Chapter Text
now
Krailert aimlessly hit some of the keys on his keyboard, watching the notation pop up on the connected computer. Then he slammed his hand down and deleted everything from the past five minutes.
It was fine. He only had ten more minutes of screentime to get through on this composition, and for some reason, that was blocking him. All he needed was a repetition of the main theme, really, but… it was lacking something, and Krailert hadn’t slept well enough the previous night for his brain to be pinpointing what, exactly, not this long after his coffee.
With a sigh of frustration, he abandoned his digital keyboard and walked over to the upright piano he kept in a corner of his studio. The wood was stained a deep, reddish brown, and it was old enough that the keys were actual ivory. They were smooth under his fingers, slightly cool.
He began to play. He didn’t think about it; just let his fingers choose, let muscle memory and inspiration take him. After ten minutes or so, he felt calmer, more focused, and when he returned to his desk, he added a bright series of chords over the top of the violin melody.
There, that was better.
Or at least, he had something to start working from, as he viewed and reviewed the last couple of minutes. It was a bittersweet ending to the admittedly good short film, and Krailert played around with several variations on the theme, testing them against the video to see which one might fit. He moved the latest one to a ‘deleted’ document when there was a knock at his door.
It could only be one person, so Krailert saved the project and went to the door.
“Veera, hello.”
The man in question gave Krailert a gentle up-and-down look, before letting himself into the studio. He had his violin case hooked over his shoulder, rumpling the collar of his polo shirt.
“You seem stressed, Lert.”
Krailert huffed. “The last few minutes of this project are being difficult.”
“Mm,” Veera said, settling himself into the spare armchair that was de facto his. “You say that at the end of every project, though, and then I tell you…” He tilted his head meaningfully towards Krailert, who sighed.
“You tell me to leave it.”
“And does that work?”
“Unfortunately,” Krailert said with a bemused smile, and Veera responded with a smug look.
“Right. So you’re going to do that, because you have a lunch with Trin right now, and I’m sure you don’t want to miss that.”
“Shit.” Krailert checked the time on his phone. He was definitely cutting it close—not for the first time, he was glad to have Veera as a friend and collaborator. “Thanks for the heads up. Are you staying here?”
Veera nodded towards his violin. “Going to practice. We’re still recording after lunch?”
Krailert nodded, made sure to leave the studio keys with Veera, and took his leave. He stepped out into the sweltering heat of Bangkok, following the rush of traffic towards the SkyTrain. The place where he usually met Trin was only a few stops and another ten-minute walk away, and Krailert slid into one of the plastic seats across from Trin just as Trin was pulling out his phone.
“Ah, you made it,” Trin said with a grin, returning his phone to his pocket. “I was starting to worry.” He was dressed informally today, a striped T-shirt and jeans, so he hadn’t been to work today.
“Lost track of time,” Krailert said, running a hand through his hair only partially to disguise him wiping sweat off his forehead. “Did you order already?”
In answer, Trin slid over one of the glasses of juice in front of him. It was a bright yellow colour, the ice cubes taking up half the space. “I’ve already ordered for us both.”
“Thanks,” Krailert said, taking a sip. Passion fruit and lychee. “And for ordering. How have you been?”
The auntie who manned the locale brought them their food halfway through a story Trin was recounting about one of his students completely misunderstanding the assignment. Trin had ordered a curry dish for himself, and somtum for Krailert, and he dug in while listening to Trin talk. The food was delicious, as always—Krailert rarely ate out anymore, preferring to cook or just order to his house, but this was a good reminder of why he should make an effort more often to stop at a food stall.
Trin paused to eat—inhale, really—some of his curried catfish. “I’ve talked so much about myself, though—what about you?” Despite his chewing, Trin had that look on his face that all of Krailert’s family had started wearing whenever they asked Krailert how he was doing.
“Oi, oi,” Krailert said, reaching out to tweak Trin’s ear, “Did my brother put you up to this?”
“My mother, actually,” Trin confessed after swallowing.
“You tell her I’m doing perfectly fine. I’m not a poor man—your father should know this!” Krailert moodily took a sip of his juice. His brother had refused to take his half of the company in inheritance, after all.
“I think he’s just worried.” He paused, shooting Krailert a glance full of reproach. “I also worry.” That was Trin, always the best of them. Krailert gave him a smile that he hoped was reassuring.
“Trin, I promise you I am doing well.” Trin didn’t look convinced.
“But what have you been doing? Do you go out?”
“I’m out right now.”
“With someone other than me, Uncle.” Trin rolled his eyes, looking like he was a teenager again. Krailert wanted to reach over and ruffle his hair, like he had when Trin was a kid, and so he did. Trin squawked satisfyingly.
“I see Veera all the time,” he said, which wasn’t even a lie.
“And other than Veera.”
“I see people.” That wasn’t a lie either—his daily commute involved seeing a lot of people. He’d said it with a mild smile, but from the look Trin was giving him, he was also aware that Krailert was, at best, bending the truth.
“Sure… any luck with work? Dad specifically asked me to ask you that, before you get annoyed.”
Krailert rolled his eyes. “Of course he did. You can tell him to mind his own business. I’m still not looking for anything.”
This, finally, was a lie, but it was a practiced one. It slipped so easily off Krailert’s tongue it may as well have been the truth. But he selfishly wanted to keep the reality of his situation to himself—or at least, between him and Veera. Dhevi also knew, come to think of it.
“Okay, I’ll let them know,” Trin said with a skeptical nod of his head when Krailert didn’t provide any more information.
“I’m more interested in what you’re up to, anyways,” Krailert replied. “What happened to that other professor you were supposed to be working with?”
“Ah! Did I not tell you?” Trin asked, and then started telling Krailert again about—well, it sounded awfully political, despite supposedly being academic. Of course, Krailert mused, his own encounters with academia had all had their fair share of politics, so he couldn’t say he was surprised.
They finished their meal with more idle chatter, Krailert telling Trin about a book he was reading, Trin showing Krailert clips from a TV show that he apparently should watch, despite knowing full well that Krailert didn’t watch TV. It was comfortable, and Krailert gave his nephew a strong hug as they parted ways at the SkyTrain.
The ride back was calm. Maybe Krailert did need to get out more—he felt much better having spoken to someone, even if it was not about very much at all from his end.
It had been almost nine years since Krailert had quit the performance world, and he had yet to regret it.
It had been almost five years since Veera had proposed Krailert try his hand at composing, since he was ‘always moping at the piano’, and by now Krailert had composed scores for a handful of TV shows and movies. They were simple pieces, instrumentally speaking—just a piano, and some strings from Veera or synthesized if he needed it—but his work had been noticed, and Veera had smoothly taken over the role of agent as well, with occasional help from Dhevi.
Krailert had, naturally, done all this under a pen name, not wanting to draw his family’s attention to it. He hadn’t expected that relative anonymity to persist as long as it had, though.
And now… how to tell his family?
Certainly, his parents had wanted him to go back to performing in concert halls, which was something Krailert would rather break his own fingers than do. And then they’d gone and died, leaving Krailert with a company he hadn’t wanted but that had, nonetheless, kept his lights on while he recovered from burnout and, despite their fraught relationship, grief.
His brother wouldn’t care, would probably be thrilled to see Krailert doing something again, but Krailert just felt like keeping something to himself. His whole life since he’d begun to play had been a series of events designed to parade him out in front of others like cattle.
Yes, he loved music more than anything, more than breathing—but the pressure. The demand for perfection, for Krailert to never make a mistake, the way that demand had covered not only his public life but also his private one…
No, quitting had been the best decision of his life.
It was with these thoughts in mind that Krailert arrived back at his studio. The studio itself had been a birthday gift from Dhevi, around the time that Veera had been encouraging him to compose for money; she’d had it soundproofed and bought state-of-the-art recording equipment. It had been, and was still, a deeply touching gift.
Dhevi had simply given him a hug and told him she was glad to see he was feeling better. Krailert had cried.
He knocked on the door, then rang the doorbell. After a few seconds, Veera opened the door.
“Welcome back,” he said, returning to the chair where he’d propped up his violin. He set it down in its case, and sat down. “How was lunch?”
“Good. It’s always nice to see Trin.”
Veera nodded in understanding. “He’s a good kid.”
“Sure is.” Krailert sat down at his own desk, waking his computer. Then he scowled at Veera. “What’s this?”
Front and center in his screen was his work email, which Krailert actively avoided opening. One specific message was open, and Krailert skimmed it while Veera waved him to do so.
“Absolutely not,” Krailert said with finality when he finished reading. Veera let out a put-upon sigh.
“Well, at least I tried. I guess I’ll just email back saying that their composer who is nominated for a Golden Goblet isn’t going to make it…”
“Your guilt-tripping won’t work on me, Veera. That’s exactly what you’ll be saying.”
Veera met that with an unbothered shrug. “One of these days, I’ll get you.”
“When Bangkok freezes over.”
“Hah! Well, should we record today?”
Krailert forcefully closed the email application and opened up sheet music. Veera had already gotten his microphones set up for recording, so Krailert sent the sheet music files over to his tablet, and let him finish setting up what he needed while he adjusted the piano.
When they were both ready, they began; no fanfare, just a practiced look to each other and slipping seamlessly into the music. Was it strictly necessary for them to record it all in one go? Possibly not, but Krailert inevitably liked how that sounded more.
They played the rest of the afternoon away, switching tracks several times and finally doing recordings of just the violin that Krailert could provide the sound designers with. He preferred recording both instruments live and simultaneously, but not everyone wanted to have both instruments on a single track.
Krailert stretched his fingers while Veera put away his violin and microphones; then he checked his phone. A message from his brother, confirming that Trin had passed on word; a message from Dhevi in her groupchat with Krailert and Veera, asking how recording was going; and then an email from, of all people, Moira.
Krailert opened the email with no small amount of trepidation, his eyebrows climbing as he read on.
Hello Krailert,
I hope you’re doing well. I apologize for the short notice on this, but as you may be aware, we are hosting a gala-fundraiser for the conservatory in two weeks. The pianist we had lined up to play—maybe you’ve heard of her if you’re keeping abreast of the piano world, Chuasiri Phatipatanawong? She’s quite excellent—she suffered an injury and had to pull out. While not strictly necessary, we do like to show off the skills of our past students. As I know you still live in Bangkok, I was wondering if you would be available? We only ask for a short piece, maybe fifteen minutes, but your time will be compensated and you will of course be provided with dinner.
Let me know if you would be open to this.
Best wishes,
Moira
“Well, I think you should do it,” Veera said, peering over Krailert’s shoulder to read the message. Krailert shot him a glare.
“I don’t want to be involved in that world anymore.”
“It’s hardly an involvement,” Veera countered, and as Krailert reread the email, he had to concede that maybe Veera was right. “I’m saying this in the position of your friend, not your agent. You can go, make everyone happy with your public appearance—even if it’s not really public, Moira’s events are always ticket-only—play something short, and then leave with money and a meal. Plus I’m sure Dhevi will be going, so she can keep you company.”
“So you can keep me company, you mean?”
“If Miss Dhevi wants me to be there, I will of course accompany her,” Veera said graciously, and Krailert’s lips twitched into a smile. Dhevi and Veera were a sweet couple, not in the least because it was so blindingly obvious how much they cared about each other. Then he blew out a stream of air.
“I’ll think on it.”
Veera patted him on the shoulder.
When Krailert got home, the first thing he did was shower, and the second thing he did was cook himself some quick fried rice. Then he wandered over to his piano room—this one had been soundproofed, and the apartment bought, with money from Krailert’s own records—and sat down at the keys.
Playing for fun was different than playing for money. No one cared if he made mistakes, if he repeated the same motif ten times just to let it sink into his bones, or if he mixed and matched songs from different eras when the chords hit him right for a switch. It was freeing, it was calming; it was the very reason Krailert played at all.
Eventually, though, his eyes started to grow tired, and Krailert removed himself to his bed, where he tried to read a few pages of his latest romance novel. His eyes were too tired for that, as well, and he set the book down more quickly than normal.
He checked his phone again for the time, and then realized it was a Wednesday. Reinvigorated, he tabbed over and found the newest update from his favourite podcast, Enveloped in Melody. It updated every other week, and the host had a comforting voice—Krailert suspected he was Thai, based on the accent he had while speaking English, but he couldn’t prove it.
The new episode had a longer runtime than usual, as well. Normally Enveloped in Melody ran around thirty minutes, which was long enough for the host to introduce a piece of music, talk about some musical features, and draw that out into an overview of the historical elements connected to it. This episode was more than double that.
For a moment, Krailert wondered if he should even try to listen to it tonight. Enveloped in Melody was interesting and well-written, yes, but Krailert would hate to fall asleep in the middle… then again, that wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.
Krailert chewed his lip for a moment. In the end, even if he did fall asleep in the middle, wouldn’t it be better to get a head start on thinking (or dreaming) of his reply? He tapped the new episode to pull it up.
When it opened, title and cover filling his phone screen, Krailert’s stomach dropped to the floor.
There, under the Enveloped in Melody: Season 3 Episode 8 title, the subtitle read just one word: Eos.
Krailert’s pen name.