Bet (12): A Shameful Matter
Tae-il had been active as a bassist for quite some time, but he had almost no real band experience. At best, it was short-lived project bands that disbanded after a few sessions, or session gigs where he'd barely cross paths with the others on stage once or twice. Naturally, he'd never been the protagonist of a band, nor felt any sense of belonging as a member.
The closest he'd come to feeling like he was in a real band was when he teamed up with seniors preparing for graduation and practiced together. They'd stuck it out for over half a year, hadn't they? It was the happiest time in his music career.
Those seniors were pros from the field, so after graduating, they jumped straight back into their real jobs. They were originally members of a pretty flashy indie band. Tae-il would watch them go wild on stage, even more dazzling than when they were with him, and feel pangs of inferiority.
They couldn't show their true selves around me.
They were holding back for my sake.
And even with their help, all I got was dirty looks from the prof.
That was probably when it started—when his self-esteem began to shrink bit by bit. Excluding time for part-time jobs and studying, his practice sessions, which used to eat up nearly ten hours a day, started dwindling. Music versus reality. The scales, once overwhelmingly tipped toward music, slowly swung toward reality.
To stand out more. To try harder than anyone. That drive faded away. On stage, all that was left was a bassist filling a slot. Nothing but repeating bland basslines that even a guitarist could pick up in minutes. He always talked about wanting to be in a band, but doubts crept in.
"Do I even want to be in a band?"
Is there even a band out there that needs me? His heart gradually drifted away from bands. Even during practices, he couldn't blend in, always on the outskirts. With his heart not in it, his skills stagnated, and people stopped seeking him out. The practice time he desperately crammed to ten hours a day couldn't even hit ten minutes anymore. Calluses softened, skin smoothed out. His fingers no longer smelled of wood and metal.
How did it come to this? Tae-il wondered. Surely, at first, he'd wanted to be a cool bassist like his cousin.
But the towering wall of reality crushed him, cold hard truth broke his spirit. Once his glittering dream folded away, time started piling up. Tae-il fell into fantasies. That's when it began—the boy whose world was bass started leaning elsewhere.
Fantasizing. Wandering. And finally, finding a new aspiration. The scales tipped completely. Before he knew it, Tae-il imagined not himself on stage as a bassist, but someone singing the songs he created.
Not your typical bandman's mindset. For Tae-il, composing had originally been a means, not an end. A tool to impress at auditions. But priorities flipped, and he developed a producer-composer mentality over bandman.
What even defines a band? A group of people handling different instruments, coming together in harmony. An orchestra. A band can't be solo. But the bands in Tae-il's head were always alone. On stage, only Iris shone. Sakuya with her killer performance and stage presence? Rena valiantly filling the drums non-stop despite her tiny frame? Ayane quietly nailing her role? All of them—mere accessories to prop up Arisugawa Iris as the vocalist.
A one-man band. His vision started resembling the public's dismissive view of those solo acts common in Korea. But even that felt a bit lacking, so he slotted in himself and the original story's band—not as fluid collaborators, but as appendages to Iris and the kids.
"Ah."
Being in a band isn't just jamming together. It's the whole activity. Bands aren't like idols, manufactured with every cultural, racial, ideological, taste, and personality factor calculated. People who naturally love music gather, fight, reconcile, compromise, care, and harmonize. That's a band.
Tae-il was different. He wanted a band, but at the core wasn't a performer's mindset—it was a creator's deeply personal desire.
"Aah."
Only then did Tae-il realize. What he wanted wasn't a band.
Just... like playing a nurturing sim game. He wanted to create his ideal band.
"Sorry."
Tae-il pushed Iris away and apologized. "I... don't think I wanted to be in a band."
"Yeah?" Pushed aside, Iris looked at him with pity in her eyes. Hiding his face in his hands, head bowed, he radiated self-loathing.
"I'm a filthy, dictatorial bastard."
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Too small-minded for a leader role."
"Agreed."
"I'm just human trash incarnate."
"That too."
The more she affirmed, the more he shrank. "A clueless moron fuck..."
"Well..."
Tae-il flinched. For the first time, Iris gave an ambiguous response to his self-bashing.
He cautiously lifted his head. She wasn't crying, but her face was on the verge.
"Arisugawa...?"
One wrong touch, and her emotions might crumble like a dam.
"Kinda... hurts..." Iris forced a smile, rubbing her stinging eyes. "Your self-hate, I mean."
She gave a wry smile. "Feels like it applies to me too."
"What do you...?"
"I'm the same. Dictatorial, small-minded, hurting people deep—human trash who doesn't know her place. All from middle school."
Iris gently took his hand, smiling bittersweetly. "Please, stop the self-hate. It hurts me more listening."
"Arisugawa..."
"And get some confidence. Believe me or not, when I first heard your songs in the practice room, I felt fate, just like you said."
The songs Tae-il showed were ones he didn't hype much himself. Iris didn't go "whoa!" either—maybe the lack of guide vocals made them feel flat.
Still. They'd gone beyond mere composition into near-complete arrangements. Honestly, for a student, the quality was insanely high, regardless of taste.
That's when she realized. Tae-il truly loved music. A band with Arisugawa Iris needed Shin Tae-il.
"You said it, right? You'd make songs I wanna scream out, songs only I can sing."
"I was too embarrassed to say it properly, but I loved it. Someone saying that to me—honored, fateful, y'know?"
"But that's..."
"I scolded you a bit earlier, but wanna hear my honest feelings?"
"Honest?"
Iris beamed, cradling his hand in both of hers. "I want you to keep writing songs for me. Hate the idea of someone else taking them."
What Tae-il made was for her alone, out of Earth's 7 billion-plus. Priceless. Even if Tenma Izumi asked, she'd refuse.
"But we gotta talk it out with the others."
"Talk what?"
"Announce your songs are all for me. Not casually—officially."
Tae-il's ears turned red. Her words were that bold.
"Won't Ayane get mad...?"
"She kinda knows, right? She's been sulking hard since you picked me as vocalist."
"Haha, yeah..." Tae-il laughed wearily. Ayane's complaints were tough for him too.
Separate from acknowledging her as vocalist, Ayane had tons of gripes with Iris back then.
"Anyway, songs you make are mine too, right?"
"Well..."
Obviously songs for her to sing. Her claiming them wasn't weird.
"So, we share responsibility. Even this victimless plagiarism thing."
"Same deal?"
"Don't shoulder it alone. I said it—it's about our band's lifespan."
Honestly, Iris couldn't grasp "victimless plagiarism." Did the composer die unpublished? How'd Tae-il know it? Acquaintance? Then be bolder. Worst case, he stole it—but then he wouldn't reveal it. Tae-il lacked the guts for outright crime; he was timid.
Results-wise, she didn't get why he suffered so. But as a bandmate, she wanted to share the burden.
"We share the blame equally."
"How can we...!"
"Shin Tae-il, know the key feature of band music?"
"Band music's chords are super straightforward..."
"Not chord progressions!"
"..."
Tae-il clammed up, clueless. Iris facepalmed at his reaction.
"Idiot. Bands often list members in composer-arranger credits!"
"Ah."
Tae-il got it. Usually one member composes, but not always. Arrangements especially—members collab on riffs, ideas, perfecting the track. Slapping the band name in credits? That's them 9/10 times.
"I did think of it. Once your skills grow more..."
"So frustrating! We start now to grow!"
"Uh..."
"How long you gonna baby them? You know Ayane's studying chords?"
"Yeah..."
Bassists benefit hugely from music theory. Ayane grimaced but followed his advice, diving into harmony. Not rote memorization—chord use in composition.
Iris thumped her chest in frustration at his timidity.
"Why's she doing that? Think!"
"Because of me..."
"Obviously! I've been eyeing Ayane lately, so I'm studying too!"
Anyway! Iris cleared her throat. "What I'm saying is..."
Bands live and die together.
"Our Peach Garden Oath. Got it?"
"Didn't they all die separately?"
"It's a figure of speech! And yeah, they died!"
Even wrong roads lead to Seoul, she smacked his hand. "So play it quick. I'm in a rush."
"Play what?"
"The bet song!"
Iris urged him eagerly. "All of 'em—your originals and that plagiarism one you agonized over showing me!"
She sprang up, inhaling deeply. "I'll sing it back to you right here!"
"Suddenly?"
Tae-il looked troubled at her vow to sing an unguided track.
"You guide me. Right, original composer?"
"W-well, yeah, but..."
"That's a yes?"
Iris snatched his smartphone, placing both on the table. One for record, one for play. The song flowed before he could stop her.
"Agh..."
The intro screamed lyrical, sensitive—obviously Tae-il's.
"Nice melody. Guide Vocal-san, ready?"
"I-I gotta...?"
"Duh! Just hum roughly. I'll match and make it epic."
Iris was embarrassed too. But to ease his burden, boost confidence—singing was essential.
Plus, she was the vocalist he hyped as top-tier. A monstrous rookie who'd boast in front of Izumi.
Gotta live up to the leader's expectations.
The pressure wasn't just Tae-il's for making songs she'd love. Iris fretted her vocals falling short too. Time to crush that anxiety.
Your songs are great plagiarism or not. That's what she wanted to say.
"Don't worry. No shame. I got you."
"Haa... gonna lose it..."
Tae-il ruffled his hair wildly, then hummed softly. First lines enunciated, later mumbling—half-forgotten lyrics?
Iris sang along unfazed, raising her voice.
"I had a dream."
"A dream that vanished like bubbles—my resolve to chase it crumbled all too easily."
"Without drive, just self-hating alone, I gave up."
"Rain feels refreshing? Lies. Washing away negativity? Lies too."
"Scars linger, unwashed by rain, dragging you into doubt's swamp."
"Flee in fear, but same worries loop—scars untouched, unhealed."
"Wrap frailty in foolish pretense, live sloppily like a bum."
"Regret surges late? Already too late, turn away."
"But at the voice calling me, end the long escape."
The track kept playing from the phone, but Tae-il clamped his mouth shut.
"..."
"Not singing more?"
Iris grinned. Structurally, chorus time—climax.
Tae-il flapped his lips like a fish.
"I love you."
Not mumbling—clear, pre-written lines. Highlight lyrics burned bright.
"Not empty words like always, but for real..."
Turn back from time-crushed neglect. Return to my place.
Still there—you and I, starting anew.
"What."
Iris blurted. "A confession?"
Tae-il snarked back. "Nope."