velveteen;

Piano keys rise and drop steadily, in time with and in between the raindrops outside the window. She’s steady, concentrating, but her fingers are so practiced that soon her gaze wanders and it keeps trailing back to the figure reclined on the dark red couch.

Even from this far, his eyes glow and are unwavering and it lights a spark inside her. Yet it comforts her so she doesn’t look away. His lips curl up in a knowing way before he tips the rim of his black hat down over his eyes.

She thinks of imitation velvet, of stories of toys coming alive with love, of maybe there’s a heaven. And she falls somewhere between the stormy clouds and the velveteen curtains.

To Seulgi, music, singing, any creative art is all about pushing herself until almost breaking point while still maintaining a smile. As hard and soon as she can, while she’s still young and still has dreams beyond university. It’s what got her here in this program in the first place, in this prestigious academy for the arts.

The most she can hope for is that she doesn’t burn out, first or at all.

She’s already watched a few of her friends, or maybe they were people that she thought she knew, drop out and leave whatever left they had of dreams in dusted corners. Demoralizing would be an understatement as she watches hunched shoulders, broken in more ways than one and no longer able to carry the weight of something so intangible.

But even more, she’s seen many of other students flourishing under the pressure and being swept off to take more steps towards their dreams, with scraps of hearsay to filter back down to current students’ ears. It pushes her on, though, know that there is a chance, however slim. So she continues to whisper and sing words of the Lord to get her through the tough times.

The truth of the matter of it, though, sometimes she wonders who she’s doing it for—the Lord, as she says, or her parents, or herself.

And, if for whatever reason, she lost singing or her musical touch, she doesn’t know what she would be left with, or who she is, or who would stand by her. Something at the back of her mind scratches out certain names and sometimes at the darkest of nights, it’s the one who’s supposed to hear her at all times and knows all.

But she would never tell.

It’s not like that for Sungjoo.

What strikes her first about him when they first meet is how young he is.

When she signed up for piano lessons in addition to her time singing in the church choir, she had heard that he is a prodigy of the academy, spending more time outside the old stone walls performing for names followed with fancy titles than in the classroom. It is already a feat that she snagged an hour every Thursday for him to teach her.

“It’s thanks to both you and Jongin, really,” she says after introductions, smoothing her skirt and settling in the seat before the piano. The practice room had also been rented out by him and she can’t help the small clench in her chest at her boyfriend’s thoughtfulness.

Things like these came easy to Jongin…

“Yes,” Sungjoo replies from beside her and loosens his tie. “Anything for a good family friend.” His voice is low and rough, but even in the muted afternoon light, his gaze is piercing.

Something about him annoys her though. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself. All clean-cut, from the sleeveless shirt he wears down to the dark jeans that hug his lean figure. Or maybe it is that he also has monolids, which is something that is becoming rarer lately as most people favor the double lid. Or maybe it is the curves of his lips that gives off the sense that he knows something that she doesn’t.

He breaks into her thoughts then when he taps a finger against the grand instrument and his lips curl into a smirk.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

Their first few lessons aren’t difficult, but they aren’t easy either.

Sungjoo smiles often—laughs even at sometimes the most ridiculous things—but his criticisms are sharper than his unwavering gaze and it has her chewing her lip to hold back any biting words back.

To be honest, everything about Sungjoo is sharp, from his cheekbones and his jawline made for magazines to the way his cinder-colored eyes never miss anything. Only his voice is smooth, almost silvery, which contrasts from the rest of him.

“Stop, stop.”

Almost reluctantly, she does.

He shakes his head and taps a knuckle against the sheet music in front of her. “You’re too fast, this piece is supposed to be a stroll in the park, not a soldier’s march.” Turning his back and strolling to the window, he says, “Try again.”

She nods and, rolling back her sleeves, starts over. But before she can get very far, his voice cuts over the notes.

“You know,” he says offhandedly, running his hands against the velveteen curtains. “I’ve always hated these curtains.” Picking it up against his skin, it looks from this distance like he’s holding a handful of dark red shadows. “Imitation velvet, trying to be something that it’s not.”

Then he turns back and takes an exaggerated breath, chest expanding. “Relax, close your eyes, and just listen. Get a feel for the notes. Again.”

It’d be her luck, though, to find someone who’s a sharper critic of her than herself.

She quickly finds herself practicing long after he leaves their lessons, determined to get the sections right. Soon, however, she starts to wonder who she’s trying to prove to – to herself or to him.

After their first few lessons together, he hangs back and asks her while leaning against the velveteen curtains with his arms crossed and watching her pack her bags.

“Why do you practice so hard?”

Though her hand hesitates in its movements, she doesn’t answer right away. It’s only when she’s finished stuffing away her sheet music and slinging her bag onto her shoulder.

“All my friends,” she says, slowly. As if she’s choosing each of her words carefully. She can feel him watching her and it keeps the words flowing. “We trained together. But now they’re succeeding and… and I’m not.” She trails her fingertips against the black and ivory keys. “I started piano because I wanted—”

“I understand.”

Startled, she looks up to see him staring at her through his bangs, his lips pulled back in a smile. But it’s a bittersweet gesture and a familiar expression. An expression that can only speak from experience, an expression that says,

Me too.

Then on, they spend more of the silences talking.

It’s easy, she realizes. They think very much the same, though with different views (which is to be expected of two people who have led very different lives) and in a short amount of time, they are speaking like old friends. She tells him of her simple upbringing and all the hopes she has. He tells stories of his travels and all the regrets.

More than anything else, she’s surprised that she likes that he’s different. In so many ways similar, but different enough to complement.

But sometimes it’s a bit jarring.

“Do you believe in heaven?”

Sungjoo opens a sleepy eye from where he had rested his cheek on velvet covering the piano. Takes in her asking expression, then shakes his head, his hair scratching the smooth surface. “No. What has God ever done for me?”

Her heart leaping in her chest, she asks, breathily, “Don’t… don’t you have faith in Him?”

“Please,” he says, closing his eyes again and resting his cheek against his arm. “It’s God who has no faith in man.”

When they are sitting on the muted red couch together, she asks about his childhood, he shakes his head. “It was just my mother and I. My father left.”

“But why? He must have loved her—” she stops and furrows her eyebrows. He’s throwing his head back and lets out a humorless laugh. “You’re laughing.”

He quiets at her almost accusation. “Oh, I just don’t understand the whole obsession with romantic love,” he says. “Why does it matter if he loved her or not? He didn’t love his son enough to stay around, what does it say about his ‘love’ for her?”

A small sob rises in her chest that she isn’t able to conceal behind her hand. He whips around and stares.

“You’re crying,” he says, almost blankly and squaring his shoulders towards her.

She angrily wipes her wet eyes on her sleeve, but the tears just keep coming. “I-I’m just so sorry that you’ve been hurt like that,” she whispers, “so I’m crying in your stead.”

“Hey.” Suddenly, she’s pulled into his chest, one of his hands around her wrist and the other in her hair.

Tense muscles quickly relax and she’s closing her eyes, burying her face into his shirt and mutters, “I hope you’ll find someone to heal you.”

There is a chuckle from deep. “I don’t need anyone to heal me.” He pauses. “I just need someone who will stay, who will complement me.”

Pulling back, she furiously blinks away the rest of the tears before saying, “I don’t know about complementing you, but I could stay if you’d like.”

At