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metamorphosis2016-11-18 11:38 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2016-11-18 11:38 pm
Entry tags:
506;
Title: jukebox
Characters: Decim, Chiyuki
Rating: G
The jukebox nestled against the side of Quindecim is something she sees every day; she never gives it any thought, gaze drifting as they wait for guests to arrive, but today she wakes up with the urge to do something with it.
She's just not entirely sure what though. On a cursory look-over it seems to be in working condition (the buttons press easily enough, there's lights, things like that), but no sound comes out. She's just about to give up when she spots the coin slot to the side and groans softly, pressing her hand to her face. Yeah, of course that'd be it.
Decim stares at her when she asks if he's got a coin or something to put in. He glances at the jukebox as if he's noticing it for the first time—despite the fact he's been working here longer than her and it's his bar—and turns back to her, setting his hand-towel down.
He could find one for her, if she'd like, and when she nods slowly he turns to look for one. She taps her fingers on the counter, watching the jukebox, and tilts her head when he sets a a silver coin in front of her fifteen minutes later. Decim nods when she thanks him and picks it up between two fingers, sliding off the bar stool and making her way over.
Problem number two arrives the second she puts the coin in and punches in a number: the jukebox gives a start and doesn't put a record on. She huhs softly, leaning over it with a frown, and realizes upon inspecting it closer that... there's not actually any music in it. It's a jukebox in outward appearance only, completely devoid of the usual stack of records. She raps her knuckles against the top of it to get Decim's attention, and once she has it she sweeps her open hand across it, staring at him in disbelief.
He proceeds to disappear for a few minutes and return with a couple of records, holding them out to her. She takes them from him with a grateful smile, and between the two of them they manage to get a key and open the damn thing. The few records get put in their place, the jukebox gets shut, and she steps away feeling a little prouder than before. She can sort of guess why there wasn't anything in it—why would there be, when he has a mannequin he can marionette into playing the piano?—but there's no replacing the jivey tunes that come with an old-fashioned box like this.
She doesn't feel like she's spent a lot of time around something like this before, but she knows that much.
It takes a couple of tries to figure out what numbers they're correlating to, but soon there's warm, dulcet tones filling the room. She leans against the jukebox, eyes closed, and shakes her head when Decim asks if she knows the song. It's almost unfair to ask an amnesiac that anyway, and she nearly teases him about it before she decides on something better than the reminder that she doesn't exactly remember much of anything anymore.
She holds her hand out, and after a moment Decim seems to get it, sliding his hand beneath hers. He's not exactly warm, but he isn't cold, either; his hands are a little rough but not unpleasant or dry, and she curls her fingers into his. Dancing comes more naturally to her than it does to him—he's content to let her use him to spin and twirl, to be a support when she dips low and she needs something to keep her from falling. The records cycle one by one as they put in coins until they start to repeat, and after a rousing fifth rendition of some cat song, she's settled back into a bar stool, Decim standing behind her at the counter.
The music is nicer than the busy quiet, but as the latter blankets the room again—interrupted only by the clink of glasses and the soft rustle of fabric—she decides she doesn't mind it that much.
Characters: Decim, Chiyuki
Rating: G
The jukebox nestled against the side of Quindecim is something she sees every day; she never gives it any thought, gaze drifting as they wait for guests to arrive, but today she wakes up with the urge to do something with it.
She's just not entirely sure what though. On a cursory look-over it seems to be in working condition (the buttons press easily enough, there's lights, things like that), but no sound comes out. She's just about to give up when she spots the coin slot to the side and groans softly, pressing her hand to her face. Yeah, of course that'd be it.
Decim stares at her when she asks if he's got a coin or something to put in. He glances at the jukebox as if he's noticing it for the first time—despite the fact he's been working here longer than her and it's his bar—and turns back to her, setting his hand-towel down.
He could find one for her, if she'd like, and when she nods slowly he turns to look for one. She taps her fingers on the counter, watching the jukebox, and tilts her head when he sets a a silver coin in front of her fifteen minutes later. Decim nods when she thanks him and picks it up between two fingers, sliding off the bar stool and making her way over.
Problem number two arrives the second she puts the coin in and punches in a number: the jukebox gives a start and doesn't put a record on. She huhs softly, leaning over it with a frown, and realizes upon inspecting it closer that... there's not actually any music in it. It's a jukebox in outward appearance only, completely devoid of the usual stack of records. She raps her knuckles against the top of it to get Decim's attention, and once she has it she sweeps her open hand across it, staring at him in disbelief.
He proceeds to disappear for a few minutes and return with a couple of records, holding them out to her. She takes them from him with a grateful smile, and between the two of them they manage to get a key and open the damn thing. The few records get put in their place, the jukebox gets shut, and she steps away feeling a little prouder than before. She can sort of guess why there wasn't anything in it—why would there be, when he has a mannequin he can marionette into playing the piano?—but there's no replacing the jivey tunes that come with an old-fashioned box like this.
She doesn't feel like she's spent a lot of time around something like this before, but she knows that much.
It takes a couple of tries to figure out what numbers they're correlating to, but soon there's warm, dulcet tones filling the room. She leans against the jukebox, eyes closed, and shakes her head when Decim asks if she knows the song. It's almost unfair to ask an amnesiac that anyway, and she nearly teases him about it before she decides on something better than the reminder that she doesn't exactly remember much of anything anymore.
She holds her hand out, and after a moment Decim seems to get it, sliding his hand beneath hers. He's not exactly warm, but he isn't cold, either; his hands are a little rough but not unpleasant or dry, and she curls her fingers into his. Dancing comes more naturally to her than it does to him—he's content to let her use him to spin and twirl, to be a support when she dips low and she needs something to keep her from falling. The records cycle one by one as they put in coins until they start to repeat, and after a rousing fifth rendition of some cat song, she's settled back into a bar stool, Decim standing behind her at the counter.
The music is nicer than the busy quiet, but as the latter blankets the room again—interrupted only by the clink of glasses and the soft rustle of fabric—she decides she doesn't mind it that much.