadness warped in a cappella jam. What’s left in the song is no instrumentation; it’s an aggressively distorted voice of the artist, feeding the listener a dose of machinery. The track ranges from low to high notes, every line a spectral of oblivion. “How on earth such song exist?” Jisung shrugs. “I don’t know. It sounds like a stunning work to me. The singer’s a creative person.” “Did he use auto-tune?” “Not precisely an auto-tune. It’s a self-designed instrument called … Messina.” Changbin sighs. “Well, that’s intriguing. What does the song mean? Will you translate this for me, Jisung-ah?” The boy inches closer, eyes narrowing as he observes the preceding passage. “It focuses on the love of another person? I don’t get it, but it’s said that the song speaks of the love of god, and the loss of faith,” There’s a sudden rush of recognition that comes flooding, sweeping over any uncertainty regarding to the man’s highly expressive croons. Through the track he demonstrates deprivation—a feeling even more sorrowful than sadness itself. So, that’s why. It precisely explain the faint sobs following his singing yesterday. From the edge of the room, Chan calls out for both of them to discuss their next mixtape. Jisung follows quickly, but Changbin stays on the floor—mind straying afar.

Seo Changbin hears it now. He has been counting anthems. Eleven in total, all foreign to his ears. His sojourn marches into eleven days. Eleven days of savoring the bliss of the man’s deep voice. Common people might be banging upon his door, disturbed by his muffled voice every night, but Changbin considers it a guessing game. He’s lost eleven rounds, but tonight the triumph is his to be embraced. On the twelfth day, the singing comes early. The clock has just struck five a.m. when Changbin rises from his bed and walks lazily to his bathroom. As he brushes his teeth, a familiar voice raps to a familiar song—a song that Jisung’s shown him five days ago, said to be suggested by a friend from the hip-hop community. The track unpacks obvious fury towards society, thus becoming an ideal outlet for the artist’s raw, unrelenting stories of those who’re silent and harmed. Therapy Session by NF. Changbin flicks the water faucet off and listens. Pure, unscrupulous abhorrence. The man’s voice is nourished with the fair amount of boiling temper, making his raps perfervid and emotional. Changbin holds his breath, afraid of letting it go. Deep down, he can feel the onset of an overwhelming desire to sing along, for he’s recalled half of the eloquent rap lines—half of the sorrowful stories told by many.

Let me jot it down, Let me take a mental note, I put it all in this microphone, Think about that for a minute, What is the point of this song? I’m just venting;

He can’t hold it anymore. “But what you expect from a therapy session?” Changbin, unsuspecting and unaware, continues the song out of reflex. The man next-door falls into silence. Changbin’s to mouth a sincere apology, if only his neighbor doesn’t burst into a jovial laugh. “So, you know the song?” He says, with a voice an octave higher than his usual rapping. Changbin scratches his nape. “Yeah, sort of.” The chuckle dies down. “You see, not everyone is fond of that song. They say it’s creepy to talk about social issues and personal conflicts through music,” “Really? I don’t think so,” “You got an interesting taste of music, mate. Let’s sing again next time.” The man opines, “You may recommend me a song.” Much to his relief, the man doesn’t sound as creepily twisted as the rumor coming out a woman’s lips. Unlike his raps, his usual tone of speaking is much softer—as if the deformed emotions he develops during his little “performance” has been washed away with his true mischief. The lump in Changbin’s throat disintegrates, and his heart is no longer racing. The boy finds comfort in the man’s laid-back demeanors, and he’s eager to know more. More of his techniques. More of his experience. More of his rhythmic methods. More of him. “Surely.” With a delicate tracery of wrinkles fanning out the corners of his mouth, he replies curtly; “Redbone by Childish Gambino for tonight?”

To both of them, silence is nonexistent. It’s as if the man’s the alchemist, and he is his most faithful deputy—both drowning in a reverie after their greatest invention is met with success. Every night they will take turn in proposing a song, and they will compete to complete each other’s line. The chain of the “low-budget karaoke session” that begins in the bathroom soon spreads through the room. On certain days, Changbin finds himself sharing random stories that revolves around his daily life, and the man next-door will laugh and comment on him. It’s indeed an odd way to spend the first three weeks of his stay, but he’s delighted. At least, it makes him feel less-lonely while lodging in a home far from his parents’ reach.

On one particular morning, after returning from a brisk run with his classmates, a teenage girl with his brown hair tied into flowing braids takes him to the backyard where the residents of his apartment are celebrating a baby’s birth by doing barbecue. The sumptuous smell of grilled meat makes his appetite grow, and by noon, Changbin has forgotten his math homeworks. His new neighbors are too friendly to resist, thereby he stays a little longer, surrounded by topics from around the town. It’s until a black-haired boy around his age speaks of the man residing in a room next to Changbin’s, the boy he has been singing with for the entire three weeks. He describes him as “rudely mysterious”—a freak trying to hide his identity like he’s a mutant, an abomination to the society. He thinks lowly of himself, he talks to none, speaks the least when demanded. It’s rare to see such person in modern times, especially after all the social platforms exist. Curiosity drives Changbin to the rear of eruption—a small tickle in his throat that he can eradicate.

“Can I visit your room tomorrow?” Changbin asks during the man’s little “performance” that night. “You have good techniques in rapping, I want to learn something from you.” “Can’t,” The man replies nonchalantly. “I got something to do tomorrow.” “Then, how about weekends?” “Can’t. My parents’ coming,” He says “parents”—which is a peculiar thing to say since nobody has ever seen him outside the apartment blocks, accompanied by another person. He’s always alone, The black-haired boy rejoinders. Pathetic one, he is. “I guess I can meet you now?” “Don’t,” The man snaps sharply before proceeding to a mischievous joke, “There are lots of blood here,” Changbin scoffs at his response. “I’m not in the right mood to joke around,” “I’m not joking.” He replies. “I bleed,” “We all bleed, whoever you are.” Another series of dry laughter falls off, tinged with forced jubilation that makes Changbin cringe, “I bleed the other way around.”

Ever since that day, the singing routine grows cold and distant. The frequency of it shrinks from often to seldom, from periodically to rarely. The extreme cutback slides to a full halt as everything touches ground zero and the room ceases into pure silence. Changbin isn’t specifically bothered by the slanting rate of its occurrence, but there’s a small, empty hole in his heart that he cannot overlay—it’s the loneliness amidst night when he’s all by himself, isolated from the shelter of his parents’ habitual calls and his friends’ continual text messages. Thrice he cleanses himself of pity, twice he conjures better imagery, once he rinses the disappointment out of his mind. Schemes of practice begins to pile up, requiring Changbin’s presence everyday, from early day until late night. On Monday he packs his bag for a three-days stay in the agency building, coiling projects await him from the edges of the recording room.

“I’m leaving. Please take care of my room,” Changbin’s voice rings out before commencing a depart, with no hope of the man next door answering him, even only with a single word that means nothing. Silence embarks on like a cocoon and stays long enough until his neighbor becomes tempted to provide an answer. Through his hoarse voice that indicates a flourishing cold, he says; “I saw you in a dream,” Changbin’s startled that his neighbor is actually present in his apartment. Exploited by a sudden rush of perplexity, he sneers; “What?” “I saw you.” The man responded after clearing his throat, “You had wings and eternal halos. Bruised, but cleansed. A tangled mess, but exquisite,” “Are you out of your mind?” “I believe I am,” Changbin’s concern grows like a steady trickle, streaming out to the lilt of his voice; “Are you sure you’re alright?” “Worry not, I’m just playing around—“ His poetic dialogue is immediately severed off by a cough—a harsh-sounding one that makes his interlocutor flinch. “That’s a nasty one,” Changbin says. Only after recovering from the pain does the man reply; “Yeah. That’s why I’ve been silent.” “But this is the first time I heard you coughing,” “I’ve been away,” “You’re not going to call your parents?” “Nah, they’re not coming this month.” Changbin takes his time considering for a good favor—something that might be helpful for his ill neighbor, but also capable of fulfilling his long-buried desire; “I’ll bring something for you on Friday.” The man’s voice turns lighthearted. “What is it?” “Allow me to learn rapping with you after that,” The last thing that Changbin heard before everything retreats to quietude is his neighbor cheerily cackling.

It’s around 8 P.M. when Changbin returns home with a plain black clear file to store his notes and a blue-jean paper bag filled with cakes from a shop across the bus station. He’s worn out from all the rough trainings held daily by Chan—the three are chased by deadlines and forced to burn the candles at both ends in attempt to work on a new track for 3-RACHA’s third mixtape. This time, the captain demands for a story that represents fluctuations in teenager’s soul. The progress of their fresh project has been claimed partially completed; for it’s already given a tune composition and a proper title —Broken Compass. Only the lyrics are left undone. He’s thinking of handing over the promised gift tomorrow morning after considering the time, but a vague noise of his neighbor coughing disturbs him again. Hasn’t he recovered from his cold? Changbin’s stride ends before the man’s apartment entrance. He considers the probability of his voice sounding unfamiliar to the man’s ears, but he talks anyway—in a nonchalant manner that he seldom betray. “Are you still ill with that cursed cold of yours?” He hears faint footsteps from behind the wooden threshold, indicating the man’s presence in his house. “Yeah,” He replies, chuckling. “I suck at treating myself,” Changbin sighs heavily. “I got you the gift as promised. Open the door and take this,” “I—“ The man’s words die down, and Changbin’s state of sleepiness screams for no toleration at all. “Should I leave this outside?” “No, let me open the door for you.” The man finally surrender to his neighbor’s demand. As the door sways open, Changbin holds his breath. His features say it clearly that he’s an Asian, perhaps with no other foreign descent at all. His hair is painted auburn, strands of bangs sticking to his forehead after being drenched with sweat. He looks … extremely young. Unlike Changbin, he possesses a youthful look like a man who has just set a step into the early phase of adolescence. Similar to Jisung, he seems suitable to be a striking candidate for a visual—but he gets a manlier charisma. Even as a man, Changbin can’t deny how handsome his face is. Unfortunately, a sheet of literal illness has been draped over his entire appearance, making him look extremely fragile. His cheeks flushed and burning from the fever, his nose a little chapped from—mayhap—a continuous act of scrubbing, and his complexion refuses to glow. “Aren’t you supposed to visit the doctor?” Changbin asks, genuinely concerned. The man raises a hand, “No biggie, the fever will soon disappear. Come in, I should grab a mask first.” And with his permission, Changbin initially come upon the sight of his apartment block.

The room is tasteful in a corporate way—nothing interesting enough to cause offense no matter what a person’s preference might be. The original layout of the apartment remains the same, and it’s not fully furnished. As far as he can see, there are empty spaces everywhere; only several points of the room are stored with furnishings and unopened boxes. On one of the box is the writing “Fragile—Sydney, Australia”, and it makes him wonder if the owner is a foreigner. Or he used to be, since his Korean is good enough to pass as an intermediate (still, there’s something off with the way he speaks, probably due to the work of his old accent.) The entire apartment is in the shade of monochrome, only the poster of Lebron James is discovered colored in an old-fashioned style. For an instance, the room might be considered to lie under the possession of a common school boy, but when Changbin looks closely, there are papers scattered upon the dining table with words imprinted in blue ink. From a brisk scrutiny, he can make out self-written lyrics and proses, some of them resembling short modern poems that people usually write during free-sessions. But the papers don’t intrigue him as much as the a clear file stacked at the other hem of the table, lurking from behind Korean novels and language guidebooks.

Inside the folder is an archived form of contract registration, with JYP’s signature brand imprinted on the upper left corner. The indenture is signed under the name of Park Jinyoung and another person—whose name is hidden beneath an orange sticky note. Thank goodness the colored paper isn’t thick enough thus allowing him to make out a blurry “Lee” through the naked eye. Those who’re dealing with this agency are no ordinary people. Changbin has learnt it all as the recruited, through auditions and internal evaluations. In this time building he encounters people with raw talent and devotion—people just like him. Who is the man living next to his apartment all this time?

When he whirls around to seek for him, he’s already there—standing in front of the Lebron James portrait with a white mask on, his arms folded against his broad chest—seemingly inspecting Changbin’s reckless, impolite decision to act. Realizing that he has violated some manners, Changbin puts the document down, his lips pursed nervously. “I’m sorry,” The man emits a noise that lies within annoyance and relief, almost like a sigh. “It’s fine. It’s not like it’s a big secret anyway.” After a seemingly long silence, Changbin breaks off with a question;“You’re a new trainee?” “Sort of,” The man falters as he walks towards Changbin, his weak hands outstretched to take the file away. “Travelled miles to get here after the casting. This file comes with an email about two weeks ago. I’ve been in and out the agency since then, that’s why I rarely return home,” “I see,” Changbin mutters in acknowledgement. Travelled miles—he must be living in a foreign continent prior his stay in Seoul. It explains the writings on the boxes, and the Korean language guide books scattered on the dining table. It also explains the strange lilt in his voice, and the remaining foreign accent in the way he speaks. He gets to be at least, a month staying here.

Changbin looks closely at his features, as the man stands before him—a file on hand. If there’s solely a blood dip on his appearance, it must be his red sweater since his face has already lost its color. His body sways for a moment, but he stands straight again—as if his feet are on the very verge of giving up. Perturbed, Changbin quickly puts a hand on his shoulder and shouts, “Are you alright?”

Thank God Changbin has put a hand to support his body, or else he might’ve already fallen to the cold ground.

[mathryoshka]

Bench Flower. | 4

42, the number that represents the answer to mankind’s curiosity towards life, universe, and everything. —The Hitchhiker Guide to The Galaxy.

genre: angst, friendship.

chapter(s): 4/4.

summary: during pre-debut days, 3RACHA encounters empty hopes. it’s up to them to sink or conquer. (insp: track 42 by 3RACHA. (listen here )

CB97 // J-ONE // SPEARB // 3RACHA.

3RACHA.

Bang Chan is … feeling strange. Quite strange. There’s sadness within him, a little leftover from last night’s late ponder. There’s storm in his eyes; a current of strained jubilation that goes dark as the restless nights march on. The surrealism demands no end. It keeps haunting him, though not in a negative way. Everyday, each element will unfold retrograde conception of what dreams are made for—of what desires are meant to be. In one particular strand, he is told the courage of musicians. The pictures elapsing inside his dreams foretokening success; all flowers, all reflections, all cubicles, all ponds— everything makes sense. So far he’s speaking with his fervor, the embodiment of his passion. It emerges in diverse constituents in order to build a message that it can’t tell through words, for passion is a part of emotion with no ability to form speech. Classic, all sequence of surrealism is solely the manifestation of his deepest mind’s effort in battling hopelessness. Nothing transcends in between.

Chan grips the railings of the dormitory’s rooftop, leaning closer to the open air. The midnight breeze is cold enough to reduce the intensity of his fear. In tranquility he recalls his old mates in Australia, making himself again; aware of how serene his life was with no examinations and eliminations. How peaceful it is to follow community, the flowery path of common teenagers in fulfilling their common dreams; school works, P.E. classes, and academical exams instead of vocal trainings, dance practices, and trainee showcases. If only he can turn back the time, Bang Chan leans closer to the railings. His firm grip on the iron bar is getting loose. There’s a melody in his head, developed rather spontaneously. Combined with words from the most haunting dream, Chan croons, his face already touching the midnight’s cold breath. —.

“Chan-hyung!” Ji-sung’s voice screams out from the entry of the rooftop section, sprinting towards him with a panic-stricken look drawn across his bare countenance. He looks extremely frantic, clambering towards the oldest in the way a woman chases her baby’s crib stirring away on a busy pavement. When he gets closer, Chan sees his sleepless eyes glossy with fresh tears. Ji-sung pulls him away from the railings as he bellows at the top of his lungs; “Don’t you give up on us, don’t you give up on us.”

Bang Chan is rendered immobile by his odd gestures. The night is on the peak, why is he still awake? Most importantly—why is he acting so distraught? Ji-sung’s holler is more than necessary in such reclusive confinement. The way his voice cracks, the way he hauls him aside—he’s treating him as if Chan’s going to end his freakin’ valuable life … . while he’s not.

“Jisung-ah, what’s going on?” Chan pries Jisung’s firm grip away, from his bicep, flinching at the dull ache. Jisung’s tears eventually falls—slithering down his pale cheeks in rapid motion. “You’ve been acting weird since 42—I thought you’re going to give up on music—give up on us,” Chan’s tense muscles go limp. “For the sake of 3-RACHA, why should I think of giving—.”

“Spill them out,” Changbin interferes, his deep voice still hoarse with the quality of disturbed sleep. He appears from the unmoving darkness of the rooftop entrance, carefully stepping out. “You think we haven’t gotten any hunch of you? Are you trivializing us, hyung?”

Even beneath the dim effulgence of the mercury moon, Chan can observe the way Jisung’s face shifts from panic to surprise. Changbin’s emergence is truly uncalled for.

As the three enters a seemingly everlasting eye contact, Chan discerns small details that he hasn’t yet regarded in a more serious way. While Jisung shares the same black circles and a sharpened jaw from losing weight, Changbin is … what Chan might call “worse.” Not only he’s encumbered by the fear of not being able to express his passion through music, he’s also afflicted by his schoolwork—his academic dreams in achieving more. Chan can vividly recall the day when Jisung and Changbin run a fever; they both harbor the similar heat of perseverance in his eyes, although their gazes are still hazy from the illness. “I don’t want to waste another day, hyung.” They both say, their old voices now ringing repeatedly in Chan’s mind, “I don’t want to give up.”

“Talk to us, hyung.” Changbin crouches near Jisung and Chan, grief looking so clear like bright paint splashed on a dark canvas. “What happened?” Chan shudders. Changbin’s sympathy—. This is the first time he hearkens the rapper being so wholehearted to him. This is the first time Changbin sees him in the midst of a downfall, resting among his own dark thoughts. Jisung has seen him crying beforehand, but not for the deep-voiced boy he encountered a year ago. There’s an odd solitude delivered through reassurance and recurrence—the kindness he provides manages to make Chan weeps, fresh tears spilling freely along the angles of his chiseled visage.

“I was just … tired.” The oldest whimpers, his cadence unstable. “Six years I’ve been here, I got nothing in return. Debut sounds like a dream out of reach—“ He remembers the day the woman clad in brown leather coat examines the way he sings, replaying the cassette over and over again, before ends up sighing heavily; “Talented, but not talented enough. Ego is what you lack of. You deserve no spotlight with your current capabilities.” It hurts him. “It hurts to see everyone rises to the top as I stay off the ground. Is it because I’m me, not them? Where did I go wrong?”

Jisung and Changbin—once again—drown themselves in a meaningful silence, just like the other day. Chan’s on the verge of collapsing, and the two can’t develop any single equanimity. Stuck on the puzzle, stuck on their own riddles of life. Two young boys lost in the sangfroid of confusion, oscillating forever like a pendulum. They watch the leader swinging on the polar extremes, as their feet were pinned onto the grayscale; unable to stir. It’s not like their concern is somewhere else. It’s merely the inability in forming words that holds them down.

“I ask myself why a few days ago.” The captain begins again, smiling. “My dreams answer, and finally—after seemingly a long period of nightmares, I saw faces—mine. Us,”

Much to Chan’s surprise, Jisung and Changbin both slowly extend their arms and pull him into their warmest embrace. They’re trembling underneath the disturbance of cold, but deep down they know—if words can’t play the game, let action do its job. Through the haze of melancholy, Chan hugs them back. Although the rest of their withdrawal is spent along the course of silence, Chan can hear their intentions, loud and clear; “We’ll be here for you.” Jisung’s old saying echoes. “No matter what happen, hyung. I’ll be there for you.” Changbin’s old “oath” ricochets in his mind, bouncing back and forth like a noise made by broken tapes. Through the treasured quietude, Chan smiles at their memories—the moment he meets Ji-sung, the conversation they have after long hours of practice, the recruitment of Changbin, Ji-sung admitting a healthy rivalry with Changbin, 3-RACHA recording their first tracks and releasing it to websites. It’s not easy to gain acknowledgement as musicians when you begin it small, but as long as they’re here—Chan is sure his path to success is entirely secure.

Chan releases their hug with a mischievous cackle. It’s odd to see them being all sad, therefore he strives to eradicate every sadness in him by saying; “Hey, I’m not giving up on you, you know? Jisung-ah, you really are exaggerating the facts.” Upon this statement, Jisung’s face goes completely red. He bites his lower lip hard, trying to not burst with the growing shame. Changbin puts a reassuring hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Are you really all right now, hyung?” Chan nods, “In fact, I got something for all of you. Rough work for my newest production. I want to replace the gloomy 42 with something brighter—and more motivational in a good way.” “What is it?”

Grinning gingerly at his boys’ curiosity, Chan unfolds a crumpled paper jutting out from the pocket of his ripped jeans. The paper isn’t perpetually sufficient due to its abnormal size, but oddly, Chan’s long scribble fits. From his angle, Jisung takes a glimpse of the oldest’s note—it’s a composition of lyrics written in navy blue ink. “Hear me out, will ‘ya?” Jisung and Changbin tilt their head in a manner that represents pure impatience, eyes sparkling with restless anticipation.

Too far away, like a tunnel vision. The light in front of me isn’t shining yet. The day that we obviously walked, Talk that, call that, Black—darkness taking over.

Seems like our expectations from the beginning is too big, The moment my heart gets attacked, What a moment. Tick-tock, even time passes. Our music’s view count got no change. “Ah, should I just give up?” That thought haunts me.

Before I lose my mind, J-One and Spear-B who stood in front of me, They hold me while saying, “Let’s hold on a little longer.”

Now wake up Chris, we just started. By thinking that this desire is the beginning to get to the top, I start working on our music again, 3RACHA, we’re gonna make it one day.

By the time Chan finishes rapping, Jisung already has a fluttered wide grin upon his face and Changbin already has a bead of tear streaming down his face. Chan grins back at them, his rows of white teeth shown clearly. “How was it?” Jisung takes a deep breath, “It’s extremely beautiful,” Changbin grits his teeth, “I’m torn between punching your gut or hugging you tight, hyung.” Both Jisung and Chan proceeds to a wholehearted laughter. “What’s the title, hyung?” Jisung asks right after his jubilation dies down, “Or you haven’t decided anything yet?” “Worry not, I got one.” Chan folds the paper again and tucks it safe in his warm pocket, “To illustrate the weakness and the strength of 3RACHA, to draw us as a thriving musician with passions to be delivered worldwide, Even a dark shadow needs light to exist.”

Disclaimer.

The entire point of Fleur lies on the power of dreams, flower representations, and two specific songs; 42, and Even A Dark Shadow Needs Light To Exist ( 그림자도 빛이 있어야 존재 ) . These two incredibly powerful tracks were released for their second mixtape, yet they’re now gone from the official channel. For those who’re new to the fandom, 3RACHA has released so many productions and often, the most amazing ones are those which were taken down for unknown reasons. Still, let’s keep on supporting the boys.

[mathryoshka]

!!!!! an intellectual !!!! I love how you used a quote from the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy becaus ehbjbhwbsak nICE! I really like your work :)))

Aaaah, thank you very much!!! You just lift up my spirit to write again!! 🙇🏻🙇🏻🙇🏻

[mathryoshka]

Bench Flower. | 3

42, the number that represents the answer to mankind’s curiosity towards life, universe, and everything. —The Hitchhiker Guide to The Galaxy.

genre: angst, friendship.

chapter(s): ¾.

summary: during pre-debut days, 3RACHA encounters empty hopes. it’s up to them to sink or conquer. (insp: track 42 by 3RACHA. (listen here )

CB97 // J-ONE // SPEARB // 3RACHA.

Spear-B.

At 3 in the morning, Changbin wakes up to the sound of hurried footsteps outside his dormitory room, his head spinning with the pressure of headache. His tear-stained face is red from being desperately wiped. There’s something else in his dreams that night—an element of creepiness has interfered all the rainbows and laughter.

He’s in a surreal dream. The deep-voiced man is placed amidst a room with pure darkness consuming the edges. There’s nothing ahead of him but two prisons in which held two persons in captive. Changbin’s vision is quite hazy due to his overwhelming torpor, but he manages to learn the crooks of each prisoner’s pallor. On the left side stands a younger version of him, donning his old favorite shirt with the least of illustration. He’s clawing at the iron bars, childishly whimpering for help. Looking straight to him is like staring directly at an old photograph of Changbin—that one particular snap that captured a moment when his sister took a toy from his hands. On the right side stands an older version of Changbin, cleanly shaved but his hair isn’t neatly trimmed. He smiles a crooked smile at him, sending shivers down Changbin’s spine. Something doesn’t feel right. He’s amidst a dream, but it feels genuine. Reality clasps him within its coercion so tight that he’s dripping cold sweat.

The iron clinks lightly, and two sets of eyes stare right at him. It’s their turn to study the black circles beneath Changbin’s eyes, and the hollow orbs that are left dim.

“The one who pursued music.” The older rejoinders, his dark glare a burden to Changbin’s shoulder. “Music is hopeless, tasteless. Give up the fight,” “Surrender.” The younger remarks. “He had travelled your path. You will get lost.“

At first, Changbin feels no intimidation from the duress. However, comes a question like no other, gradually breaking through his walls. “Enlighten me. How did music treat you?”

Honestly speaking, his music is lacking of progress. Some may call it colorless, some may call it ordinary. Some has mentioned the worst, even Jisung can’t get the criticism out of his head. Mixtapes and workrooms—there has been not much compliments from general listeners of hip hop. No tip to hold onto, no suggestions to seek for. The view counts linger the same, with a plain zero adorning the comment platform. ‘Should we give up?’ Even the captain has said one day, as the three stares blankly at their online profiles, daydreaming of fame. Changbin and Jisung have responded him with a meaningful silence, unable to form a reassuring sentence. It’s their worst downfall that day. Chan has excused himself to the restroom, slipping out the recording section without his phone. Changbin’s sure he’s about to shed a tear, fighting against his own demons alone. Changbin wills to reach out, to pull him close and hug him tight. But Changbin has his own demons to deal with, thereby he slips out too, leaving Jisung alone with scattered notes full of lyrics and poor arrangements. As he exits the recording room, he hears the papers being crumpled in the hands of no other but the happy virus of the group.

He’s in a surreal dream. Changbin’s on the verge of giving up their passion. They all are. When he looks into the eyes of the older, he sees his future. Dark and uncertain, possibly alight with the least of success. Despite the loneliness creeping under, Changbin senses life from the younger. The younger feels no pain of adulthood, for he never experience such torment. Notwithstanding his silver-tongue, Changbin learns something from the way his ears perk up at the word “music”, the way he tries to conceal his fervor when it comes to his dreams. For a brisk moment he’s reminded of his family—of how his father keeps on supporting him in spite of his doubts, of how her sister stroke his head to comfort his pain. There’s still hope left in every inch of memory, and Changbin clings to it in order to defend his passions from the deary touch of his own demons. Taking a deep breathe, the man says; “It’s fine.” Changbin shifts his gaze from the two prisoners respectively, a tired smile plastered on his thin lips. “Even when the world can’t elaborate death, I will still be holding onto my childhood dreams.”

For a fleeting moment, the prions go blurry. From where the darkness lurks, comes a ray of light that envelopes nine odd figure in total with its dimness. From such distance, he can only make Chan’s, Jisung’s and his face—the rest of the boys are too shadowed to be acknowledge. This time, he faces the exact replica of him holding out a refined purple heliotrope for him to scramble for—and he is drawn to the pride smeared upon his sharp face—the way his jaw is raised high with devotion. “Music never fail,” His reflection says in a voice that comes out from his mouth everyday, in an accent extremely familiar to his ears.

Sprinting past the poorly lit prison boxes is Changbin, his arms outstretched to grasp the flowers tight. I want to make them proud. I want to touch everyone’s heart, Through my music—our music.

Changbin is fully awakened by someone shouting Chan’s name. He exits his room running, worried of what’ve occurred during his fracas against his own demons.

[mathryoshka]

Bench Flower. | 2

42, the number that represents the answer to mankind’s curiosity towards life, universe, and everything. —The Hitchhiker Guide to The Galaxy.

genre: angst, friendship.

chapter(s): 2/4.

summary: during pre-debut days, 3RACHA encounters empty hopes. it’s up to them to sink or conquer. (insp: track 42 by 3RACHA. (listen here )

CB97 // J-ONE // SPEARB // 3RACHA.

J-One.

Jisung is not sure about the recording. His own part rings like a poor reminiscence from the past, slowly penetrating through his excitement. His mic turns unsteady when he grips the handle—he’s trembling.

You have to be cooperative and kind. You can’t be a loser. Yes, everyone can’t. Boys shouldn’t be losers. They shouldn’t weep. They shouldn’t shed a tear. Since when money is the goal? Since a long time ago. Since when did we serve it like a god? Everyone needs money. Everyone needs it.

A shiver runs down his spine so rapidly that his voice cracks when the latter line escapes his lips. Changbin puts off his headphone, nodding at something that he writes, and rises from his seat. “Take it easy, Jisung. You’re running away from the tempo.” Jisung tries to maintain his breathing rhythm by wheezing. “ I’m sorry, hyung.”

Get over it, Jisung. He can’t. There’s something extremely forlorn deceived from every naked eye within the lyrics Chan has written for the track: 42. It speaks of death, seeking for the value of life in choruses and verses. It’s indeed a solemn wall of sadness, but when Jisung sings it out, the profound melancholy becomes his world. The emotions pushes him to the edge, cracking his bones with crackling, hungry fire. It is another cut of loss that damages his mind, leaving him as empty as dead shells in the shore. Changbin puts a reassuring pat on his broad back, and Jisung grins at him—knowing that his night will be doomed, starting from that day.

He’s in a surreal dream. The TV in front of him is silent, and the screen is crimson. A pool of blood lies underneath the shelf where they store their mixtapes and broken CDs. A black vine entangles itself around the knob, locking it forcefully. In a distance, a nenia is crooned by an unknown choir that sounds mechanical as if coming out from an antique radio. Jisung is all alone. In his pocket rests a bundle of rue—an ornamental flowers belonging to the Balkan peninsula. He has seen it beforehand; depicted in illustrations as he surfs the internet for inspirations. The tale of a mad, broken woman whose fate ends in the hands of her own lover. “Hamlet,” Jisung breathes.

The TV buzzes. There, on the other side of the screen, sits a youthful Jisung, his face still pure and unruined by fatigue. “Here did she fall a tear, here in this place. I’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace.” As if it’s an old film, the picture in it is set in a monochromatic scale, and every saying comes muted with vivid yellow subtitles. Jisung steps closer, drawn by the elegy that resonates and the hazy, peaceful face of the boy on the screen. He tries to touch him, but his fingers hesitate. “For you there’s rosemary and rue; these keep seeming and savour all the winter long. Rue, for the flower of madness.”

The screen blinks. “Flowers of sorrow and failure.” “Sorrow and failure.” Silence. “Tell me.” The boy’s ear perks up. “Are you the one bothering Chan-hyung?” He nods. Jisung sighs. “He’s beyond terrified, you know.” The boy shrugs. The earlier subtitle dissolves, morphed into a whole new statement. “I’m not sorry.”

He’s in a surreal dream. The constant drip of blood from the shelf becomes vague to him in the way human bothers the ticking of a clock or the tapping on electronic gadgetry. The two of them perch in quietude, studying each other’s appearance. The peculiar boy on the screen is indeed him—thinner features graced by natural lines developed by frequent smiles, unkempt hair, and a pair of familiar eyes that he sees everyday in the mirror. Jisung catches him looking at his countenance, and he speaks up: “Why?”

The boy tilts his head. “He’s surrendering.” Jisung is silenced. “What—.” “That rue.”

Jisung’s gaze descends upon the green stems of rue jutting out from his pocket. He holds it forth, presenting it to the boy. “Why is it here?” The boy doles out a grin, granting him an equal serving of white teeth. The subtitles shifts, “Save him,” as he points at an old lighter in Jisung’s other fist. “Like how those rue will burn, you will save him.” His body moves automatically, in sync with the faint ticking of a clock nearby. Jisung flicks the lighter on, as if being controlled by metallic strings latching onto him from the iron bars overhead. His ear buzzes as the tiny flowers are set ablaze, avid flames licking the small petals that help construct their beauty. Behind him, he hears a creaking like the doors of an old cupboard swinging wide.

The rapper jerks awake at 3 in the morning with his phone next to him. The bed placed on his right side is empty.

[mathryoshka]

Bench Flower. | 1

42, the number that represents the answer to mankind’s curiosity towards life, universe, and everything. —The Hitchhiker Guide to The Galaxy.

genre: angst, friendship.

chapter(s): ¼.

summary: during pre-debut days, 3RACHA encounters empty hopes. it’s up to them to sink or conquer. (insp: track 42 by 3RACHA. (listen here )

CB97 // J-ONE // SPEARB // 3RACHA.

CB97.

He’s in a surreal dream. Chan finds himself in a dark symmetrical cubicle, and the world outside is painted plain white. Bars descend down the upper corner of the cube, occluding the open way out that leads him to the illuminated realm ahead. He dons nothing but a black piece of cloth. In his hands is a small white paper box with its lid wide open, the logo Marlboro printed upon it with carmine accent. Yet, instead of cigarettes, it’s filled with yellow daffodils—half of them rotten to the core.

He’s in a surreal dream. When he turns around, he sees himself: reflected against the aging mirror with grotesque ebony molds unfolding at each hem. A youthful Chan stares back, his narrow, feverish eyes still bright with the intensity of passion. The intensity of desire. He says with a high-pitched voice that makes him quiver : “Let me be you.” He tries to reach out, but the mirror is an obstacle.

Every night Chan dreams of the surrealist sequence. Day by day he gradually figures out that his reflection is not trying to reach for neither his hand nor his face. He’s reaching for the fresh, vibrant daffodils stacked in the left side of the box, the one representing golden yellow in his appearance. One particular night, he manages to break through the mirror and claw at the petals, ripping them apart in one clenched fist. Pain shoots up from the rear of his bare feet when one flower is crumpled flat against his brutal strength, sending Chan staggering and screaming at the great surge of torment. The pain burns.

Chan wakes up to Jisung’s concerned face and his strong grip clinging onto his biceps. Frantically, the leader brushes off the tears staining his pale face and breathes, “I’m fine,” while his heart emerges with an enormous hole of emptiness whose origin remains an anecdote of paradox.

It’s the day 42 is born. I’ve been thinking about my life. He has been pondering of how could rose bleed against its thorns. How could the bird of dodo die of its adaptive scorns. Is it better if I die? He’s losing chances, the opportunities to gleam. How could his friends rise, and he stays off the ground? Before I fall asleep forever, Give up the fight. He’s on the verge of surrendering. I’m trying to find feeling within this emptiness.”

The initial lines of 42 is first submitted to Changbin and Jisung in the form of a memo on the phone, as Chan lies weak beneath the pressure of common cold. Jisung’s befuddled, while Changbin has more flowing wit to acknowledge the quality of wrongness in each syllable written by the oldest amongst all. “Why are you like this, hyung?” Changbin asks, his agitation raw and crystal clear.

Chan pulls his blanket, making a huge ball of human out of himself. “It’s to raise awareness,” He says. “I want them to relate to our pain as teenagers. I want them to make our track the representative of their darkest thoughts. This track will voice their feelings out.”

Jisung tries to clap it all out, manifesting a false appreciation towards his senior’s composition. He beams out his best grin, only to assure Chan that everything will go along his regulations. Yet deep down, both Jisung and Changbin become alerted. There’s something wrong in the way Chan smiles that day. Perhaps it’s the fever, but the faint spark in his eyes array something else darker.

The surrealism of his life marches on. The dream alters into a vast pool of water; pistine and glistening against the dim chamber. At the corner of his eyes he sees shadows of strangers that disappear when he turns. He holds a firmly lit torch, a chain looping around the wood like a serpent on a tree pursuing for preys. His fist is bleeding from coming to a direct contact with the spiky iron, but his nerves are numb. Deep beneath the horizontal line that divides the layers of water loiters the plant of tiger lily, dancing along to a silent hymn, seemingly alive. Chan fathoms nothing of the story that his dreams tries to tell, nothing of the small hints that emerge in the formation of things. Before him, stands the older version of himself clad in white, handing out the small box of Marlboro that he held in a dream a few weeks ago. “The daffodils.” He says. “It’s yours to keep.” As Chan touches the box, the iron chain breaks off and the world spins.