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Post by KUROSAWA JUNKO on Jun 10, 2010 12:20:38 GMT -5
She blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden refilling of her teacup, before murmuring a faint "thank you" and inclining her neck to drink again.
She was glad he'd finally sat down.
Then she looked up at his injury again, wincing slightly as he touched it, though of course she felt no pain - it was more of the guilt than anything. "Sorry, that's my fault, isn't it?" Junko shifted slightly in her seat. "It's a pity I don't really carry makeup with me. Maybe if you combed your hair a little differently it'd cover it better," she suggested.
It was kind of a stupid suggestion.
...Oh well. Nakamori didn't really seem like he'd mind stupid suggestions. All that much, anyway. At least she hadn't told him to wear a hat; he didn't seem like he would look particularly good in hats.
She couldn't even imagine him in casual clothing.
"A-Anyway," she continued, hastily changing the subject, "I'm not sure I'd really have the time to take up an instrument. I still have to study, after all."
She had another peanut, belatedly wondering why he wasn't eating any.
Maybe he just didn't like them. It would explain why he'd offered them to her in the first place - short of reading her mind, anyway, which was a highly unlikely and unscientific possibility. At least, Junko hoped mind readers didn't exist.
They'd screw up everything she did.
...Admittedly, she tended to screw up everything she did by default.
"You're a music teacher?" This time, she really did raise a brow. "At such a young age... I'm impressed."
She decided not to mention that she didn't have a job, herself.
Then Junko finished off the last of the peanuts, putting her teacup down once more, the red liquid inside wobbling gently as it settled. "I'd love to hear you play." Her tone was subdued, her words carefully selected. "If you wouldn't mind, that is."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - words: only 300 this time tag: delightful mr. nakamori takumi comments: peanuuuuuuuts -- I kind of wish I had some right now, I haven't had peanuts in like years [/left]
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Post by NAKAMORI TAKUMI on Jun 10, 2010 13:44:37 GMT -5
[/b] as he goes The passion and the flame[/b] is ignited You can't put it out once we light it[/b] This shit is exactly what the f-ck[/b] that I'm talking about When we riot[/b][/font] ~~~[/center] He noticed that Kurosawa relaxed slightly when he sat. Maybe he should have sat down sooner.
"Don't worry about it," he replied. "I can hardly feel it anymore." So that wasn't entirely true, but he didn't want to make her feel any guiltier. "Nobody will comment on it, anyway." Her face was makeup free, he noticed, and ridden of jewelry. It suited her. She'd look silly in makeup. "You don't seem like the type of person to wear makeup, in any case."
He would have to comb his hair differently, though; he'd look ridiculous in a hat. His side bangs would cover it, to an extent.
Takumi nodded slowly at her hasty excuse "Are you a college student?" he asked. He knew college students did get a large workload, depending on what they majored in. It was time he started thinking about colleges, as a matter of fact; most of his family members had gone to business school or law school. But he wasn't sure how happy he'd be, running a corporation or something like that. "I'm only in high school, myself. I suppose college students have much more to do."
So she didn't know he was a music teacher. It shouldn't have surprised him, really. "Yes, I teach violin. There aren't many oboe students," he said dryly. "Pity. It's a beautiful instrument." When he was younger, he'd refer to it as an endangered instrument, and tried to persuade his friends to take up playing the oboe, too. Overall, it'd been a failure.
He never did stop referring to it as an endangered instrument, though.
"I only teach part-time," he continued. He decided not to mention that his lesson was supposed to start half an hour ago.
He watched as she ate the last of the peanuts, and decided that he would give her the bag of peanuts, stuffed somewhere in a kitchen cupboard.
"I wouldn't mind playing at all," he said. "If you'll follow me—my practice room is over there."
[/b] The room was actually larger than any of the other rooms in his penthouse—living room aside. He had an electric piano, his current violin, his first violin, and his oboe in there (along with hundreds of scores). The room had a single window, and a large ebony door. It does look ominous, he realized. He wondered if she thought he was trying to kill her, and glanced back to see her reaction.[/font][/justify][/blockquote] ~~~ words: 400ish tag: dearest doormat (oh, junko) comments: french fries, oreo ice cream, and orange juice are better; be jealous, haha[/size]
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Post by KUROSAWA JUNKO on Jun 10, 2010 15:31:14 GMT -5
So he had a practice room, did he?
Color me impressed.
The room he gestured to was not exactly dreary-looking or any less extravagant than the rest of the piano, but she could not help but feel some slight apprehension towards following Nakamori into it - she'd still only known him for a few minutes, after all.
Her palms were unusually warm.
"College isn't so bad," she said suddenly, highlighting one of the points he'd mentioned earlier. She had assumed he was a high school student to begin with; it didn't surprise her that he was not yet in college. "It depends on the kind of university you go to, really. I suppose you'll be majoring in music?"
She decided to ignore the bit about makeup. Cosmetics were not exactly unneeded, in her opinion - but they had been things for other girls, other people. The type of girls who dyed their hair and curled it; the type of girls who fussed about the size of their eyes and the shape of their lips; the type of girls who'd worn their skirts shorter than the school regulations required.
Not her.
Not that she hadn't considered it - Junko was not, by any means, a girl who had transcended the desire for attention from her peers - but inevitably she'd decided that she couldn't manage the kind of personality that was required to be 'cute,' and besides, her parents would wonder what was wrong with her.
She wondered if her parents even knew what she was doing in college now.
"I'm majoring in translation, actually. For literature." Junko knew it was an unusual career choice; she generally did not talk about it much, but she felt as though Nakamori had asked, somewhere. "I like to think I'm competent, but some English euphemisms still confuse me if I run into them. Mostly just the ones that are out of date - like 'bun in the oven' for pregnancy." A laugh.
She was proud of the fact that her accent was barely noticeable - there was still a slight sharpness around the softer sounds, but she was working on it - but she wasn't quite sure if Nakamori spoke English, so she didn't mention it.
"At any rate, I've never known any oboists personally, either," she concluded, and finished off the last of her tea.
Finally she decided that his invitation could be ignored no longer, and rose to follow him to his practice room. "I'm sure you must be a wonderful musician."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - words: 450, about? tag: takumi, you lemonhead comments: psh, try two slices of cheesecake and a sandwich and milk - how do we manage to stay thin?! [/left]
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Post by NAKAMORI TAKUMI on Jun 12, 2010 15:44:37 GMT -5
[/b] back again Shady's back, tell a friend[/b] Guess who's back,[/b] guess who's back Guess who's back, guess who's back[/b][/font] ~~~[/center] Takumi noticed that she didn't follow him to the practice room immediately. He wondered briefly if the room was intimidating, and decided against it. If Kurosawa was willing to drink tea with a stranger, she'd have few qualms about looking at a practice room. Then again, she'd only known him for a few moments--and she probably knew that she wouldn't stand much of a chance against him in a fight.
He smiled a little at the thought.
"I start college next year, so I suppose I'll know then,"
[/b] he mused. "And I'd like to major in music--but I doubt that will work out well." His parents and grandparents had all gone to either law school or business school. He wasn't ridiculously rich, and he didn't have to inherit some wealthy empire. But his relatives, no matter what they did, had been successful. They'd never strayed from their career choices--they'd known exactly what they were going to do with their lives from day one. He didn't understand why they shoved music down his throat as a child if they wanted him to go to business or law school. Fourteen years of music--deemed useless. "'Bun in the oven'," he repeated. Absentmindedly, he noted that she had a very good accent. His English was passable--businessmen were supposed to know languages well, but he'd never been particularly interested in learning it. "I can't say I've heard that one before. A translation major, I see. It seems interesting; but what could you do with a degree in that?" He smiled when she laughed, though--she had a nice laugh. "Well, there aren't many oboists," he pointed out. "Most people don't know what an oboe is." Or they mixed it up with another instrument--the clarinet, or the bassoon. He honestly didn't know how anyone could possibly mistake an oboe for a bassoon, of all things. He held the practice room door open for her when she finally followed him. It's a mess, he thought, looking around the room. Scores were literally all over the floor--the window was open, and there was a breeze. Maybe that was how it happened... His oboe case was sitting next to the music stand, and he put it together quietly. Twenty differently colored reeds stared up at him from his reed case, and he put one on at random. Without so much as a word, he played. Playing the oboe was always refreshing--it had a magical sound, reedy and dark. Baroque music had always suited the oboe best, he thought. So he played Vivaldi's Oboe Concerto RV 461, Allegro. It was a quick piece, both in duration and tempo, and the notes sounded as if they were flying. He liked playing with his eyes closed--it only worked when he knew the piece very, very well. When it did work, though, he'd manage to be completely peaceful for the duration of the piece. He didn't indulge much, but this--! His eyes opened for a few moments, narrow, only to check on the fingering. It sounds rather nice, he thought. He closed his eyes again and continued playing.[/font][/size][/blockquote][/justify] ~~~ words: 525! tag: junko--lemonhead as in he's a prick? or as in he likes lemons? 'cause, you know, both could apply. comments: watermelon smoothie today! I win! and we're just awesome like that.
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Post by KUROSAWA JUNKO on Jun 12, 2010 17:07:20 GMT -5
As she stepped inside the practice room - doing some awkward footwork to prevent from stepping on the music sheets - she reflected on his answers. Still high school age - he was a year younger than her, then, or perhaps even two. And yet here he was, in a penthouse about as big as her own home, employed, studying music - and his English wasn't terrible, either.
Junko was feeling strangely unaccomplished.
"Translation?" She almost felt disdain as she said the word. "There isn't much you can do with it, for certain. I'd like to work at some sort of publishing company and translate novels for the rest of my life, but I'll probably end up translating dull business documents. You know how it goes. Companies always have trouble communicating with their foreign contacts.
"Besides, readers never acknowledge the translator - unless she screws up. Otherwise, the credit is the author's."
Even Junko knew that being a translator did not offer glamour, excitement, entertainment - or even an incredibly high income. But it was more interesting than any other career she could have pursued; she could not have said, at the age of nineteen, that she was particularly compelled to do anything special with her future career.
Translation was just something that was fairly enjoyable, which wouldn't be difficult to do over the years. She could make mistakes and take the blame; she knew how to pack her pride down and let it burn in her gut until it didn't exist, until she was humble enough to admit that yes, she'd screwed up, she'd try harder next time.
And she usually did. She could do better. She could always do better.
It wouldn't matter if she couldn't take credit for anything. Junko figured that someone had to exist to make others look good, to give others a purpose. Someone had to be average, so that the extraordinary would be extraordinary.
Someone had to be used.
She took a seat on a nearby stool as he set up his oboe. "But never mind that. Now's the time for music," she said.
(There were people who were just much better at translating - much better than she was, who had never had to use a dictionary to read anything, who had learned not just English but French and German and Russian and Italian and languages she'd never even heard of, who were just good at what they did.
There were people who had talent; there were people who didn't have to try; there were people who didn't understand how difficult it could be to learn a second language because they'd juggled languages like fruit in their hands and for her it was like sand, words constantly slipping between her fingers and she'd had to study so much just to get where she was, and the other day a foreigner had asked her for directions and she'd stumbled over the little words, but for heaven's sake, why would you ever call a zoo an animal menagerie in the first place.
She was sure that was not slang. She was sure that person had just been trying to be flamboyant. Or confusing. Or something.
She wasn't sure she'd be hired.)
These were the sorts of things she thought about regularly when thinking about her future, the courses she was taking in college - but now, listening to Nakamori Takumi play Vivaldi with a master's air, eyes lowered as if in prayer - at that moment, Junko forgot about it.
The piece, she knew, was not the same without the orchestral accompaniment that was normally tied to it; but all the same, she'd never heard an oboe played in such a manner before.
She almost smiled when he opened his eyes to check the fingering; she'd done the same many times while playing piano, and had never managed to play an entire piece with her eyes closed. Always tentative, always unsure.
When he finished the piece - a somewhat sudden end without the violins - Junko was not sure how best to react, how to express her thoughts on his playing.
She hoped it was written on her face.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - words: 700 words of pure prose, shoot me tag: takumi the lemonhead as in... he likes lemons comments: ...I'm jealous of your smoothie, and SORRY FOR THE PROSE UGH [/left]
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Post by NAKAMORI TAKUMI on Jun 12, 2010 18:02:32 GMT -5
Willing to stick out my neck, for respect [/b] if it meant life or death, Never live to regret what I said,[/b] When you're me, people just want to see,[/b] If it's true, if it's you, what you say[/b] in your raps, what you do[/font] ~~~[/center] It usually took him a while to settle back in reality after playing. He removed the reed and set the oboe down gently, then looked up at Kurosawa. She had such an expression on her face--he didn't know how to describe it. Her reaction was so... so genuine. He liked that.
And he assumed she liked the piece.
"It's Vivaldi's Oboe Concerto, RV 461, Allegro,"
[/b] he explained. "Baroque. It would've sounded nicer with a baroque oboe, or at least with piano or orchestral accompaniment." He realized a second too late that there was an apologetic tone to his voice, and dropped it instantly. Ironic, he thought, that I should be performing for the same person who hit me in the head. But this girl ( Kurosawa, he corrected) was incredibly interesting. She didn't seem like one of those ridiculously wealthy people who had nothing better to do with their lives than to study philosophy. Yet she was studying something she loved--or at least something she took interest in. He wondered if she had family members like his, people who controlled everything she did and every choice she made. He sympathized with her if she did, and envied her if she didn't. He had several months before he'd have to decide what to major in. Music, he knew, was for him. But business and law were for his family. What, then? He almost jumped when his cell phone rang. He'd forgotten that he'd left it in his practice room yesterday, and it took him at least a minute to find it. Luckily, the caller was persistent, and when he finally answered, the first thing he heard was, "Where in the world are you, Takumi? Your lesson--" The manager of the music school. Takumi gave a jolt when he realized his lesson was supposed to start-- He checked the time. --half an hour ago. Oops. "I'm sorry," he said, his tone not apologetic at all. "You see, I was injured earlier."That did it. "Oh, are you alright?" the manager panicked. "I'll tell your student right away! Don't rush here, okay? Take your time--we don't want you to trip or strain yourself..." He tuned her out, and mouthed an apology to Kurosawa. Somehow, the manager had gotten it into her head that Takumi was extremely delicate, perfectly frail. He never bothered correcting her. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he said, and snapped the phone shut. How had he lost track of time so easily? Takumi walked to the bookshelf sitting in the corner of the room. He had a collection of scores there, and flipped through all the violin scores until he found a set that was adequate. He'd need something for his student, after all. "I'm sorry, Kurosawa," he said. "I've got to go. Would you take the elevator with me?"[/font][/blockquote][/justify] ~~~ words: 500 something tag: junkooo; you can't really call someone a peanuthead, damnit comments: if it helps at all, my smoothie was super cold and I was in a super cold subway[/size]
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Post by KUROSAWA JUNKO on Jun 12, 2010 19:09:21 GMT -5
"O-Oh, of course," Junko responded, rising from her chair as casually as possible. She wasn't expecting the serene atmosphere to be suddenly broken by a call and a frantic search for his phone; for that matter, she wasn't expecting a serene atmosphere at all, but her senses were flexible.
She wondered what he had to do as she opened the practice room door, this time holding it for him instead of vice versa as it was initially done.
Probably his job.
"...It was wonderful," she said, feeling as though she were admitting something she didn't want to - something like guilt, or embarrassment.
No, it was more like envy, in the end; she was jealous. No matter how hard she'd tried at her piano, at her violin, she'd never been able to produce that sort of atmosphere, had never managed to affect anyone on an emotional level. Her playing was effortless, it was not robotic - but it was constructed, carefully protected by walls of advice from her teachers, pointers from other students. Criticism had simply been absorbed and digested.
There had been feeling in his oboe. Her piano was empty.
Pretty, but empty - like most people around her.
But music was not her forte, in the end. Music was not like writing; writing was closer to her, writing was personal. But she couldn't be a writer, only the ghost of one - only a translator, because as much as she loved writing in her own language, and as good as she was at doing so, she lacked talent. She lacked tenacity - she could never finish her own novels, she would be embarrassed by them, and put them away. She lacked creativity; she lacked the blessings of the muses.
Or something like that.
She wondered what his violin would be like.
Junko walked outside, checking to make sure he was walking behind her. It would have been rude to walk behind him; it would have seemed like she could have been stealing, or worse.
As they waited in the elevator, she said, "This might be an odd thing to say, but -"
(If Kurosawa Junko had been a slightly different person, she might have had the nerve to ask if she could possibly stop by again, or perhaps if she could play piano for him, or something - but she was unused to asking things for herself. It was not her custom to be selfish. She refused to do so, which is why she did not ask what she wanted to ask.)
"- Nakamori, you should fix your hair."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - words: 400, I think? tag: takumi. and um, salt-mongrel perhaps? comments: ahaha, poor you [/left]
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Post by NAKAMORI TAKUMI on Jun 12, 2010 19:39:23 GMT -5
[/b] is up This stage is my pedestal[/b] I'm unstoppable[/b][/font] ~~~[/center] When she told him his performance was wonderful, he smiled.
"Thank you,"
[/b] he replied, feeling rather pleased. "It's been a while since I've performed in front of anybody." He wanted to do it again, though--over and over. If only he could play it on repeat, to have that sound, that perfect sound! It wasn't a matter of notes, in the end--it wasn't even the pitch, or the accuracy. There had been something about that sound, something carefully and passionately beautiful. He loved that sound. They waited in the elevator for a few moments--it always bothered him how slow the elevator was. He lived on the top floor, too. For a moment, he considered taking the stairs instead. No, he thought with a grimace. I'll need my energy for running to class. Really, how did he lose track of time? It wasn't like him to be tardy--that was probably why he got away with it. This time, anyway. He glanced at Kurosawa, and wondered what her music sounded like. One didn't have to love music the way he did to play beautifully--he wanted to hear her play the piano. Maybe music wasn't her only talent; she'd said she was a translator, hadn't she? He was fairly certain she'd mentioned something about literature. Was she a writer? The elevator doors opened, and Kurosawa walked out first. Takumi followed, distracted. Maybe she was a writer. Why wasn't she majoring in literature, then? Her words jolted him from his thoughts, and he touched his hair. "My hair?" he repeated, bemused. Oh. He didn't have a mirror with him, and settled for shoving all his bangs to the right side of his face. He pressed it down and mentally asked it to stay. "That'll have to do," he muttered. He turned to Kurosawa. "I'm sorry about the abrupt exit." He hesitated for barely an instant, then added, "If you'd like to visit sometime--I'd like to hear your piano playing. I'm at the music shop every Saturday, if you prefer."That sounded... ridiculous. He should've worded it differently. But he wouldn't take it back. Instead, he gave a half-wave and darted out the lobby doors.[/font][/blockquote][/justify] ~~~ words: 365 comments: it endssssss! junko, you're such a scaredy cat.[/size]
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