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ryukoishida · 7 years

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Arslan Senki Fandom Day [Encounter] | In which top idol!Gieve and folk-rock musician!Isfan collaborate.

Written for Arslan Senki Fandom Day 2017 – [Encounter]

Title: Primadonna and the Piano Man [Part I] Author: ryukoishida Character(s)/Pairing(s): Isfan/Gieve Summary: This is the story of how one of the nation’s top idol Gieve and bestselling folk-rock musician Isfan meet (and eventually fall in love). [Idol/Musician!AU] Rating: T Warning: N/A A/N: Yes, I’m writing that self-indulgent AU that nobody cares for again. Sue me. Also this got too long so I’m splitting it into two parts. Sorry.

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Sing When You’re in Love Series:

i. We Sing We Dance We Steal Hearts ii. We Sing We Dance We Fall in Love iii. Untitled iv. This Storm, It’s Coming v. I’m Yours (and so are they) vi. Primadonna and the Piano Man [Prequel] [Part I | Part II]

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“It’s impossible.”

“But Isfan—”

“There’s no way in hell—”

The agitated fingers on the fretboard dance in an even more erratic rhythm, his right hand strumming harder in a frail attempt to drown out his well-meaning manager’s desperate plead. The chords reverberate raucously within one of the soundproof practice rooms in the core building of Ecbatana Entertainment Productions.

“Will you put away your guitar and just listen to me for one moment, please?” Lucian, hair swept back into a half-ponytail and streaked with silver-grey, frowns disapprovingly, the lines around his eyes deepening as he leans against the wall with a rumbling sigh.

Isfan is usually one of the more easygoing artists to deal with in the company, but being the manager of this particular singer-songwriter — infamous in the music industry for being exceedingly serious and painstakingly methodical when it comes to his compositions and lyrics-writing, as well as being a little too opinionated about the idol culture, among other controversies — for the last few years, Lucian has seen him at his worst.

Trying to convince him to collaborate with one of the nation’s top idol, as Lucian soon discovers, turns out to be even more of a challenge than he’s initially anticipated.

“According to Farangis, he’s the one who personally wants to invite you for this collaboration,” Lucian’s mouth curves up in amusement as he continues, “apparently, he likes, and I quote, ‘the impossible way he can tug at my heartstrings while playing the piano with such a straight face and singing about a haunted ship and dead lovers’.”

Isfan snorts in reply. So, that man has done his homework after all, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s an arrogant, flippant man with over-the-top make-up and even stranger hairstyle that seems to change every time he appears for an event or talk show (not that Isfan had been paying any particular attention) who dares to call himself a musician, when all he seems to be capable of doing is dancing to mainstream pop and singing such cliché, sickly saccharine love songs the lyrics of which may as well have been written by a sixth-grader bearing their first crush.

If there’s one thing he detests the most in the world, it’s crudely-crafted, shallow combinations of words that disguised themselves as lyrics.

“Have you ever seen him perform?” Lucian can practically see the weaving pathways in his protégé’s brain busily working out this disaster of an idea.

“How long have you known me, Lucian?” he asks, quirking up an eyebrow, the answer clear as day.

“You haven’t,” Lucian announces with quiet triumph, “then maybe you shouldn’t judge him so harshly. I’ve seen footage of his performances when he was still with his previous idol unit and I’ve got to say, that boy’s got charisma and one hell of a voice.”

Isfan’s responding hum is brisk and non-committed.

Lucian was the one who discovered him in a local bar and restaurant when he had been working part-time, performing mellower versions of top 40 hits on a tiny stage in a dimmed corner for patrons who hardly paid attention to him or his music, to support his last year of college. When the music producer approached him, business card and genuine smile intact, Isfan was still suspicious of the stranger’s intent until he recognized the face and voice of the famous rock musician who had been most active about two decades ago, and Isfan only knew of him because his elder brother Shapur was a huge fan and would constantly play Lucian’s CDs in the car and at home.

It has been five years since then, and Isfan has learned very early on to trust Lucian. Not only was Lucian a talented musician back in his prime years, but he’s also a capable manager who understand his charge's needs and tries his hardest to accommodate Isfan’s wishes whenever possible. Of course, there had also been times when they had their disagreements, but these were rare and far in between, and during the few instances that happened, Lucian had made the right calls.

Isfan would trust his career and future in Lucian’s hands, but this collaboration will surely end in nothing but a catastrophe — a catastrophe Isfan would rather avoid at all costs.

Attempting his best to put on an optimistic air, Lucian starts again, “I’ve already arranged everything with his manager; all we need is for you two to find some time to get together during the next few weeks to work on the single.”

“I’m too busy,” Isfan immediately replies with a hint of a smug grin.

“I cleared out your schedule,” Lucian smiles back pleasantly, knowing exactly how the singer-songwriting will counter.

“But I need the time to work on my new materials,” Isfan protests.

“And how are those new songs coming along?” Lucian asks pointedly.

“…”

He doesn’t mention the scrawled-out melodies on crumpled pieces of paper or the many deleted or discarded samples on his laptop. Lucian probably already knows and is just saving Isfan from embarrassing himself.

“That’s what I figure. Look, you know I always respect your talent and artistic freedom,” Lucian says.

“Then you understand that it takes time to craft something that’s better than the previous album,” Isfan mumbles, fingers mindlessly plucking the strings in a nameless melody.

“I understand perfectly,” Lucian reassures him with a grim expression, “but don’t forget that the music industry is still business to the higher-ups. They only care about the results and profits, and at the rate you’re going right now, you’re not giving them anything. It has been more than six months since you’ve released any new content; the fans may be patient enough to wait for you, but the company is less forgiving.”

That’s one thing Isfan dislikes being a contracted artist at a major label; everything is about money, money, money. It’s not that he doesn’t understand their side, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling the frustration and unease roiling in his chest that can only be assuaged by banging loudly on a drum-set. Percussion is not his strength, but it sure feels satisfying.

“Even…” Isfan glances up at his manager, fingers slowing down the strumming, “even if I were to work on a collaboration, does it have to be him?”

Seeing a crack gradually opening up, Lucian quickly takes advantage, “You might not see it now, but perhaps he’s the spark of inspiration you need to get you moving forward.”

“You think?” Isfan sounds doubtful.

“It’ll be beneficial for both parties,” Lucian nods with a relieved smile, “I’m sure of it.”

Isfan isn’t sure of anything anymore.

He pauses before the door of the studio, sharp topaz eyes glancing through the glass only to spot an unfamiliar figure inside: the young man donned in a knitted sweater half a size too big for his frame and skinny jeans that accentuates the length of his legs is sitting on the plastic chair and plucking the strings of his acoustic guitar delicately, dark purple hair the shade of twilight bunched up with hairclips to keep forelocks from blocking his sight, a pair of plastic, black-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose and making his eyes impossibly green, and he’s solely focused on the scattered sheets on the music stand.

Isfan checks the room number again to make sure he’s at the right place.

He is.

His grip on the strap of his guitar case tightens a degree, and then he knocks on the door two times. Without waiting for an invitation to come in, he turns the knob and lets himself into the studio with confident steps, a challenging glint in his eyes, and firm line to his lips.

The man with the obnoxious purple hair looks up, eyes widening in surprise as if he hasn’t expected any guests even though they have arranged this meeting just two days prior.

“Damn, those MVs didn’t do you any justice. At all.”

“Excuse me?”

This is clearly a mistake, Isfan thinks as he walks up to the man who still has a guitar in his lap. Isfan’s height easily towers over the other man’s, but he seems nonchalant about the intimidating aura Isfan’s body language is emitting.

“It’s a compliment,” he explains with a flirtatious grin as he pulls himself up after placing his guitar on a nearby stand, and with how close they’re standing, he has to crane his neck a little to stare at Isfan straight in the eyes, sea-green irises bold and unafraid. “I’m Gieve. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope we’ll be able to work well together.”

The folk-rock musician is ready to either throw a punch at the idol’s incredibly pretty face and risk getting yelled at by Lucian, or pull him in and kiss that insufferable smirk away. He chooses to do neither; instead, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself down, he pulls a chair over, folds himself into the seat elegantly, and begins to take out his instrument and some notes he’s made beforehand — lyrics ideas and snippets of melodies he’d been working on that might act as starting points for this collaboration.

He’s a professional, Isfan reminds himself like a chant, he’s a professional and he’ll act like one, and he will not let this damn idol get the better of him with his terrible flowery rhetoric or his dazzling smile that has successfully slain thousands of fanboys and fangirls all over the country.

“Isfan,” he coldly introduces himself and presses his lips tightly together without another word.

“Oh, a little shy, are we?” Gieve takes his seat and picks up his guitar once more, fingers idly caressing the strings as a gentle series of notes begin to form and flow like a small creek drifting smoothly over pebbles warmed by the sun in the depth of summer.

Isfan is about to open his mouth to snap a retort, but he’s genuinely surprised by the strange complexity of the chords and notes weaving together into this seemingly light and buoyant tune, so much so that his fingers are trembling slightly as they crave to touch the cool, ivory keys of a piano to play the harmony to accompany the sweet melody of the guitar.

“You wrote that?” Isfan asks when Gieve stops abruptly, breaking the brunet’s trance.

“Still tinkering with it.”

“It’s… it’s good,” he’s staring at the music stand when he says it, his eyes not quite meeting Gieve’s.

“That was really difficult for you to admit, wasn’t it?” Gieve grins knowingly, and the expression only grows more imminent when he sees Isfan’s cheeks staining red at being found out. He stands up once more and stalks towards Isfan, almost like a predator, the sharp gleam in his eyes merciless, though a small smile still curves along his lips as he closes the gap between them. “What? You think I got to this point in my career just by looking pretty and knowing how to dance and sing? Don’t look down on idol culture, Isfan. A lot of us worked hard since we were teenagers, and less than half of us would even make it past the eliminations to get a chance to perform on stage. So, if you think I’m just going to let you push me around while we’re working on this project because you think you’re more musically superior to me or whatever, you better think again.”

Their faces are mere inches away from each other’s, and Isfan can feel Gieve’s frenzied, heated breaths against his cheek, his sea-green eyes brightened from agitation. Isfan gulps, gaze unable to rip away from the idol’s intense stare, and when he finally realizes they’ve remained in this awkward position for way too long, he shoves the idol away by the shoulders, causing Gieve to stumble a few steps back into a safe distance.

“Did you only invite me for the collab just so you can give me a lecture?” Isfan mutters darkly, “If so, then well-fucking-done. Shall I see myself out now that you’re finished?”

He begins to stuff his guitar back into the case, but a hand wrapped firmly around his forearm makes him freeze.

“Calm down,” Gieve laughs and let go of Isfan’s arm when the brunet sends him a glare, his previous irritation seeming to have dissipated without a trace, his smile once more bright and harmless if a little too cunning. “I didn’t know what I was expecting, but given the theatrical lyrics you write, I should have guessed that you’re as melodramatic as they come.”

It looks like Isfan is about to protest again but Gieve is quicker, “Look, the reason why I want to collaborate with you is because I truly admire your music and tenacity to strive for perfection. I’ll be frank with you: I��m sick of always doing dance pop and being assumed that I can only do one genre of music; I want to do something new, something unexpected and exciting that would make the fans happy. What about you?”

Gieve settles back on his chair, cradling his guitar and strumming a chord with practiced hand.

“What do you mean?”

The idol’s gaze is unsettling, yet Isfan is unable to look away.

“What do you want out of this collaboration?”

He thinks back to the past six months when he tried to write and rewrite so many melodies, none of them to his satisfaction, each seeming to be missing a piece, lacking the passion, the energy, and the soul of his previous works. He’d locked himself in the studio for hours on end; he’d travelled to the countryside to get inspiration and peace; he’d even attempted to write after he’d gotten himself drunk just enough to be tipsy and his emotions were allowed to burst forth onto blank pages without his usual constraint.

None of those had worked.

He sits up straight and clears his throat.

“I want to move forward with my music; I want to transform what I’ve achieved before and turn it into something different but still irrevocably me…” Isfan has never imagined that telling Gieve, of all people, would feel like this — as if he’s sharing this insurmountable pressure and frustration that he’d been unable to disclose to anyone else because he’d always been able to handle this on his own.

But this is a collaboration; he has a partner this time, and it looks like Gieve is just as ambitious and driven as he is in this regard.

“So, it seems like we have a similar goal,” Gieve’s smile grows wider, almost scheming.

“It would seem so, yes,” Isfan is still wary of the other man’s intention but he’s willing to hear him out for now.

“I don’t know about you, but for me, it’s go big or go home. So why don’t we aim for our song to reach the number one spot in the Pars Top 40 chart?”

#arslansenkifandomday2017 #arslan senki #the heroic legend of arslan #gieve #isfan #isfan/gieve #gieve/isfan #bowie's crappy writing

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