#am i capable of writing a solo under 1k? apparently not

[idryusan]

part 6. exploitation.

solo, olympus ost recording ( schedule prompt, +05 exp, +05 skill )

san is tired. the kind of tired you can feel in your skin, muscles, seeps right down to your bones. he’s on a bench in one of the recording studios, watches one of his member’s through half-lidded eyes as they sing their way through some cartoon show’s background music. san doesn’t even know what the show is. they’d told him, he forgot. he can’t really remember the last time he’d slept properly. more than stolen three hour gaps of time. he’s been too busy. too much work to do, a sort-of surprise dropped down from above. and he’d wanted it. he’d wanted that solo, so he has no right to complain. that’s how badly they’ve rearranged his mind at this point. he genuinely feels he can’t point out how the timing’s terrible. how he’s just come off of tell me’s promotions. how he just went through with a festival performance on top of olympus’ tracks. how he just rolled through all those varieties to promote their song, and the cfs, and, and, and--

because olympus is never not doing something. because midas knows that they need to take advantage of them now. the last group pinned down underneath that archaic contract. it’d be foolish to treat them like human beings when they can treat them lawfully like dogs. 

so that ‘and’ continues. a song he’d recorded a while ago, back when they momentarily entertained his idea of a solo and then locked it in a vault is being dragged back out. a song he’d long since given up hope on. a song they’d picked out for him, that he hadn’t gotten a real say on, tat they decided would fit his image in a more mature way. but a song he’d liked well enough, a song he’d liked more than a lot of olympus’ discography. he thought he’d never hear it again, honestly. he’s dropped off at the midas building after olympus’ goodbye stage, told to work with a choreographer, to show what he’s figured out so far. to make it look professional, collaborate. remind him he’s on a deadline, like that whole fucking creation process is easy. like he might be able to snap his fingers and have it finished.

so he works during the hours everyone pretends he might sleep. and then he drinks too much coffee on the way to teaser the photoshoot. he sits dead-eyed while they comb out his hair dust on makeup, peel away layers and prop him up just right. he swallows down a couple of pills during the break. something that makes his heart stutter in his chest, like he’s balancing on the edge of something manic. but it makes his eyes bright again, re-enters the world of the living. he leaves, he rejoins olympus. he drinks more coffee, falls asleep in the van. wakes up on-location for more pictures. 

then he dances. and sings. until his voice is raw. and he doesn’t have enough time. the perfectionist in him is unraveling at the seems. he feels like he might tremble his way into pieces. but he doesn’t tell anyone that, just pulls himself in, throws it into his work. into dance steps beaten into the floor. re-does the finished choreography so many times he half-expects to see worn wood when he looks down at the end of the day. it’s not, just blurry. that should be worrying. but it’s not to him, not anymore. it just reminds him to eat, and he does. whatever his manager thrusts at him. swallows it all down mechanical, and it all lands in a tasteless pit in his stomach. ignores the nausea. pops a pain pill.

pops three.

and now he’s here. recording for a fucking children’s show. and olympus should be phased out of doing shit like this. he shouldn’t be forced into it. he’d been angry about it when he’d first heard, livid even. he’d slept in the van on the way over. a full half hour. he shouldn’t be tired. he blinks his eyes hard, fans his hand out until knuckles rap against the convenience store coffee his manager had given him. there’s a bag of five more at his feet. it tastes burnt, and warm when it shouldn’t be, but he swallows it down obediently anyway before he re-screws the plastic cap into place. his voice hurts, he’s worried it won’t be better in time for the stage. not like midas would ever let him sing his first stage live anyway, but eventually music premier might make him.

he doesn’t want to sing now. not for this. it’s all so pointless, and he’s overwhelmed. can’t even remember the lyrics they’d shoved at him. can barely focus on them when he unfolds his paper and holds it back up. he’s sequestered himself away in the corner, as far away from the other members as he can get. he can still hear a couple of them talking, and it grates hard at his nerves. he wants to rip himself up, sit in the hallway until they call him back in to sing. but there’s nausea settling in his stomach, and his head’s spinning. he can feel his manager’s eyes on him every so often, and san’s not sure why. is he doing something wrong, not trying hard enough, or is he worried he might pass out? san can never figure it out. he used to think, sometimes, they might be worried about his livelihood, but he stopped trying to pinpoint it a few times after getting yelled at for not looking peppy enough, or whatever the fuck they’d wanted from him when he felt like he might just collapse. 

they’d just shove an iv in his arm anyway. good as new. he drains the rest of the coffee, unscrew another. someone shoves a pill into his palm, his manager probably. he swallows it down, assumes it’s caffeine. hopes it’s something stronger. eventually he unfolds from the bench, sways on his feet as he pushes himself into the recording booth. it’s second nature at this point. his highlighted lyrics are propped open for him on a music stand, and he slips on the headphones. he blinks hard again, once, twice, until he stops seeing white spots. 

he ends up singing his way through all of his parts too many times. it takes longer than it should, especially for what it is. toddlers don’t care how he sounds, and their fans love anything. he can tell he sounds terrible. his voice scratches on the way out. some poor intern shuffles in and he swallows down mouthfuls of citron tea like it might be a cure all. it’s not. he misses the beat, and the next time he sings the wrong words. multiple people are angry, and san feels like he’s on the verge of shooting a fist out against the glass, or maybe bursting into uncharacteristic tears. it’s the sort of thing extreme exhaustion does to a person. but in this industry nobody’s sympathetic toward that sort of thing.

a few of his members will probably drag him pointedly over the coals for it on the van ride back.

all that happens in the meantime is the producer’s voice crackling through the intercom, a pointedly polite “let’s try that one more time.”

eventually he manages it, and he’s supposed to wait for the rest to finish recordering. there’s still, what -- two, three? members left to go. but he curls his fingers into his manager’s bicep, half to get his attention and half to keep himself upright. “i need an iv,” he admits, and his voice sounds hoarse. a ragged edge to it all. “i need an iv if you want me to film later.” he continues.

because cancelling his music video shoot is out of the question.

because going solo is all san’s ever wanted, and he’s not going to fuck it up.