Realistic or Modern Reprise

[FloatingAroundSpace]

Reprise

.V1LLAINISM._ x FloatingAroundSpace

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© weldherwings.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

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date August 6 20XX

location SPIN night club

outfit Here

Ada Shi

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Ada did not enjoy this part of her job very much, though if she was being honest, the reality was that she did not enjoy much about her job at all. The security had been nice the first handful of months, a steady paycheck that she could budget for appropriately without worrying for the absence of it should someone attempted to walk back their agreement, knowing she did not have the time or resources to fight them. But what she hadn't accounted for was the fact that the dog-eat-dog atmosphere of the musical industry increased by a thousand fold when so many individuals were crammed into one space, vying for attention from the same handful of individuals. She supposed that it had been foolhardy of her to assume that this would not be the case, that she would somehow be able to float on the water rather than continuing to tread it. If anything, she felt as though the energy was being sapped from her, bit by bit, day by day, as she struggled to keep her chin up.

The smell of alcohol made her shudder, but at least the place was nice, a fortune that she clung to in an effort to clear her vision and remind herself that she was not in the troubled home she grew up in. No one was stumbling around, spilling drinks on her or on the floor, ensuring that it would stick to her shoes as she walked by, that it would reek in a few days and attract bugs and other pests. People were simply standing around, holding glasses in their hands, speaking with one another in formal, stiff tones, as despite the fact that they had left the office, the office never seemed to leave them.

She could blame the fact that alcohol made her feel generally uncomfortable for the reason why, instead of attempting to stand about, talking to her coworkers and inserting herself into conversations that might get her an ounce of respect, a leg-up somewhere in this hellscape known as All IN, she was keeping to herself near the bar, nursing a glass of water. What was the joke, that it was named that way because you also had to be all in? That you had to press your nose to the grindstone and work hours upon hours upon hours to get anywhere, that you had to grovel and beg and plead in an effort to prove yourself? It was a soul-sucking existence, one that was probably equivalent if she had gone into a traditional career as a pencil pusher. Again, sure, the paycheck, the fact that there was an expected paycheck was nice but god, god, was she close to tears some weeks anyways.

Just as she was debating leaving, one of the probably-less-miserable workers at the nightclub appeared on the stage, tapping into the mike and beginning to move equipment around, joined shortly by a few other workers as well. Her coworkers started to make their way to chairs and tables, pulling out notepads and fixating their gazes on the stage, intent on seeing what sort of diamonds in the rough they could pull out. Ada sighed heavily to herself and picked up her glass of water to at least sit at a table with a few, offering prim, closed-mouth smiles that were returned in kind. She busied herself with taking a sip of water so as to seem occupied, something she deeply regretted when she choked on the sip, her eyes going wide and her coworkers turning to her in concern as she spotted him.

Someone she hadn't seen in a couple years now, someone who most of her friends hadn't really hung out with, melting into the background as if he had never existed, as if they had never been together, as if they didn't know one another.

Fucking Nassor.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

mood

here

location :

here

outfit :

mentions :

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The Lost Boy, The Phantom

;; Nassor.

Nassor had always loved music.
To love music, for him, was to love life itself. To find beauty within the wretched, tenderness in a violent world. And, upon his darkest hours, music even became a way of survival. Caught between the web of grief and destruction, he who had- who has very little, who‘s met first-hand the harsh realities of such a profession, could not help but fall into its siren gaze, to lean unto it like a babe against its mother, cooing under the influence of fantasy. To him, the soreness of his fingertips after plucking at its strings, the pain shooting from the bottom of his spine after a night spent hunched over the ivory keys was- if not Heaven, then the closest thing to it. But the world seldom loves dreamers, nor does it care for its creators. No, it is only when they are dead and gone, outrageous or incredibly wealthy that they are truly celebrated and Nassor, well, he’s had to learn that the hard way.

“-Don’t forget to take out the trash kid”

A clap between his shoulder blades, a fleeting presence of warmth, of worn, calloused hands. It was an act of affection that despite his own apathy, he didn’t particularly mind. It was nice knowing that he was appreciated, even if it required him to haul garbage out into a dark and dingy alleyway, even if it only meant that he was doing what he was supposed to do. To serve, to clean and to feed, all things necessary to wear the apron, to pay the bills. No matter how disgusting it became.
Reluctantly his gaze dipped into the suddy water beneath him, fingers made raw with the harsh chemicals, the soap against his olive flesh.
Ouch.

He’d been working at Nino’s ever since that fine day in April,
the day in which he’d supposedly “ruined his own life.” Walking out of that suffocating building, the sun beating down on his back, a moment so terrifying but at least he could call it his. Like his music, like his songs, they were all his and not some suit’s, some man with stubby fingers and a smug face, looking to make a filthy monopoly out of him and his hard work.
Now Nassor wasn’t a saint, but he’d like to think that he at least had some morale, a devotion to something other than dollar bills. To see people as human beings was something of a rarity these days. And although it’s a sentiment that hasn’t gotten him very far just yet, he hopes that it will someday.
It has to.

—-

Though he was particularly hopeful that it would tonight, this warm August night.

The SPIN nightclub was, to put it lightly, not entirely his scene. It was the way the crowd sat riddled with scouts, eyes zeroed in like hawks onto each and every artist before him, an intense focus that suddenly made him all too aware of his surroundings, of himself; the shape of his body, the way his shabby clothes draped along his figure, how tattered his shoes looked under this light- every realization tied a knot deep inside of his stomach and, scarily enough, one at his throat. There was a reason he preferred smaller, quieter venues, and much of it had to do with his own nerves.
Nassor steeled himself, brown eyes trained warily on the porcelain sink, slender hands placed on either ledge as if to keep himself from toppling over. Even the club’s bathroom felt too good for him, shiny, clean, everything he wasn’t after an 8 hour long shift of serving, cleaning and rehearsing during the few minute breaks he had.

He hadn’t felt this terrified ever since… No, it was too early for that. Releasing a deep exhale, he forced himself to meet his own gaze, eyebrows knitted harshly together as if to reprimand himself.
He was not going to blow this gig just because of some last minute anxiety, especially when it’d been so hard to book one in the first place. Things had been… unlucky these past few weeks and so as displeasurable the SPIN was, he had to take what was given to him.
He just had to.
Gripping the sink with white fingertips, he mentally barked at himself to get on stage, play a few songs, entertain the crowd with some banter (he’d read somewhere that it makes a good impression) and get his sorry ass home and in bed. He sighed. He only wished that someone would be there for him, a familiar face to rest his eyes on, to make it less scary. But it was his own fault that there wasn’t, a small voice bitterly reminded.

And, as he made his way to the stage, Nassor unexpectedly found that his wish had come true.

— 𝄞 —

The sound check crews were always quick on their feet wherever he performed, though he appreciated that least of all as soon as he laid his eyes on her. His once devil, his angel and his everything in between - sitting all pretty and prim at the heart of it all. Ada. The very Ada he’d been actively avoiding for the passed two years, the very Ada that both broke and made him who he was.
The colour drained from his face, the familiar knots returning to his belly. Fuck.

It didn’t help that half of his set included songs from their ahem, time together and a part of him wished that the ground would just open up and send him tumbling straight down into hell, surely it would still be better than running into a former ex.
A flurry of questions circled his mind and he almost missed his go-ahead, a spotlight glaring like a ring of fire around him. He felt his mouth go dry.

“Erm,” the artist stammered, guitar slung across his frame, begging to be played, to save him from the embarrassment.
“This one is dedicated to old flames.”

Smooth.​

coded by reveriee.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

/* ------ left side ------ */

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date August 6 20XX

location SPIN night club

outfit Here

Ada Shi

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Ada shut her eyes in frustration at Nassor, at the words he said. They had been together for very long, the only relationship she had really had, discounting the handful of dates she had in college prior to committing to him (though retrospect seemed to indicate that he had never really committed to her, something that her friends had slowly started to insinuate over the slow car crash that was the last year of their time together). She wasn't aware of what his dating history had been like, prior to her, but suspected that it was also rather bleak and empty. She had gotten to know him over the course of their entanglement, and it was clear he wasn't particularly outgoing (and again, in retrospect, he wasn't one to really commit. How the hell she managed to hammer him down for half a decade was a question she did not have the answer to, given his current reappearance).

Still, despite the churning maelstrom of emotions that crawled underneath her skin at seeing her ex again, she could not deny that he still held immense talent, that while he seemed, at first glance, rather lackluster and plain, he could fill the room with the sound of his voice (their words) and his (their) music. In fact, as the set continued on, Ada felt an eyebrow raise and raise and raise on her head, a slow, inching thing as the notes and lyrics flowed across the room, causing several of her coworkers to bob their heads, smiling and making notes, leaning forward as if to capture the sound better. They were familiar and they were familiar because she had put them down, had been pressed up against him on their couch, in bed, at the dining room table, their knees knocking together as she invaded his space, pointing out alternative chords and words, testing out different rhyme schemes out loud with him, creating a language of their own. For the two year absence, in the back of her mind, she felt queasy at the idea that all of the work she had poured into that music had gone to waste, that it would rot away in a corner. To know that it was being brought out and into the light again and again made that tendril of worry and concern dissipate, though a new concern found purchase in its stead.

What the hell was he doing?

Well, he was clearly trying to perform a set. Clearly still trying to get- get what? He had made it clear he cared about his independence, his vision, so what purpose would performing in front of various songwriters and producers be? They would certainly want to get their hands on the notes, the lyrics, adjust them and fiddle with them until they believed it would be sellable, something he had resented. Why was he here, then, crooning in that voice of his (the one that had made her blush or giggle like a schoolgirl when he tried) to a gaggle of people he was not interested in collaborating with?

That concern gave way to irritation as the set finished, and despite her better judgement, she found herself getting up, following along the crowd of her coworkers as they approached the steps where Nassor would be exiting, most of them smiling politely, reaching out their hands to shake his, to ask him questions, to offer a business card. She found herself with her arms folded over her chest, gaze piercing into his head, as one of her coworkers, a man around her age named Benedict, shook his hand and said, "Excellent work, excellent work. Say, have you got a moment perhaps to sit down and talk? You've got quite the ear on that head and a mind between those ears," an almost non-sensible statement that Benedict nevertheless chuckled to himself about before clearing his throat. "Everything flowed together so wonderful, the lyrics, the notes, the chords. What inspired you?"

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

mood

here

location :

here

outfit :

mentions :

[/USER]

interactions :

The Lost Boy, The Phantom

;; Nassor.

A moment of pure ecstasy, an encouraging hand resting on sore shoulders. Shoulders that tire from carrying the weight of absence, of pain he becomes transformed- if only for a short while- into a man that is good, that is pure. A man who makes promises that he can keep, a man who forgives and is forgiven. A man he’s always wanted to become.
Music can make things holy, he knows this, but it is times like this where he’s certain that he’s not too far gone.
When he knows that he has a second chance at life.

Nassor’s eyes fell shut as his fingers began to weave songs of nylon, his voice echoing stories not far from his own, each note more revealing, more vulnerable than the last. He once only sang of pure fantasies, lyrics that were impersonal to him and the rest of mankind. But subtle disorders, he’d learned, were most beautiful of all. In the end his words- well really their words were nothing short of real, true, brought to life by the first woman he’d ever loved. Her.
His very own ghost of Christmas past sat in the flesh, piercing glare shooting bullets into his glassy skin, causing beads of sweat to gather at the nape of his neck.
And while it was true that Ada was normally a sweet and meek thing, it seemed that he had a talent of bringing out the worst in the people he loved. Now but especially back then.

His eyebrows furrowed, glimpses of voices ricocheting off of thin walls, of slamming doors and broken picture frames littering the floor. His song grew louder.
Averted eyes, pleas met with complete silence, love turning to hate.
what are we? to what have we become?

He never could’ve given her what she wanted and yet, out of the pure madness of infatuation, she stayed. They both had.

And with one final note, he completed his set, eyes flickering open to meet his past, his present and his future.

Suddenly the stage lights returned with full-force, relieving him of the intense spotlight. He could breathe now he thought, reaching for a nearby water bottle that lay on a stool.Yet still, his heart seemed to race at a thousand miles an hour, adrenaline pumping in his ear as he drank like a sailor. Taking his time to gulp every last droplet so he wouldn’t have to face the audience, to face Ada.
But as the saying goes, all good things come to an end and Nassor was compelled to float toward the crowd of music fiends, returning handshakes where they were extended, thrusting business cards into his back pocket, as if he was going to call them. They were all the same yes, but he was only looking for someone who was different.
Someone who could see him and his music just as it was.

But he found none of that here. Plastering sheepish smiles, feigning optimism where he had the strength to, the truth was that Nassor was incredibly and irrevocably tired, had even considered kicking the can with the likes of his music. But if there’s one thing he is, it's resilient… and awkward.

"Excellent work, excellent work. Say, have you got a moment perhaps to sit down and talk? You've got quite the ear on that head and a mind between those ears,"


God, did she have to stare like that? Not only was it slightly off-putting but Nassor could feel the flames lick at his feet, as if he’d shaved her head while she slept and then stolen her cat.

“Uh, sure”
he replied, trying his best to ignore the ungodly sight from his peripherals.

The man- Benedict was a short and stout fellow, dressed properly and flush in the face, most likely having downed one too many down at the bar. He grimaced.

"Everything flowed together so wonderful, the lyrics, the notes, the chords. What inspired you?"

And again with that look, he deplored bitterly. This was typical of Ada truly, to follow him around like this. Letting her disapproval bubble up until she looked like she was about to explode and then suddenly everything was his fault. And peace was never an option.

“I uh, I guess…” Nassor pondered for a moment, struck by the unexpected question. What had inspired him all these years? A moment of recollection and his eyes finally met hers.
He had his answer.

“Love, it was love that inspired me.” He chuckled “It’s cheesy but,” he shrugged “It’s the truth.”


To this Benedict seemed pleased, humming lightly as Nassor fiddled with the watch across his wrist, fingers thumbing the worn leather straps absentmindedly. He never liked answering such personal questions, not so suddenly anyways, but it felt nice to know someone other than him and she-who-shall-not-be-named cared enough to ask. And it always soothed him to talk about his music.

Though speaking of,
“I must say I am very curious about.. her. Is she your co-worker? She seems very familiar.”

Nassor decided that the only way to nip it in the bud was to well, nip it in the bud.

​

coded by reveriee.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

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date August 6 20XX

location SPIN night club

outfit Here

Ada Shi

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Oh, for the love of—

This was the fucking thing, this was just the fucking thing. Nassor could be so romantic, so sweet, kissing her and pressing her to his side, whispering about how she was his muse, how it was her words that made his so sweet. And he would do it in such an endearing way, with a wonderful smile and a low, rumbling tone that made her wiggle her toes against him, smiling back up at him, basking in it all like a blooming flower, her face open and adoring. And then— and then, when she asked about the future, when she asked about this or that and the other, he would clam up, would ignore the topic or dance around it or just demand she drop it. In the end, the way he made her feel alive and like the center of the universe didn’t matter, because he did not make her feel safe or stable. (A partial lie— she did feel safe with him, physically safe at least. And that was something that she hadn’t prized enough, something she kicked herself over some nights, when she was alone in bed and shivering to herself under the covers, soaking her pillow with tears from nightmares that wouldn’t go away.)

Benedict, the partial drunkard that he was, didn’t seem to gleam that she was currently not in the fucking mood, and turned to peer at her with hazy, unfocused eyes, remarking with a vague wave of his hand, “Oh, oh, this is Ada, she’s a lyricist for us.” He gave a short bark of a laugh, “I wouldn’t say you ought to go with her, though, not if you wish to continue to draw from love. Don’t think I’ve ever seen her look anything else but determined— which is good and all, but—”

“Excuse me,” she cut in, her tone biting and cold, “I believe I can make my own introductions.” It shut Benedict up instantly, the redness in his face from embarrassment rather than the alcohol coursing through his veins. He inclined his head towards her, giving a muttered apology as he shuffled off, permitting Ada to step forward, once, twice, on her heels, folding her arms over her chest so she could clench her jaw and jut out her chin a bit towards him, as if she was going to battle.

“Hello, Nassor,” she said, her voice calm and professional, doing a complete flip from how she had sounded a moment ago, dismissing her coworker. “It is quite the happenstance that we have managed to see each other here, after so long.” There was some bitterness to that last segment of the sentence— Nassor had retreated away from everyone after the breakup, which had fucking stung, suddenly missing a crucial part of her life from, well, her life.

“Seems the songs are still doing well for you,” she continued, and then paused, her eyes roaming his face, doing her best to read his emotions despite the time that had elapsed between them making it significantly more difficult than it used to be. “Something nice to fall back on, I suppose.”

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© weldherwings.