we're pausing all the chaos; r+i

arx
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literally so gay, doing so many crimes

we're pausing all the chaos; r+i Apr 5, 2024 16:00:15 GMT -5

Post by arx on Apr 5, 2024 16:00:15 GMT -5

ALUMINIUM RUBENSTEIN

I've never actually had detention before. Straight laces look nicer—("Tie your shoes, Aloo! You make me look like I don't know how to raise my own child. Please, my son.")—and made certain I wouldn't stumble or trip or fall too far. Grounded and bound, but-

-adored.

And then I watched someone named for delicate piano keys snap drumsticks in half over cymbals.

("That's Ivory Auclair.")

She'd already managed to get all of her 'utensils' taken away—pencils, pens, paper, prime seating in the back of the room and pride privy to only her—and it still wasn't working. She wasn't silent; I don't want to be either. I try not to let my genuine grin leak into my level expression. But I can't help but watch her feet press pedals, notice the way her wrists twitch with strength to a rhythm she dares someone to take away.

"Excuse me, Professor Ignatius?"

I keep my attention where it is expected, but I can still see her in my peripherals. I want to know what she's playing. I want to sing.

"I apologize, may I move closer? I can't see what you've written on the board."

"You enjoy detention enough to want to see what I have written up here?"

He clearly didn't want to be doing this. I thought he might use my full name with the way his brow is raised. I beg him not to.

"Oh, hurry up then, Ruby." And who says puppy dog eyes and flattery don't work? "Maybe you can keep Miss Auclair here in order." I hope he can't see the way my eyes light up when he pronounces her name using only the harsh rules of music theory. I can't wait to sing it with a voice I'd been training to near perfect since I was six years old.

Ivory Auclair.

"Thank you, Professor." I say, shifting into my seat next to her at the front where she had been banished. And I behave. But she doesn't. And our supervision is falling asleep.

"Hey." She doesn't hear me, but that only annoys me because there is no way she could ignore me. I grin wider, deeper into my jaw and showing more teeth. "Think you could teach me that?" I want her to. I want her to like me. I want her to listen to me, watch me, see me—and I want her to think I'm perfect.

Last Edit: Apr 5, 2024 16:01:04 GMT -5 by arx

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

ᴥ
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we're pausing all the chaos; r+i Apr 5, 2024 17:27:02 GMT -5

Post by ᴥ on Apr 5, 2024 17:27:02 GMT -5

IVORY AUCLAIR

"I'm not going."

To which Professor ???? looked at me like I was speaking in tongues, so I told him again,

"I'm not going to detention."

Apparently that's not how that works. I get another day's punishment for being insubordinate, which is ridiculous because I don't think the man etching the basics of music theory onto a blackboard is in any way my 'superior'.

We're supposed to be contrasting the use of dissonant and consonant harmonies, instead I'm mapping notes onto ambient noise. Trying to find the pockets of pitch and rhythm; even the absence of a song holds a reluctant melody. Try as they might to fashion me a muzzle, they'd have to cut my fingers off at the knuckle to make any real headway. Even then I have wrists, and elbows, and ankles and teeth - my mind is never a quiet place.

"Hey."

There's someone next to me, an empty lecture hall stretches out on either side. I hope he gets bored soon.

Flies buzz at a higher pitch than honey bees, I wonder if it's because the latter know how to dance. I shift lower in my seat and try to decide whether a g is better sharp or flattened beneath the heel of my combat boot.

"Think you could teach me that?"

I look up, I look at him. Smiling like he knows it's pretty - I wonder if there's a bump on his head from where he wandered into the blunted end of my drumstick. It's his fault that we're here to begin with. Well not really, but his bad luck is an offense of its own.

What's his name again?

"No." I say, honest, starting up a cadence with my nails. I'd painted them like piano keys because I thought it was clever. "Nobody here could do what I do. It would just be a waste of time."

My gaze trails up the length of him, he's full of curious details but the most of which being the way he's angled toward me. Watching too. Hanging on my words like I've hooked them to his ears with needle and thread. I'm not used to it, I'm not sure I like the attention.

So I angle my face away, "If you're bored, there's an assignment." I point helpfully.

Last Edit: Apr 5, 2024 17:30:35 GMT -5 by ᴥ

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

arx
Retired Staff

2,427 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 30, 2024 12:10:53 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

we're pausing all the chaos; r+i Apr 6, 2024 0:38:06 GMT -5

Post by arx on Apr 6, 2024 0:38:06 GMT -5

ALUMINIUM RUBENSTEIN

When she sinks into her seat, I can't help but follow after her. I lean forward on my elbows and try not to let her flippant, honest- 'No.' -rot too deeply into my memories. Too deep and I'll start choking on chlorine again.

I believe her, too. But, then again, she's never met me before.

"Oh," I nod, hum to the tune her nails are tapping out against her desk and reveling in the way she's looking me over.

"Cool, thanks," I say, biting my tongue with a grin without looking away from her. "So you're doing the assignment?" She wasn't; I'd finished it already. I raise a brow, feign some deep pondering with intermittent hummed melodies and out of rhythm toe tapping.

"Interesting."

And then I make sure to shift my foot closer to hers, bashing out something even more horrendously out of form than before.

I don't like being ignored for very long though. I'm impatient that way. And with my gaze resting on her cheekbones and in her eyelashes, I make sure she hears me.

"Also," I smile. "I'm not bored." It grows wider.

"Are you?"

I can't wait for her to say, 'Yes.'

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

ᴥ
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we're pausing all the chaos; r+i Apr 6, 2024 12:14:05 GMT -5

Post by ᴥ on Apr 6, 2024 12:14:05 GMT -5

IVORY AUCLAIR

(I'm not bored.)

My expression narrows, trying to catch him in a lie. Not that it does much good, I don't often waste my time gazing at open faces. Especially since this one seems to light up whenever I so much as look at him.

(Are you?)

"Yes." I throw my chair back, screech-teetering on it's back legs. I dip low enough that the strands of a low ponytail curl against the desk behind me. Adrenaline skips a heartbeat and for a second I can finally fucking breathe. Free of metronome thumping. "I want to play music."

I stay there, hovering. Gravity begs to crack my skull open on the linoleum, a thought so pleasant I grin up at him. My forearms tense with the strain of holding myself prone, the tips of my fingers go purple-red. "Bet not many people look at you from this angle." It's a little mean, and I don't even mean it. All I want is a reaction.

The blood starts pooling in my temples, veins full to bursting so I finally pull myself upright. Not quiet nor graceful, my elbow hits the desks metal skeleton and the agony resonates. Larynx, vocal chords, vibrato. "You're a singer, yeah?" No calluses, or chapped lips - just the bleed of words into one another. Too practiced to be accidental. "Let's go play some fucking music."

My gaze finds Professor Whatshisname, fingers cupping his own jaw. He's all drooping eyes and mouth breathing, maybe hungover? At my most gentle, I am mezzo forte - he needs a better ear or a stronger liver.

"I did tell him I wasn't going to detention." I stand up and stride toward the doors. Strange enough, I stop to make sure he's following.

Not sure why I do that.

"You're not bored, so I'm sure you'd rather stay." I'm poised to run, a toe keeping the door propped open, "But it's an open invitation. Uh." I tilt my head, trying to remember what the professor had called him earlier. Nothing sticks out. "Pretty boy."

Last Edit: Apr 7, 2024 1:35:40 GMT -5 by ᴥ

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

arx
Retired Staff

2,427 POSTS

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last seen Apr 30, 2024 12:10:53 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

we're pausing all the chaos; r+i Apr 6, 2024 16:42:59 GMT -5

Post by arx on Apr 6, 2024 16:42:59 GMT -5

ALUMINIUM RUBENSTEIN

She says it—"Yes."—and it's with all the vitriol I had expected- screeching chair legs, head thrown back in annoyance, a few insults I didn't mind ringing in my ears. It meant she was looking at me.

I can't really help but wonder about her- ("She's too much for you.") -but I can hear it in her voice when she says it:

"I want to play music."

There's a raw desperation in her voice that mirrors her still tapping toes—("She's so twitchy.") ("Careful, don't let her hear you. Pretty sure she bites.") ("And not in the fun way.") ("Yeah. She's feral.") ("Rabid, probably.") ("No wonder she's on a Simons' leash.")—and her tensed wrists, bruised knuckles turning white.

"You're a singer, yeah?"

"See, now, you insult me."

I think she's trying to make me scream.

She doesn't do anything quietly. Not standing, not speaking, not slipping out of detention. I follow after her with a grin, skip a few steps ahead of her even though I was meant to be following. I yank the door back open after her, continue to attempt to walk ahead of her confident stride—"Pretty boy?"—so she can see me raise a brow, force a dimple into my cheek that I've always found catches even the most evasive of gazes.

"You can call me that if you want," I say, shuffling back into place beside her with my hands shoved in my pockets. But I make sure to keep pace with her. "Or Ruby."

I stifle a cheeky grin.

"But only if I don't bore you."

I whistle a tune to the beat of our steps; we are keeping perfect pace together.

And then turn to look at her, turn to wonder about her some more.

Let's go play some fucking music.

Let's go make some fucking music.

Last Edit: Apr 7, 2024 13:33:00 GMT -5 by arx

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

ᴥ
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we're pausing all the chaos; r+i Apr 6, 2024 20:38:44 GMT -5

Post by ᴥ on Apr 6, 2024 20:38:44 GMT -5

IVORY AUCLAIR

"I never said you were boring. Stop projecting." Two steps ahead of me, a stubborn lock-step. Sunlight spills through the corridor and he savors each one a gilded spotlight. "Are you a tenor? You act like one."

He's not wasting time, he's filling empty space. Which I can live with, as long as I get to the practice room in the same amount of time. And, if his head's not entirely full of hot air, it might actually be fun.

Oh, I just hope he ends up being fucking fantastic.

Excitement settles in my ankles, I skip a step. Jumping on the off beat, sliding into the space just ahead of him. Close enough to hook my pinky through one of the bracelets dangling on his wrist, chiming like bells against the finish on my nails. I hold his hand up, inspecting all the adornments there, and drop it unceremoniously when none catch my interest. Not loud enough.

I lean in, like we're sharing a secret, "What're you looking for, Ruby?" I pop the name between my teeth, his eyes are all soft onyx even in the sunlight spilling overhead. In defiance of it, even. "You've been observing me so carefully, surely you've found something."

I spin around; a marching-band about face, the arbitrary hours of my childhood I'd wasted learning ballroom dance put to pointless use. Our toes touch, I walk backwards for his every forward step. All childish excitement as I mime twirling drumsticks between my fingers, toss one right at his forehead again.

There's only a few flights of stairs between us and the room next to Simons' office.

"Well, whether or not I care will depend on how you sound."

I tap a finger on the tip of his nose.

"No pressure."

That's a lie.

Last Edit: Apr 6, 2024 21:16:46 GMT -5 by ᴥ

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

arx
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last seen Apr 30, 2024 12:10:53 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

we're pausing all the chaos; r+i Apr 7, 2024 21:41:29 GMT -5

Post by arx on Apr 7, 2024 21:41:29 GMT -5

ALUMINIUM RUBENSTEIN

" ... Ruby."

Oh, Ivory .

And whose first thought wouldn't be: 'So I don't bore her then.' Fools, for sure. People that were a waste of time.

I'm getting giddy, but I don't dare share it. I'd been practicing restraint and endurance with Professor Logan for months now—("You've got the discipline.") ("Sing! Let it out!") ("Don't break the gift you've honed.") ("No one wants their inspiration to die out, yeah?") ("You've got the drive.") ("You've got to love what you do!") ("You've earned this. I'm beyond proud.")—and so of course I ask her to challenge me.

I've got a voice larger than life itself and I can't wait to show it off. I dare her to make a highlighter stain over my voice. Or something. Sweat stains, blood stains-

-perhaps, if I'm good enough.

And she may not know it yet, but she isn't going to be able to forget me. I just needed to prove it to her.

Show her.

sing.

Or s c r e a m, if that's what it takes.

"I'm -as you said-" Heh, surprised I didn't even have to smile to make her think that as much. "A very 'pretty boy'?" I click my heels, watch myself in the mirror before making sure she's watching me, too. I memorize the way she settles behind her set and can't help but match her stance, admire the bruises along her shins. "Perhaps the prettiest in waiting?"

"You're gonna love-"

She doesn't wait for me to finish my sentence, but I expected as much. And so call me prepared, ready to match her- no, beat, beat, beat her at her own game.

"Mademoiselle Auclair."

"Beau prénom, Ivoire."

"Pas ennuyé."

"Mais tout à fait parfait."

She's annoying, trying to make it difficult for me, playing the way all upbeat jazz performers do, trying to snap my vocal cords in half, get me all out of breath, make me sound silly.

Fucking fine.

"Go on, tell me I'm not-" I slam my foot against the rim of her bass, let the ridges of my heel catch against it. "-fucking great." And I hold those words and those notes until I can't breathe.

Try to break me then. I dare you, Ivory Auclair.

Last Edit: Apr 7, 2024 21:45:31 GMT -5 by arx

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

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we're pausing all the chaos; r+i Apr 8, 2024 20:53:41 GMT -5

Post by ᴥ on Apr 8, 2024 20:53:41 GMT -5

IVORY AUCLAIR

At first, he follows the rules. Hitting chest with full lungs, switching to head when the octaves start to bulge in his throat. His voice is beautiful, I'm sure they tell him to treat it kindly.

Too bad that control is all a fucking facade.

I'm going to unmake it.

Going to unmake him.

Filling on the downbeat, forcing him to make up for stolen time. Voices usually follow screeching brass, holding up their precious harmonies. I am only ever a guide, keeping time and making myself heard when the rest of the ensemble whispers. Usually I revel in playing the part, always aware of my place.

Which, in this case, is above his.

Whenever Ruby finds a pocket, I shift the tempo. Roll on one, rest on it next measure.

He's getting frustrated and,

oh, i like that part.

But if he ever says my name like that again, I'm carving tongue from throat.

The set trembles under his boot, touching what makes me untouchable. Light catches the ride cymbal and cuts across his face, closer than it had been a moment before. His voice follows it's timbre and I

miss

a

beat.

My drumstick clatters onto the floor, rolling toward the mirrors and - shit - I've always hated those fucking things. I'm staring at the flush on my cheeks. Sweat sticks to my temples, shirt plastered to my back. My breaths come hard and I make no attempt to catch them. I look back to him, brows furrowed. Somewhere between anger and adrenaline, I think I'm devastated. I think I'm trying not to smile.

"We need to go again." I toss the remaining stick into the air, catching it on an open palm. I tap a troubled rhythm, finishing the song without the missing note. "You were sharp at the bridge. And I-" My brows furrow, "have never done that. Before."

I'd rather look at him than my reflection, but have to look away when I find myself in his gaze regardless.

"C'était amusant."

It may be the softest I've ever spoken.

Last Edit: Apr 8, 2024 21:08:45 GMT -5 by ᴥ

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

arx
Retired Staff

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last seen Apr 30, 2024 12:10:53 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

we're pausing all the chaos; r+i Apr 11, 2024 23:40:01 GMT -5

Post by arx on Apr 11, 2024 23:40:01 GMT -5

ALUMINIUM RUBENSTEIN

I'd already seen her at a distance. Seeing her through the tinted lenses of over-critical gazes—("She's hot, I mean, if you're into that sort of thing.") ("See the way she can't sit still?")—that couldn't recognize what it meant to be-

great.

("I heard she has a few screws loose.") ("Ha, loose? Try completely missing.")—and ears that simply refused to listen to what can only be described as a paragon of absolute-

perfection.

I laugh, our lungs a matching set as our breaths meld into a perfectly practiced, succinctly staggered harmony no one had ever even dreamed of before.

Except us.

Because we just fucking made it.

That was amazing.

I kick off her bass and run the tread of my shoes around the metal rim. I hope it rattles into her pedal, through her combat boot, electrifying the ball of her right foot, and shoots up her calf. The strength in her knees, the way her wrists moved faster than any synthesizer, and how her face contorted when she began creating instead of replicating was something I knew I wanted for myself.

("She's not even that good.")

Oh, the amount of scorn that comment had earned despite how they had been _picking and ^prodding and ^prying and preying and _devouring only moments before.

("Shut up.") ("Fucking idiot.") ("Simons hand-picked her.") ("Are you crazy?") ("Oh, come on.") ("You go try to outplay that bitch then.") ("Like seriously, never speak again.") ("Poor taste, for real.")

("She'll off herself before she can achieve anything of substance. Soon. Probably. At least, by the standards musicians before her set.")

And they all laugh, off key, in some horrid symphony. And I feel phony laughing along with them. As off key as I can manage. Because that was what was expected of me.

I hear them still, but I want her to drown them out with a beat they'll hate. I'll fucking match it.

Through their eyes she was a threat.

And so they made her nothing more than carrion in their mouths.

Vultures.

Everyone.

"You were sharp at the bridge."

I laugh some more, a way to fake bravado I still didn't have yet, a way to pretend I had what it took to live up to their standards. And her standards. I scoop her drumstick off the floor, fix my hair in the mirror, twirl that piece of her around between my fingers and find that the sweat building in the creases of her palms stick to mine. I hold it as a microphone and switch to a ballad persona when I speak next.

"Everyone's a critic." I smile and chuckle lightly despite the frustration planting itself like a seed within my diaphragm. Its roots will make me cough blood into the sink later and I'll tell Professor Thibodeaux tomorrow I was perfecting what everyone told me was broken. And he'd hate that.

I fix my uniform and tighten my tie and make myself as perfect as I can before I adore the way her reflection reveals a blush I'm sure she wished didn't exist. And maybe I admire the way her reflection is all flush and ruby red in the cheeks for just a moment longer than I'm supposed to.

Ah, well.

Perfection.

And we make music like that until she breaks every stick in her arsenal. Well, not quite before my voice begins to crack at the seams and come undone, throat in shreds. All thanks to her.

"Okay, fine. Fine-" I lick my lips, words all staccato as I wipe a mix of sweat and saliva from my upper lip and use my sleeve to wipe at my brow, catch the breath she had stolen, and try to find my voice again; maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I'd prefer she kept it.

"You-" I point at her. "Got this-" My voice is raw, ragged, ready to rip itself separate from my throat. Very, 'pretty boy' beat."

"I yield."

^{"Don't suppose} you know any m o r e _{romance languages?"}

I only know the one.

"Show off."

Her hands are bleeding, blisters burst from calluses cauterized ages ago, surely.

"Je vous félicite."

"We should do this again. Soon. Wait, uh, here," I reach for my phone, unlock it, hand it to her with a toothy grin. "Text me next time you're free."

If you so dare, Miss Auclair.

Last Edit: Apr 12, 2024 18:05:27 GMT -5 by arx

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."