PAGES | minsung oneshot

★PAGES ☆

Han Jisung was something of a prodigy, a man of enormous talent and skill from the time he was very small. This of course, was something he had heard quite often. He had long out grown the days of him being exceptional on the piano making him particularly impressive, but that didn't mean he wasn't praised with a satin glove.

He didn't quite like all the compliments, he found that they'd lost their meaning—their purpose. They did not ignite the same rushing feeling of elation and delight, they just were thrown about as a passing comment—like they had complimented his hair.

Something in the way he had grown up—around fascinated piano teachers and famous composers, it had made all the achievements he could ever dream of as a small child, seem quite boring in the scheme of things.

It didn't help that he was wasn't unattractive in the slightest, a certain grace had taken over him through his years of training, his parents couldn't remember the last time he slouched.

However those who knew Han Jisung knew there was one thing he lacked, and that was the basic fundamentals of a conversation.

He was an awkward boy with an eloquent way with words and nimble motions you could get caught up in, that was known. Jisung handled the ivories with such grace but his life with such inept understanding. He was blunt and apathetic, finding there was no time to waste with dull people.

When he was young he discovered that people did not think the same as him.

It was something he struggled with.

High school was a bore, and college wasn't faring any better. He hadn't managed to make any new friends over the span of the two years he'd spent here, not that he cared to, this was something people found weird (Jisung had long given up trying to be normal).

He spent so much time thinking about the validity of the worlds questions and the answers within him that he refused to look within others and find the missing blanks in their life.

Or at least that's what Chan says, which, Jisung heavily disagreed with. (He was an English major with a knack for writing lyrics, his late night word regurgitations were hardly worth a listening ear).

Jisung had just gone through another lecture from Chan, his roommate, about how he should put himself out there more, make some new friends.

In reality he didn't quite plan on becoming friends with Chan, but he wasn't exactly easy to push away.

He's tolerable now.

As per usual, when Jisung was upset he went to the one place that made him not just a pissy little boy, but a mature young man—his practice room. The only thing he felt could calm him down was to let his frustration out on the keys.

As Jisung shuffles into the practice room hallway, he freezes.

Of course he's there.

For the past two years, everyday it seems, a man with perfect brown hair, and perfect brown eyes, and perfect style and, well, just about anything you could think of, found a home at the little table sitting at the end of the hallway, almost perfectly situated next to his practice room.

It bothered Jisung very much.

It wasn't exactly his practice room per say, but after a couple of years of scaring off innocent music majors, people learned to stay away from practice room number 9.