Chapter Text
He adjusts his bow tie on the collar of his shirt, and then stares at his reflection in the mirror of his dressing room.
The yellowish lights accentuate his tired and slightly unfocused appearance. Jongwoo hasn't felt the same since entering this intense and painful field. Well, it's painful for others. Not for him.
The dark circles under his eyes highlight the sleepless weeks lost to perfectionism and dedication. Every drop of sweat shed will not be in vain. Every touch of the D minor key on that embroidered black piano will not be in vain, because all the effort he made will be worth it.
Because performing at one of the biggest concerts in Vienna wasn't easy. It was intense. It was something that needed to be done.
The feeling around his fingers was real; Jongwoo was giving and giving but nothing was coming in return. Jongwoo needed the heat. The panic. The pleasure.
The death.
Huic ergo parce, Deus.
The producer comes to call him. The moment has arrived in a blink of an eye.
He rises calmly and casually, making a final adjustment to his suit, and walks towards the red velvet curtains, waiting for his name to be called.
He carries the sheet music with him, but why? A mere ritual. He already knows it by heart. He already feels it. He feels it burning in his veins like the sensation of a neck under his fingerprints.
Dona eis requiem, amen.
"And with you, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you tonight's performance. With you, the intense newcomer to mastery... Yoon Jongwoo!”
The audience erupts in applause, and when the curtains open before him, and the white lights of the theater stage catch his eye, he has the brief sensation of finally being recognized and purified in front of hundreds of people sharing their hope.
So many smiling faces, some surprised because they didn't expect the newcomer to replace the biggest name so far tonight. Which is a shame.
Because he will never return. Jongwoo guaranteed that.
He bows forward in a gesture of greeting, and then turns to the beautiful polished instrument in the center, black with intense gold embroidery on the sides.
He sits on the small black bench, the people soon falling silent as they watch him prepare, fingers snapping and sheet music being placed above the keys.
He spins his wrists. He feels so calm. He needs to be calm, because each one of the audience needs him. His kind of blessing. His talent.
He needs to extinguish it like he extinguishes his victims.
Just like God told him in his dreams of supplication and so many prayers.
Now, reciprocated in Jongwoo's own way.
Huic ergo parce, Deus.
He positions his fingers, and then, the melody becomes reality.
It starts calmly. The fingers glide easily across the precise notes. It's delicate. It's dramatic. It's necessary.
But even now, each face appears in his head.
Music evolves and now he plays higher notes, and suddenly he feels the cries of tormented lambs enter his own soul, each disgraced victims in his perfect, calloused hands.
Qua resurget ex favilla.
It lowers again, the D minor key is present. He feels it vibrate in his bones as more images turn and become jumbled.
The person writhes beneath him. He leaves no escape. He agonizes. He loses.
The notes rise again. He rocks back onto the bench with trembling fingers that don't affect his perfect pitch.
He closes his eyes. He can still hear the prayers lost amidst the noise.
The woman cries for help, and the notes reach their peak, the piano reverberating with each lie, each lament released.
Pie lesu, domine.
He reaches the final moments. He shakes his head, his insides receiving every conceived adrenaline rush. He accepts the highs and lows. He feels his eyes welling up with tears. He taps his fingers harder on the keys, releasing his true self to everyone as a final act of surrender.
The man, already dressed, writhes on the concrete floor. He groans in pain. He looks one last time at Jongwoo with wide eyes.
A word. Final word.
"May God forgive you."
Jongwoo lets out the last final note. He bites his lip in a cry of reprimand. He closes his eyes tightly.
And finally, everything resonates.
His fingers freeze on the key. He howls inwardly. His mind splits in two with white lights and red blood, as if he had been struck right there. As if his soul had finally cried out for freedom. He broke free. He regenerated.
And when he finally mustered the courage to open his eyes to face his hungry doomsday, he found himself still center stage. The man he had to sacrifice to be there was no longer beneath him.
Instead, there are people crying, wiping away tears with handkerchiefs, giving standing ovations, shouting "Bravos!" and "Splendid!"
They don't roar in pain or defeat. They roar in acclamation, in satisfaction, of perfection becoming reality and reality becoming the gift of a God amidst his light.
Lacrimosa dies illa
Qua resurget ex favilla
Ludicandus homo reus
Lacrimosa dies illa
Qua resurget ex favilla
Ludicandus homo reus
Huic ergo parce, Deus
Pie Iesu, Domine
Dona eis requiem
Dona eis requiem
Amen.
---
The night stretches into a party after the concert, classical music playing in the background almost monotonously, his mind elsewhere as he sips champagne now and then.
Seated at one of the tables furthest from the venue, with its golden chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and surrounded by overly boring people, Jongwoo vividly remembers the compliments he received after playing.
“Bravo, young man! You are the future of our generation!" says with a strong accent a gray-haired gentleman with gold teeth, patting him on the back, grinning from ear to ear.
"The young man is spectacular! He has a long and successful life ahead of him... I can only imagine when he gets married. How lucky his wife will be!" A woman caressed his arms with a seductive smile on her red lips, giving a slight wink, implying that she planned to take him to her bed later.
But he ran away from all of that. He likes to run away from all of that. Jongwoo likes to display his special talent to hundreds of lambs and then have them follow him everywhere like faithful followers of their ruler.
But what he really likes is out of the question for tonight. It's too crowded. People recognize him on these streets now; another sign to get away from all this as fast as he can.
If he wants to come to that citadel again, will he have to change his identity as he usually does on other occasions? Or will he finally acknowledge his sins?
He's been several different people in the space of two months. Jongwoo dislikes his name; it reminds him of how he was truly conceived into the world and how he leaves traces of who he is.
He doesn't like being who he is. He doesn't like the little he does. He likes the mark he leaves, not the insecurity that haunts him within his shell.
But Jongwoo finds it all merely sarcastic and mysterious, because he never set foot there again after his usual saturation. To tell the truth, when everyone was reported missing in their respective countries, he vanished forever, leaving his traces only in the piano and the tears of the people. As it should be.
Change his appearance. Change his name. But not his talent. Thank you, God.
Huic ergo parce, Deus.
He finishes his champagne in one gulp, and finally rises from his table, passing unnoticed to the top of the stairs that lead to the terrace, where several women surround him, their red lips and tight dresses highlighting their tanned skin and dark hair.
“"Are you up for some fun, darling?" A brunette approaches, sliding her gloved fingers along Jongwoo's arms, nibbling on his lower lip, wanting to seduce him and perhaps even for more than just one night.
She must assume he has money. They all probably think the same.
He dismisses her, removing her hands from his shoulder, shaking his head, forcing a friendly smile onto his face, the kind that says, "Not today... but if you want to see me another time, maybe."
They leave with a slightly disinterested air, and finally Jongwoo opens the doors to the terrace, the cold night air welcoming him, a faint scent of rain still rising to his nostrils, puddles here and there formed on the hard concrete floor.
He takes a deep breath and walks towards the metal railing, resting his elbows and watching the night fall on his field. Stars here and there against the dark blue sky. A waning moon unfolds in the center, almost full, showing how she possesses her own natural brilliance and a precise way of attracting attention.
Nothing to do with him.
But fuck it. Who cares about the moon? He's more important at the moment. Women want him. People want his music.
People want to be killed by him.
And that's enough for him now. And for God too.
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from one pocket and a lighter from the other. Jongwoo positions it between his fingers and tries to light it, failing miserably when a very strong breeze hits him.
“Shit…” The pianist mumbles under his breath, now placing it between his lips and placing a hand in front of the lighter, carefully bringing it to the tip of the cigarette.
Until the door sounded open and closed a little further behind and footsteps approached.
The flame didn't get lit, but even so, he turned his head to face whoever arrived.
A tall, pale man with dark hair, slightly wavy at the ends, stands practically behind Jongwoo. Dark eyes. Black clothes that accentuate his skin, using a similar type of jacket and trousers made of the same fabric, and a strong scent of cologne, probably one of the most expensive, emanates from him.
The man smiles slowly, his rosy lips curving upward. He tilts his head to the side, never taking his eyes off Jongwoo.
The same finding himself incredibly unable to move.
“Having trouble lighting a cigarette?”
Jongwoo startles to the deep, velvety sound of the other's voice. He looks away, taking the cigarette from his mouth, and murmurs, "Ah, yes... Vienna has an unusual atmosphere today."
He hums low in response. He moves closer to him and says, "Can I help you?"
Jongwoo looks at him. He hesitates for a moment, but ultimately accepts, turning to the man and placing the cigarette between his lips, handing him the lighter.
The guy carefully takes it from his fingers, the tips of his merely touching Jongwoo's, and he notices how cold the other's fingertips are, practically freezing.
Jongwol wonders how this person hasn't already contracted hypothermia or something close to that, given his body temperature is like that. Not that he cares about that, of course.
The lighter is lifted and the tip of the cigarette is slowly lit. The flames ignite. Their eyes meet.
Jongwoo gently bowed his head in thanks, turning to face the sky again as he inhaled the tobacco and exhaled it through his parted mouth, watching the smoke dissipate in waves through the air, noticing out of the corner of his eye the man stopping beside him, also gazing at the view ahead.
The strands of hair closest to his face almost fall into his eyes. His fingers are slender and long, almost too delicate. His chest rises and falls slowly.
He runs his hand through his strands, and Jongwoo quickly adverts his attention and takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke.
“Beautiful night, isn't it?"
Jongwoo nods his head. His focus returns to the moon. "Yes. Beautiful night. Here, the days never disappoint."
The man stares at him, tilting his head a little, and says, "Do you live around here?"
The pianist shakes his head. He exhales and replies, "I just came here to play. I was invited at the last minute. But I already know what the atmosphere is like around here. I have acquaintances nearby."
The lie slips far too easily from his lips. But the image of his deceased partner lying on the ground because of him is not.
Choked by a trembled evolve. The last breath his lover let out was through his sweet, dry lips.
Jongwoo looks at the guy and asks, "And you? Do you live here?"
He takes a while to answer, running his fingers through his hair, looking away for a moment. Jongwoo finds himself paying too much attention to the gesture.
"No. I came here for a vacation, to enjoy the summer, and see what life has to offer in Vienna."
The young man nods his head. “Ah, i see. Well, I hope you're enjoying your time here.”
Jongwoo puts the cigarette again between his lips, dispersing his attention.
“... You played really well, you know." A beat. "Lacrimosa. Such a powerful song. Not everyone has this gift.”
Not everyone has this gift.
Right?
Jongwoo finds himself a little breathless at what is being said. Perhaps because of how slowly the other pronounced the name, or because he wasn't expecting it, or because it sounded too sincere.
Perhaps all of these options are the answer for now.
He bowls his head, inhaling the smoke one more time into his body. "Thank you."
"... No need to thank me.” The man rests one hip against the railing, almost staring directly at Jongwoo.
The younger finally gathers his courage and faces the pallid guy properly now. The city lights around him accentuate his features. His eyes seem to shine with the moon gazing up.
It sounds like a sculpture. A true work of art. Or like a merciless Mozart melody. Unreleased. Old. New. Used.
The other notices the attention being turned to him. He smiles slightly and murmurs, "You know. Lacrimosa has intense lyrics. It has a profound meaning. He died in the middle of the process. Mozart.”
A sigh escapes, and he looks at the city now.
"Lacrimosa isn't for everyone to understand its true purpose in this world. Few know how to appreciate it. Few know what it's like to feel what's put into that melody, so melancholic and sudden." And then, he looks back at Jongwoo.
The air shifts between them. His gaze almost suffocates Jongwoo, like hands tightening around his throat, or a foot on his chest.
Or else, as if all their sins were being judged right there, committed by the man in front of them.
The guy smirks. A murmur escapes his lips, "Everyone wants pity. Everyone wants to feel divine benevolence in their lives. But are they truly worthy of it?"
Jongwoo hesitates for a moment. They stare at each other for longer than they should. The other's gaze grows slightly heavy.
And he has to look away and breathe. Feel himself breathing again. And when he answers, it still sounds slightly shaky. "Life is made of hits and misses. If we all make mistakes, we are all sinners. There is no one who is completely good."
He pauses for a minute. “But in the end, even those who don't believe want God's grace to work."
The guy hums low. The cigarette is forgotten between the pianist fingers.
“... Do you believe in God, Jongwoo?”
His name sounds religious and contemplative on his lips.
He doesn't look at it this time. He simply stubs out the cigarette by the railing, rubbing it until the flames die out, and finally, discards it on the ground. He chews the inside of his cheek.
And finally, shrugs. "Sometimes yes. Sometimes no.
To me, sometimes it sounds like a mere mythological image. Most of the time, that's how it is to me.
But other times, i wish He existed. To see if He at least recognizes my merit, my effort, how dedicated i am and how perfect i am at what I do.” a pause. “Or… To see if He could fix my life. Put me back on track, you know how it is." He gives a low laugh, but without any humor.
Just with a little regret. And a little pride. Vulnerability.
The terrace is silent, with no response from the man beside Jongwoo.
Jongwoo looks at him.
They stare at each other for a moment. Once again.
Devotion shines in the eyes of the other.
And Jongwoo finds himself paralyzed. Once. again.
The man grins slightly. And with a breath of air, a whisper escapes him.
“God exists, Jongwoo. He exists. And He is proud of you. Of your name. Of your story.
And if He made us all sinners, as you said. Good.
Then let's burn in hell together."
Silence.
They don't look away from each other.
His heart is beating faster.
Heat and adrenaline course through his body.
“You don't even know me to go saying this kind of thing.” Jongwoo whispers.
The other doesn't manifest a single bone or word.
And like a bucket of cold water, he steps back slightly, smiles, and takes a small piece of paper from his pocket. "It was good talking to you, darling. See you later."
The paper is placed against the metal.
He begins to walk further and further away, until the only sound in the place is the door closing behind.
The pulse bursts in Jongwoo's ear.
He swallows hard. Picks up the paper with trembling fingers.
There's a phone number, and right below it, the affectionate nickname whispered again.
But this time in neatly drawn cursive letters. Round. The nickname is in Jongwoo's native language, which makes his stomach churn.
Which sounds familiar. Which fits something deep within his being.
Jagiya.
…
He wants to be killed by Jongwoo.
In Greece. In Italy. Wherever Jongwoo goes, he wants to go too.
Jongwoo squeezes his ex partner's neck until he contorts, his face changes, his breathing becomes labored.
He sees Jongwoo throwing the body along with his latex gloves into the trash as if it were nothing.
He likes what he sees.
He jerks himself off with the thought of Jongwoo killing him in whatever way he wants, extinguishing him from the earth in whatever way Jongwoo pleases to do it.
He approaches Jongwoo on the terrace. He appreciates what he sees.
He loves and wants what he sees.
A pure and grotesque desire. Perverted.
A human being caged, free in their spare time, But what's the point of not releasing this to the world at any time, delighting everyone with Jongwoo's hands and melody?
He will do it for Jongwoo.
Jongwoo was made for him. He was made for Jongwoo.
And they will stay together for eternity.
Together.
Forever.