いやっ、ゼンゼン。

"Vocals? Wonderful! One second." The musician ran off to the far corner of the room, retrieving a mic, stand, and cable. In a flash, she had it all set up, placed between where the two first began to speak.

"Alright, you can warm up and such here. As soon as you’re ready, just gimme a sign over there-" She pointed to another wall, with a small window cutout. “And I’ll turn everything on for you. The monitor is this box right here-” She motioned to a stationary box near the mic stand. “and it should be already set at a good vocal volume. I’m not amazing at mixing, but I’ll be sure to make you sound as good as you possibly can! No worries, once we get everyone I’ll make sure to hire a real sound guy. Anyway, you take your time and I’ll let you do your thing, yeah?”

And off the drummer went into the next room. She quickly fiddled with the board, making sure everything was turned on and at the right setting. The studio was small, so they couldn’t afford amazing equipment, but their speakers and boards were passable. Apparently, they spent most of their money on mics most of the employees didn’t even know how to use. Luckily, the drummer learned enough about sound at school to get them to work.

She wasn't sure if she was nervous about that or not, though.

In all reality, she did want to turn to the young lady and inform her that there was no need for warm ups, that she could perform just as swell if she did not. It would only be a borderline ignominious lie, however, and there was more than plenty reason within her to allow her vocal chords to vibrate and produce incomplete lyrics if only for a few minutes.

"Simply crying is just so easy, but the sadness won't wash away. This love, even this parting, was, after all, my decision..." The pitch was definitely off, but not to the point where she would cringe. It was acceptable enough.

"Can I start."

TO: Gumi FROM: Luka M. 

Recipient: Luka M.

Sender: Gumi

(New Message)

TO: ??? FROM: Luka M. 

Recipient: Luka M.

Sender: Gumi

It didn’t help that the girl opened her mouth to make the comment that she did, either. In fact, it really didn’t help at all—and he froze, withdrawing meekly to peek up at her through some of his curls. What did she expect him to say? Was it a joke? Was she serious? Shit. 

"N…no, I just thought…" Now he was flustered all over again, pursing his lips and holding the napkin he’d been using out to the girl while he averted his eyes. He wouldn’t like having a stranger’s hands all over him, either…so maybe he should just butt out and save the rest of his dignity.

Even still, she takes a stray napkin and wipes it off quickly but with a delicate hand, turning the dual screens towards him. She's allowed herself to hold it in such a way that she can pop out the cartridge with just a simple push of her index finger, though, and the game is now frozen in place. A bit awkwardly due to positioning, she presses down onto the buttons -- up, down, A, B. "See? It's not working. Look at what you did."

The city of Kairos was a bustling metropolis. Or, as close to a bustling metropolis as you could get. It was a lively city, with the background chatter never dying down, and events hidden somewhere during every part of the day. Many of these events were advertised via posters and leaflets posted around. But there was one important one that seemed to appear in many parts of the city.

A flyer, printed on dull pink paper as a means to stand out, was posted. Really, it only stood out due to the somewhat crude drawing of the creator printed in the left corner of the page.

Come join the city’s best drummer and a famous violinist* in Kairos’ soon-to-be favorite rock band!

Vocalist, guitarist, and bassist desperately needed.

Other talent and managerial positions are appreciated.

Auditions begin on April 25th from 5-8pm at the address below.

For inquiries, call Raiko Horikawa at 555-1886

Under the notice, an address was scribbled, along a crude map, leading straight to the city’s smallest recording studio. This place was known only to the indie folk and start-ups, hidden away in the middle of an alleyway near the center of the city. 

It was here that Raiko sat. Rocking on her chair back and forth, the drummer whistled her favorite tunes as she banged her drumsticks on the table. To think, she had to sit here for three hours, doing nothing. And she had to pay for it too. Renting studio rooms isn’t cheap. Ah, but it’s for the sake of her band, she told herself. You can’t make a band out of two instrumentalists. To be the best, they had to branch out.

Well, “start” would be the better word. The band didn’t even have a name yet. At least not a proper one. Ideas were thrown out, but none ever stuck. So they stayed nameless for now. Not very good of a band to not even have a name. But baby steps, dear friends.

For now, more band members are a necessity. Band name can come later. Raiko moved to the next song, tapping out the new beat lightly. For once, the drummer didn’t seem lively. A few days of being stuck inside got to her. However, the sound of the door opening brought all that energy back.

Gumi rips the paper off its post.

The sign is crumpled and shoved into her jacket's pocket, where her hand begins to perspire around it. It's a bit too warm to wear a hoodie, but she doesn't particularly care. She has more things to worry about -- for example, attempting to fulfill this vocalist position, even though she's fully aware it won't get her (the both of them!) anywhere.

The studio that she was directed to was... mediocre. It was small, and wasn't impressive in the least, Recalling the image of the female renter that was provided by the horrible scribble slapped onto the corner of the paper, however, she imagined it was at least some sort of accomplishment to have been able to find and afford this place.

There was a bell to indicate that a person had entered through the doorway. Gumi cringed.

A loud and enthusiastic voice to serve as a greeting made it worse.

"Uh..."

"Uh, yeah. Right." As opposed to answering right away, she takes to observing the studio. At first, a wide and slow-turning glance to take in the general entirety of the space, then slow and quiet steps to visually ingest the exact and sharp details of their shared surroundings. If there was a crevice, or perhaps a crack immortalized within the sheetrock, it would not be unlikely for her to notice it.

It was just another day of working for Kyle, honestly. Taking orders and bringing out food and taking back the plates…except, today, he had a number of things on his mind. There was a lot to ponder about his recent life developments and a lot to wonder if he was doing right. The self supplied answer to most of those thoughts was no, he probably wasn’t doing anything right. That would be something to work on.

Another thing that he needed to work on, maybe, was paying attention to where he was going when he had a large dish of food in his hand instead of thinking about his gay personal problems. That could possibly be helpful, as with his absentminded place of thought—he tripped.

It all played in slow motion before him; the catch of his foot on the chair, the stumble and muttered curse that slipped from his lips, the flip of the plate off his tray.

The splat of spaghetti and meatballs against a customer’s clothing.

Well.

"Shit…shit, oh my god…oh shit." He quickly pulled a napkin out, panicking, kneeling to pull away strands of spaghetti and dab at the areas splattered with meat sauce. "Shit…shit shit shit…” It was hopeless. He just kept dabbing and feeling like he was about to cry. Lord help him. Lord strike him down.

She doesn't even notice the guy approaching her, too busy tapping away at her 3DS, and her eyes squeeze shut right away as the food hits her. She just cleaned this jacket and that's a miracle, because she never does her laundry, but especially when it comes to her jackets, and now this miracle has been ruined by this spawn of Satan.

When she looks over, she cracks a simper and just watches as he pitifully tries to wipe away some of the spilled food.

finally draws OTP