93: Chapter 93 Milan

Ariana squeezed over from the side, her high ponytail swaying in the crowd. She reached out and gave him a high-five.

"You said that entering the recording studio can be a happy thing. Actually, you were the one who let me know that being serious doesn't mean having a straight face."

"That time at Coachella, you were playing the Steinway in the desert, and the wind blew your hair into a mess. I thought to myself, this person is so serious about music, yet so casual about himself."

She pulled her hand back, adjusted her silver earring, and said, "Next time you come to my recording studio, it won't be for work, it'll be for fun."

At the other end of the hallway, G-Dragon was surrounded by a few Korean reporters for an interview.

He saw Chen Mo through a gap in the crowd, said "Hold on" to the reporters, and then walked over.

In a deep blue suit with light blonde hair, he walked at a measured pace. He came to a stop in front of Chen Mo and extended his hand.

"Congratulations on the two big awards." G-Dragon's English had a Korean accent, but it was very clear. "When you mentioned me on stage, the Korean reporters nearby almost poked their cameras into my face."

"When I was studying at Thornton, my roommate Mike played 'Fantastic Baby' every day. He said listening to this song at the gym works better than pre-workout."

G-Dragon took out his phone and said, "Would you mind if we exchanged contact information? BIGBANG has a concert in Los Angeles next month. If you have time to come, I'll treat you to some soju."

"I'll treat you to some Maotai."

G-Dragon put his phone away, nodded, and turned back to the interview area.

The expressions of those few Korean reporters could no longer be contained; one of them growled a sentence in Korean into his phone.

That night, Chen Mo returned to the hotel.

Milan's night sky was dyed a pale orange by the city lights. Outside the window, the white spires of the cathedral in the distance glowed with a warm light in the night.

He placed the two EMA trophies on the bed, one on the left and one on the right, and then made a video call to his mother.

It rang four times before connecting.

His mother appeared on the screen, sitting on the living room sofa, with the television and a pothos plant on the windowsill in the background.

"Mom, I won two more trophies today."

His mother brought the phone closer, squinted at it for a long time, and then said something that surprised Chen Mo—

"Can this trophy be used as a cup?"

Chen Mo looked down at the two silver spheres in his hands. The EMA trophy was spherical with a flagpole sticking out of the middle, though the base was flat.

"Probably not. It doesn't have an opening."

"Then what's the use of it?" His mother's voice came through the screen, with the faint sound of his father pouring hot water in the kitchen in the background.

"It's just for display."

"The pyramid one you got last time was also just for display, but it was quite shiny." She paused, then suddenly asked, "Have you eaten yet?"

Chen Mo leaned against the headboard, picked up the two trophies from the bed, and placed them on the nightstand. The silver spheres reflected the warm light of the hotel lamp.

"Not yet. I'll go down to eat in a bit. There's a pasta place near the hotel that Scott says has great ratings."

"Then hurry up and go eat. It won't taste good if it gets cold." His mother switched the phone to her other hand, and the image shook, revealing an old photo album spread out on the coffee table.

The open page of the album showed him as a child sitting on a piano bench practicing, wearing his school uniform, his hands still very small, his fingers barely reaching the keys.

"Mom, that trophy—"

"Hmm?"

"Proves that your son isn't a loser."

There was a silence on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of his father's footsteps coming from the kitchen and the dull thud of a teacup being placed on the coffee table.

"What did you say to him?" His father's voice came from off-screen.

His mother didn't answer him, just looked at Chen Mo on the screen and brought the phone even closer.

"You were never a loser. You could play 'Für Elise' when you were seven; other kids had to practice that piece for a year."

Chen Mo leaned against the headboard as the Milan night breeze blew in through the half-open window, carrying the echo of distant church bells and the burnt aroma drifting from the corner cafe.

His mother gave a few more instructions on the other end of the screen, nothing more than telling him not to stay up late, to eat on time, and to dress warmly because Milan was cold.

He agreed to each one. After hanging up, he placed the two EMA trophies next to his suitcase and then picked up his phone to send a message to Ed.

"Pasta. Come join me."

Ed replied instantly: "Which place?"

He sent the name and address of the restaurant near the hotel.

Twenty minutes later, the two of them were sitting in a small restaurant on the corner.

Red and white checkered tablecloths, faded Serie A posters on the walls, and an old-fashioned television in the corner was silently broadcasting football news.

The proprietress brought out two plates of seafood pasta, the clam shells slightly open in the olive oil, with parsley sprinkled casually over the top.

Ed tucked his napkin into his collar, twirled a forkful of pasta into his mouth, and mumbled that this was the third pasta meal he'd had since arriving in Milan.

Yesterday lunch was squid ink pasta, dinner was lasagna, and this meal today was the third.

The ones ordered at the hotel—the hotel pasta was cooked too soft.

The pasta here was cooked just right, al dente.

Chen Mo used his fork to pierce a cherry tomato, the juices seeping into the noodles.

"My mom just asked if this trophy could be used as a cup."

Ed placed his fork on the edge of the plate.

"Your mom and my mom must be the same person. Last time I brought my Grammy Awards trophy home, my mom used it to weigh down a jar of pickled vegetables."

"I didn't notice for three months until I saw that the nameplate had rusted with green spots from the brine. She said it didn't matter because the jar was heavier than the trophy anyway."

"So your mom thinks a pickle jar is heavier than a Grammy Awards trophy?"

"A trophy is just for looking at; a pickle jar can pickle cucumbers." Ed picked up his fork again, plucked the clam out and placed it on the edge of the plate, then twirled the pasta into a ball.

"Do you know what my mom said when she called me last time? She said, 'Ed, are you tired from touring?' I said yes. She said, 'Then why do you write so many songs?'"

"I said, 'If I don't write songs, what are you going to eat?' She said, 'I can just eat pickles.' She just wants me to stop and rest."

Ed placed his fork on the edge of the plate, his red hair looking like a gentle campfire under the restaurant's warm lighting.

"But I can't stop. Can you stop?"

Chen Mo twirled a forkful of pasta, blew on it to cool it down, and then put it in his mouth.

"I couldn't stop before. I felt that if I stopped, I would fall into ruin. Now, it's okay to stop for a day occasionally. I started learning to walk slowly this year."

Ed picked up his red wine glass and clinked it against the rim of the glass resting on the table, the glass emitting a soft, crisp sound.

"Then let's walk slowly."

After finishing dinner, the two walked along the streets of Milan toward the hotel.

The October night breeze blew through the intersection ahead, carrying the chill of the Alpine snowline.

Ed wrapped his suit jacket tighter, saying he was cold and suggesting they buy a cup of hot coffee.

The corner cafe was closing up its umbrellas, and the staff were stacking the chairs and tables one by one to move them inside.

They stood at the bar and drank two espressos. Ed gulped his down like beer; the cup was so small it looked like a toy in his hand.

As a result, he burned his tongue, stuck out the tip of it, and sucked in a breath of cold air.

Chen Mo said espresso should be sipped, and Ed retorted, "Then why didn't you say so earlier?"

Chen Mo took out his phone and checked the time; it was almost one o'clock. He patted Ed on the shoulder and said they should go back to sleep, as he had to fly to London tomorrow.

Ed put the cup back on the bar and hissed, "My next tour stop is London. Are you coming?"

"When?"

"Next month, at the O2 Arena."

"I'll come. I'll play the piano for you."

To all my readers: Writing is not easy, I'm really sighing. Some trolls, I really want money.

In the book reviews, people say I write too much about domestic entertainment variety shows. I have a question mark on my face. From chapter 38 to 60, only six and a half chapters were about domestic variety shows.

I've updated to chapter 90, haven't you read the rest? I haven't written about domestic shows at all? Can't he call them brothers and sisters just because his starting point is high? I think that's just basic politeness; he's not sucking up to anyone!

And about the "assembly line" outline, I didn't even write an outline.

Some people say my style is very "Artificial Intelligence". Let's break it down and analyze it. AI is okay for writing short stories, but try writing a long novel with it?

I asked it to help me design an international talent show, wanting Chen Mo to be a talent show godfather, but it gave me a mess. The list of foreigners it came up with—I searched over fifty on Baidu, and hardly any of them were found.

By the time I finished the prototype for the show, it was 2 AM, my eyes were blind. I could have written two chapters in that time.

I listen to every song every day. Some people think they're good, some think they're average—that's normal. I welcome everyone's comments, and I welcome criticism and corrections.

My musical expertise is what I searched on Baidu, so it's definitely not professional, haha; environmental descriptions are all for the sake of transitions, mood, and plot; the speaking style mimics some foreign movies, then I put myself into the dialogue.

Also, about the Huawei matter, although I still don't know who was right or wrong, the contract wasn't renewed when it expired.

I've replied to some questions in the comments, but some people still give me bad reviews because of this. It's not because I have "sensitive skin" or a "mental breakdown" as some say; I just don't want the readers who follow the updates to misunderstand, which is why I wrote this.

Anyway, I hope my readers who follow the updates make a fortune quietly, and support me a lot. It's best if you send me support/likes every day (the dagger is revealed at the end of the map).

Sincerely!