Fics like to linger in tones and words

The recording shifts– whoever’s behind the camera got distracted, and seventeen-year-old Seungmin notices. His smile twitches, nervously. He’s dressed in all black, making him look more stringy than he already does, and he adjusts his glasses. Seungmin remembers this day– a national full orchestra, fancy recording equipment, an audience of professionals and symphony-goers and family members. In the recording, Seungmin bounces his trombone with his foot, waiting for the cue to continue speaking, his eyes bright. Twenty-one year old Seungmin puts his phone down, cutting the video off short. He stays there on the floor for a while longer, legs tucked under himself, as he leans against his mattress and lets memory take hold of him– brass-tinged lips, aching lungs. The sting, cutting both ways, of having purpose. Or: Kim Seungmin is a junior in college, surrounded by art and music and life, struggling to get over what he chose to leave behind. Enter, Lee Minho.

Fics like to linger in tones and words

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