pulse

he’s not one to be excited for social outings. if anything the prospect of being trapped among humans with the unending chatters and thoughts tie knots all over his insides. and for this occasion, sangwoo can already feel the non-existent weights tying his ankles down as he left the safety of his apartment.

which ironically, has seen the demons inhibiting his mind during late night for the past few weeks.

he tries to direct his attention elsewhere during the bus ride, anywhere but the growing irritation that begins to show upon his features. maybe thinking of going grocery shopping after he gets this done and over with. or maybe wishing that his boss would be this attentive towards him next time before he decides to give sangwoo overtime would do.

concerned my ass.

he also thinks about flaking altogether, but that’s impossible without getting his pay cut.

the first thing that he does when he reaches their rendezvous point–a small coffee shop–is to text saebyok. partly to make sure he’s in the right place, and mostly because he’d rather buy more time. it’s not even a legitimate therapy session but sangwoo already dreads being psychoanalyzed. he doesn’t like being psychoanalyzed. heck, people won’t like him when he’s psychoanalyzed.

[ ✉️ mr. dr. shrink ]: i’m here  [ ✉️ mr. dr. shrink ]: where are you seated at?

Punctuality is his default where good manners are involved: three o’ clock sharp, Table Two by the window laden with frost. He offers a gracious smile at the server who arrives with his London Fog, managing just one small sip before his eyes slide over to his phone. 

The messages read as they should, predictably so, for he doesn't expect anything more than what's considered the norm for meetings of this sort. PTSD, depression in all of its varieties, grief, the works. He appreciates the familiarity of it, nonetheless. The ways of people and the ways they come undone, right along the predetermined fault lines. Makes the job far easier whenever the SMPA is involved. 

Leaving the texts be, Saebyok’s gaze shifts up to his surroundings and, as if this too, is predetermined by some pull of chance, lands first on the man that stands askew of the main counter. Cops, they are ever so unaware, aren’t they? But expectation and an extended hand at patience work in his favor, eyes locked in place until the other finds him where he sits.

Wordlessly, he raises his cup in greeting and smiles. With warmth. With an invitation. All unassuming because what could there possibly be to assume from a case like this?

10:35 Idyllwild, California

The practice rooms are fully booked. Even muffled, the trebles feel particularly shrill today. Everyone dons their sternest frowns from the other side of the glass, skin ruched up against chin rests. Ellie finds her expression flatlining too, as the realization dawns on her all too belatedly. Will had texted her about it in the morning. But that was at seven, too ungodly an hour for a(n average) fourteen-year-old on summer vacation to draft a coherent reply, and so she’d only skimmed his message from her dormitory bed in a crusted, drooling daze.

The occasion of the day: violin masterclass.

Will had invited her to come watch. She could make it, provided her private lesson with Olga didn’t go over, but seeing as she hadn’t gone through any of the new phrasing notes from yesterday’s lesson and there isn’t a single room available for her to pull a last-minute scramble together, things were looking grim. She quickly decides to make an apology in advance instead. Knowing Will, he’s here already. Also knowing Will, his phone’s probably off. 

Why the hell did these hallways have to be so long? She embarks on her search the old-fashioned way, and paces past room after room, Bartok after Faure after Dvorak after Tchaikovsky after Paganini until she reaches the show-stopper at the center of the atrium. 

Those harmonics are gosh-darned pristine.

It takes him a while to notice her. Blame the trills—he never gets out once he gets in. It’s only he’s gotten through the passage that he lifts his gaze beyond the glass and to Ellie, perched over her cello case and waving. “Sorry to interrupt,” she mouths, bowing before pointing to the door. “Open?”

Expression is key when it comes to anything Kreisler, so consider this a finetuning kind of day. Muscle memory and hours of familiarization with the piece proves useful, no doubt; focus wholly on how the notes sound through each run than the nature of each note by itself. At points, he'll stop, brow furrowed in that way of his when something just doesn't quite hit the mark. Too light with the rubatos there, that vibrato far too dense to be passable. Everything’s easier said than done, that’s for sure. 

Will does one final playthrough of “Liebesleid” and at last, there’s some improvement (or maybe that’s the dazed optimist talking in him), one step closer to feeling less incompetent and a whole lot better about the damn thing. 

Though with Ellie now part of the picture, it’s hard to say what’s the root cause of the warmth that spreads, elation with the eye-crinkling grin to match. Upon placing his violin down, he waves her in. “You made it!” Never mind right around the end, or had it been long after the class was over. He feels around for his phone which, predictably, had been turned off right after he’d sent her the text. “What’d they have you do for this morning?”