and other classy tunes, a vocaloid fanfic

.a/n.: i wrote this in writer's block/bad creative feels so idk..? i bet you expected angst from me with this weLL LEMME TELL YOU NO ANGST TO BE FOUND - also i'm pretty sure smut was a part of the initial request on wattpad but i didn't end up writing that because /looks at word count & implodes

like the whole thing is a reference to the 8tracks playlist by ballendai "you thrill me when you drill me and other classy tunes" mmhmhm

note1: unedited so double the stupid
note2: i'm like unconsciously urged to keep telling you how stupid this is but i know that biases readers and - whatever just do it

She trips into the place an hour early on the first night, wearing a bright dandelion flapper dress and she finds that she's pretty much exactly like a traffic light in the middle of a sea of dark, understatedly classy clothing. A buoy awkwardly bobbing amongst the ocean in a flashy yellow.

The only thing she's gotten right is the silver bracelets, and her timing.

Rin's absolutely hexed from the first second by beautiful piano music flowing out of the lounge; since it's so early, the place is empty, and so the music isn't interrupted by clinking glasses or chatter or bustling people, and is instead dancing strong and alone in the middle of the stage as a young man coaxes it to life from his fingertips.

A tucked suit (black, of course), bright red tie with matching scarlet Derby's, his blonde hair scraped back in waves from his angular face with copious streaks of gel. A harmless beautiful with a standoffish vibe, just the guy that a younger Rin would love. Heavy sunglasses tucked around to his temples and his mouth in a quiet smirk as he plays –

– She knows who he is. Kagamine Len, casual musical aficionado, barely older than her and way more successful (the asshole), and her partner for maybe the rest of her little career here, because hell if he's going to be the one to get fired first.

The song tapers off with a lovely crescendo, flurrying around her head, even as far as she is. Nothing obstructs them in between. He cracks his knuckles with a strange delicacy, each finger deliberate. Then sets them down in his lap. He lifts his head and his wrapped black sunglasses gleam under the pre-show lights.

"You're early," he says, and knocks shut the fallboard – bang – drops his elbows onto it, and his chin onto his hands in one movement. "That's promising."

His tone grates her the exact wrong way. He should probably just talk through the piano from now on. "Yeah, well, just wait 'til you hear me sing."

He smirks.

"You can't buy drinks while you're on shift. You can smoke if you've got the vice, but outside on your breaks, please – we're not supporting that extreme of a throwback." Luka, the manager, tosses back her hair and gives a simpering sigh. They're in the lobby, Rin about to be sent on her way after her first orientation day.

"Got it, captain." She's looking at the playbill, pinned permanently to the wall – they're gonna add her name, right…? It only reads Kagamine Len, but she can't help but feel they're missing a little detail, which of course spills unannounced out of her mouth.

"You don't advertise him as some sort of prodigy, huh?"

Luka's pale brows draw together, but she quickly gets what Rin is hinting at – and yet that doesn't lessen the severity of the expression. "Oh. You want us to mention that he's blind, right?"

She regrets it. "…Well, it's kind of a big part of the whole show, no?"

Luka scoffs. "It's not like he walks a tightrope or guesses the card you're waving in front of his face."

Oh, she super regrets it. "Never mind. It's my small-town thing coming through. You know. Still shocked by stuff like conjoined twins, and whatever."

Luka's stiff expression thankfully relaxes (a young lady of polarized looks, apparently) and she checks her watch with another sigh that pushes off the subject. "You should head home; we'll see you tomorrow, same time, all right? Study up on your setlist."

Rin's pretty eager to get out of there after her screw-up, but Luka clicks her tongue as afterthought just as she turns away. She glances back over her shoulder.

"Yeah, and also?" Luka gives her a pained smile. "Check the dress code next time."

"Do you know anything, like, more topical?"

She's sitting in the dressing room with him, trying to keep her nervously-bouncing feet away from his Labrador curled up between their chairs, and flicking through the programme that she's supposed to memorize and Google the lyrics to. She recognises some artists, but more from her grandparents' record player and less from natural association in this decade. Or century – what the hell is Bach (Remix)? Not to mention he gets way too many intermission solos. She is not gonna be reduced to some blow-up model sitting on his piano while he plays just to attract attention to her portrait.

"What do you mean?" he asks. He's straightening his tie and the smallest peak of a dark brow appears over the rim of the glasses.

She looks away quickly. "All this stuff is so outdated." Fans the programme loudly.

He huffs out a laugh. "You know where you're working, right?"

"Well, duh."

"I'm not going to teach myself Beyoncé on the piano."

"I didn't mean that. I – " Rin tosses down the programme and shakes her head, feeling twitchy. "Never mind. I'm doing my makeup now, you keep tie-adjusting and being condescending."

"I'll give you silence to concentrate."

"Ha, ha." Scowling, Rin shifts through her makeup purse to find her eyeliner. Tch, Beyoncé. As if that was what she meant – as if she was that lost when it came to this job. It's not like her big dream as a kid was to sing Sinatra in a no-smoking lounge, but she's not completely oblivious to the music…

…She glances over; his dog's head is lying on his thigh as he absently pets it, the tiniest smirk twinging the side of his mouth.

She can't let him have Beyoncé as a first impression of her.

Rin reaches onto the desk, keeping the corner of her eye on him, and knocks around the contents of her makeup bag with one hand while sliding her phone off the desk with another. She flicks open Google and quickly makes a search, and when she finds an appropriate page she loudly pops open the lid on her mascara while saying conversationally, "I was just thinking to mix it up. Instead of Ella Fitzgerald, maybe some St. Germain? Parov Stelar?"

"Gesundheit."

"I'm just saying. This place will run itself into the dirt if you keep falling back on – " She squints to read the programme that she'd tossed away. "Dorsey Orchestra."

A smirk spills over his face – it really does, just appears with no measure to it like he's got no qualms about embarrassing her. She finds that part of his face a little hard to look at too, for some reason.

He drawls, "I'm totally convinced you're not a part of the scene now."

She tosses her makeup bag back onto the table; his head minutely follows it. "Just let me help you remix this setlist."

"There's a reason I'm top-billed and you got hired yesterday."

"Maybe I just haven't had the chance to prove myself."

His hand glides levelly onto the table, brushing over the lacquer until it bumps into the programme. He slides it onto his side of the table, gives his tie another tug, and shrugs. "Well, you're proving nothing but bad taste if you try some Lady Gaga ballad."

She glares and it's reflected back at her in the glasses.

29 missed calls.

From:

- Mum

- Lily

- Aria

- Dad

She flicks away the notifications, one by one by one, hardly giving herself a moment to accept the gravity of them. Another day, another batch. Well, if they wanted to know why she bailed, they should have asked before she left. Wasn't it their responsibility as her best friends, her family, to know when something wasn't entirely right?

Let go, let go, let go.

She's stuck with his setlist, of course, but it could be worse. These are old things she recalls from her childhood, crackling out of the record player, but instead singing warm and full right next to her – with her. They're flanked by brass players in the wings but it's obvious who's the star here.

She's just wrong to have thought at first that it'd be her.

She plays it up to the dark-attired crowd (her dress tonight is a wine red), crooning the classic way and even falsifying a 20's swinger accent when she introduces herself and Len the second time around. Of course, Len needs no introduction.

All eyes are on him.

She wonders what that's supported by – his talent, or because they know he can't be intimidated or weirded out by it by it the way she might, because she can stare back.

Either way, she tries to keep her own gaze off of him; she's got a crowd to work with that fake accent and warble and personifying the sultriness of the smoke that suits the time machine of the lounge. She's used to getting attention in coffee shop stints or open mic nights. Here she's overshadowed by a fucking piano and a young man who's smirking down at the piano keys, music running through him, naturally made of smoke himself.

She's technically off-duty after her set, so she sits at the bar while he does a solo piece – it's credited as an updated Marriage of Figaro, and it's definitely changed for more reasons than being translated to piano. It's weighted and powerful, driving through the entirety of him as he works the keys not just for passion, but for what looks to be pure amusement. He's grinning, the earlier-subdued crowd slowly tapping their shining shoes and stilettos, the keys flashing like sparks in his glasses.

Meiko leans on the bar next to Rin and sighs out her smile. "He writes these ones himself. With a tip of the hat to Mozart, of course, but it really turns into his own, you think?"

It's somehow modern in style besides the dusty original work and the tiredness of a grand piano. She nods thoughtlessly, lifting her glass to her chin as he throws up his head on the final roll down the keys, and his grin lands on her. The music kicks to a final crescendo and bumps up her heart.

She tosses back her drink.

"Hey, wait a sec."

He stops just before he's out the lobby door, his dog freezing with him. She trots up wrapped in her coat and digging through her bag; he'd slipped out faster tonight than she expected him to. He's usually a little slower on the escape. The last few weeks have had the nights ending with her rushing out, while he takes time instead talking with the waitress Miku or the bartender Meiko before finally retiring. She's never really seen him leave for home. At this point she figures he may just live inside the carriage of the piano itself.

He lifts his chin at her, not a degree off mark, as he slightly leans to scratch his dog behind the ears. He'd left his hair ungelled tonight, kinked and curled on his brow. "Yeah, Rin? Someone send you to flag me down?"

"Yes. Very important mission – give me a second." She dislodges the CD case from her bag, and adds, "Good show tonight, by the way. I swore I almost heard some Rocket Man in your set."

"Please. I'll leave that to its own bespectacled man of flair."

"I'd love you in star-shaped sunglasses though."

"I'm saving that for when we're more intimate, Rin."

She smirks and nudges his slack hand with the case. "Here."

He runs his thumb along the side of the plastic, flipping it effortlessly around his fingers as he assesses it. "Mix tape?"

"Yeah." She makes to take it again but he stuffs it into his peacoat pocket, tilting his head at her, blonde hair brushing across his forehead. "I made it. Nothing crazy on there, just some updates. To convince you to get the hell out of the past."

"How Generation Y of you."

"Please, it's either that or I drag you to a club, which you'll really hate."

He flashes a grin that tilts a section of semi-gapped teeth at her. "I never said I'd hate this."

She bumps his hand with hers as it leaves his pocket. "Tell me what you think."

She flicks away each notification again; texts too, this time. She should just get the numbers blocked.

What'll it take? She's moved (she's legal, it was in her right anyways), she's cut ties, she's jumped on the first city, first apartment, first job she could find, and yet they're still trying to be her second option. Her second chance.

There is no second. Their Rin isn't this Rin anymore, and she's at zero.

She's extra early today so she gets to catch him as she preps the piano for the night. It's nothing more elaborate or obsessive then a weekly polishing, he insists, but she sits on the piano lid anyways to bother his habit.

"So, how'd you feel about it?"

Len shakes out the rag before tackling the side of the carriage; she tilts her crossed legs away but just ends up nudging him in the shoulder. "I can't believe you made me listen to Cee-lo Green."

"Yeah, well – "

He gives a martyr sigh, tilting his head up, the expression not at all muddled by the glasses. "And Kanye West."

She looks away from her own reflection out of nervous habit, but his tone gets her to smirk. "Select Kanye West. The genre is jazz rap, Kagamine. That's, like, half your taste, and half an opportunity to get the 1950's stick out your butt."

He lifts his index at her. "No, the other half is lewd lyrical hell."

"Yeah, because 'you thrill me when you drill me' is totally classy."

"All puns are classy."

Rin draws her legs up onto the piano; he bobs to her other side, dragging the rag along behind him against the panelling. But when her shoes click onto the piano he grabs her stiletto and lifts it up – Rin squeaks, yanking her leg away before he can vault her over backwards, but all he does is say slowly, "Keep your shoes off." He huffs another sigh. "They hired you to torture me, but I'll admit I'm not hating it."

Staring in surprise, she recrosses her legs. "You gave that up pretty easily."

"I'm not going to lie about something so stupid. I didn't hate the mix."

A grin flashes onto her face, stomach fluttering happily. So much for Googling in the first place – she found most of the tracks she added just by flicking through her own iPod and imagining how they'd feel, bumping in their very own lounge. Maybe she's a little more suited to this job than she thought.

"I wouldn't hate your second idea, either," he says. She unconsciously quirks an eyebrow but he's ducked behind the back of the piano, polishing away.

"Explain?"

"You already mentioned it."

She snickers. "The club? You're kidding?"

He pops up to his shoulders from the rim of the piano, expression flat. "This face doesn't kid."

She picks him up from his place first after he drops off his dog – it's a little second-floor apartment walking distance from the lounge, which explains his leaving and arrival times every day. He also returns to Rin (nervously dancing in the car for god knows what reason) without a guide cane or anything, and as she hurriedly shoves fast food napkins and sweaters off the passenger seat, he comments that if she wants an excuse to hold his hand all night, now she's got it.

And – unfortunately she has to when they're shouldering in through the line of people flashing ID's at the inner lobby, already pulsing with music. She snatches a fistful of his sleeve at the wrist and tugs him around until she can find an unoccupied corner on the balcony and pulls him in next to her to avoid the passing people.

He slouches against the wall and pivots to directly face her. The lights flash off his glasses, sparking neon colours all over his face; she never knows where to look with him. At least he can't exactly be critical of it, but she feels strange looking into a blank panel of glass, and even worse watching his mouth.

Before she can ask him something awkward, he interjects at a shout: "I'm being stared at, aren't I? We've wandered into the middle of a dance circle. We're in a Michael Jackson video."

"Michael Jackson? Hardly topical, but I'll give it to you."

"I can feel the decades being lifted by my soul by the minute." He takes a deep breath and spreads his arms even though Rin tries her darndest to keep down the one she's holding onto – which is when she realises she's still holding on. "Next it'll be a Backstreet Boy reference."

She jerks her hand away. "Don't you dare."

"Where are we?"

"By the bar. The dance floor is downstairs. I figured we could take a second to, uh – "

"Get my bearings?" He feigns cartoonishly knocking water out of his ear, lightly smacking the side of his head. "It's loud, I understand that. I'd give you one of the reviews you're so insistent on if I could hear a tune at all."

"Astute, Sherlock."

He jerks his chin at her. He's gesturing a lot more loosely than at the lounge, she notices, but she can't imagine it's the fault of the club. "Give me the atmosphere. Should I have painted the anarchy symbol on my glasses, or attached Hello Kitty keychains, or maybe worn a native American headdress."

She laughs. "None of the above, idiot."

"Really?"

"Maybe lose the shirt. I'm kidding – "

He smirks. "It's been a while since I've been here, okay? Be gentle. Want a drink?"

A while? "You seem really comfortable here, you know that?"

"You've seen me in, like, one place. I can loosen up when I'm off the job," he says as he shimmies his shoulders but she lightly pushes him back with a giggle before he can dance on her.

"Want to go downstairs, then?"

He offers out a hand – and she takes his sleeve. He grins at her, showing off the little gaps again and his cheeks nudging up the glasses, and she smiles back, unable to help it.

Maybe she also circles her fingers around his wrist.

In time, they swap on that; her wrists are in his hands, like poor excuses for interlocking fingers, while teenagers knock into her shoulders and his glasses and cheek are smeared with someone's drink but he doesn't seem to notice. He'd been the one to shout an apology at the person after it happened, actually, and it took Rin everything not to tell him to kick the person's ass instead.

And he's a terrible, terrible dancer. It's reassuring to find something he's bad at.

It's been like 30 minutes and she's absolutely sweltering even in her leggings and he's shoved up the sleeves of his v-neck. Sweat dampens a line down the back of it, and she really doesn't want to examine her own quality, but one thing she knows for sure is she's elated, heart pounding to the music, and he yanks her into his chest.

He laughs boisterously and shouts in her ear, "I fucking hate this music!"

She cackles back and knocks him in the chest. "And yet you're still here – ?"

"What if I said it was because of you?"

She groans in annoyance and makes sure he hears it. "I'd tell you to get a better pick-up line handbook."

"She kidnapped an innocent boy to the club and yet she's no fun. Antithetical."

She's tired, so she, still held by him, drags him to the side of the floor where there's the least people and the most alcohol sticky on the floor. She tells him where they are and he slumps against the wall immediately; they have to lean close to hear each other, and she's reassured that she's not the only one that smells like sweat.

"Oh thank god." He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, white light sparkling in his tired half-grin. "I've got a headache, honestly."

"You like dancing, though?" she guesses.

"Yeah, yeah, don't sound so satisfied. I'll give your mix another listen though to ease myself out of this." He shakes his head and gives her a sympathetic, teasing smirk. "This is garbage, sorry. I mentally got stuck at NSYNC. I can't do it with this modern stuff."

"You're such a snob."

"I'm a deaf snob, baby." He smacks his ear again – then hisses an emphatic "ew" when his hand comes back sticky from the drink.

"You want to leave?"

"I'll go wherever you go."

She rolls her eyes, realises her mistake, and just groans again to get the point across – he smirks and lets her hand go to instead link arms with her. He's bulkier than her and very warm, tucking close behind as she weaves through the gyrating crowd. They break out the doors into the evening; her legs feel like jelly on the concrete.

"Fresh air, oh my god." Len tilts back his head to the sky. "And I can hear my own thoughts. Hallelujah."

She teases, "I dunno, Kagamine, I think you liked it."

"Yeah, well, you too." He tugs out his shirt collar and waves the night air down it. "Be honest; how many times did you go in for a kiss?"

"You're so much more obnoxious than I thought. I never should have done this."

He waves a hand absently at her, a frown sneaking into his brow from what she assumes to be the headache. Then he slides off his glasses; she's staring at him, suddenly fascinated, while he rubs his eyes and grumbles, "I'm covered in everyone else's sweat."

He drops his hand. His eyelashes are black, fanned against his red-spotted cheeks from the heat; that and the eyebrows contrast like crazy against his blonde hair and she wonders if he dyes it. Before she can really memorize his face he slides the glasses back on and nods at her. "I think I got tipsy by osmosis. Can you drive instead?"

She smirks at the irony of the statement and lets him link arms with her again, pulling him to the car.

"Do you feel better?"

"Yeah." Len leans his head out of the stream of cold air coming through his open car window. "The Beyoncé earworm has released its deathgrip on my brain."

"Is Beyoncé the only person you know from this century?"

"Who doesn't know her."

She snorts. "Okay. I want to make one more stop before I drop you off."

"Where to, Beyoncé?"

"You wouldn't happen to have a working record player, would you?"

She trusts him enough to leave him in the car, pressing a chilled water bottle he found in the glove compartment to his forehead, while she sneaks up the steps to the house. It's late and she'll get her ass kicked for this later, but at least before she left she remembered not to discard one thing – a key.

Of course, when she (legally, technically) breaks in, she finds her grandmother at the kitchen table, reading a book and thoroughly surprised to see her there.

"I just need to borrow some stuff." Rin smiles awkwardly, praying she doesn't smell like someone else's tequila. "Don't tell mom I was here, please?"

She toes off her shoes, precariously balancing the bag her grandmother gave her in her arms, while he practically dives to the ground to greet the Labrador that bounds out of the living room. From what she can see at the entrance, his apartment is small and neatly organised, almost clinically white in the unfurnished expanses. It doesn't strike her as very much his and would think he'd gotten lost finding his room if not for the dog.

"It's in the next room," he says, jerking his chin towards the den. She slips around him (the dog calming and back in business mode once it notices that she's here), and sure enough, on a mismatched oak stand is a clunky but perfectly preserved record player. Not gramophone era, but it's a far cry from a turntable.

Rin puts the bag down. She suddenly feels incredibly weird; she feels filthy from the club, tired from the ungodly hour, uncomfortable for just slumming in his house. The water in the bathroom gurgles as he washes his face, and his dog stands at the hall between their two rooms with its eyes right on her like it's not sure what she's doing here either.

…Another music thing, that's what. Apparently.

He slips to her side with only the sound of his socks sliding on the floor and a drawl of, "What've you got?"

Mumbling, Rin flicks through the bag's contents. "Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday, Nat King Cole…"

He hums with satisfaction. "I can appreciate a good generic."

"Oh, quiet. Sorry I just chose names I recognised."

Shrugs. "The mainstream is mainstream for a reason."

"What you heard today was mainstream."

He snorts. "That's not my mainstream. That's not even my-mainstream-adjacent. That's a total different pool."

"We're listening to what you want, buddy; stop complaining."

"I'm not complaining, I'm observing."

"Just sit down."

And he does – on the floor, at the feet of the table like a throne. He pointedly pats next to him even if he can't see her incredulous expression. "Lay on the floor with me. This is what the kids did when they listened to music, not jump around like these days. They didn't have couches back then."

"You're really obnoxious tonight."

"What can I say? I'm in a good mood."

She tries to vocalize the rolling of her eyes in her best series of sighs, then says, "Fine. One sec. Get comfy, I guess."

And he does while she slides an album from the sleeve, by instructing his dog to drag him over a pair of pillows from the sofa and folding his arms underneath one, propping up his head. She quietly pretends she isn't taking advantage of her phone again to figure out how to not break the player when trying to get it to work, but in a few minutes she has it cleanly spinning with just the barest bit of crackle before the song starts.

He pats the other pillow again.

She sighs and slides to the floor. It's hard to get comfortable (his dog is trying to get in on it, too), but just as the first song truly begins, she manages to lay on her back, staring at his ceiling.

He slips off his glasses, then. Again – incomprehensively, she feels rude staring. She shuts her eyes instead.

She recognises the song, she realises after a few lines; she remembers singing it a few nights ago, propped on his piano the way he'd expressed not wanting her to but it was her little bit of revenge. The music fills the room but with the piano flowing closer to her than the rest of the ensemble because she knows the turns it will take and the way it sounds when a lot closer, a lot warmer, stylized in the tiny ways that Len can't help infusing into his music.

She slips an eye open. Like an immediate spell, he's calmed, melting along the pillow and the crook that his tilt on his side forces out of his hip; she can see the entirety of his face out of the dark this time, the black eyelashes and slim frame of his nose, sandy freckles underneath his eyes. It's always been obvious, just been part of the whole show that she's known for ages that he's handsome, but this is the first time it really hits her, hard in her chest like she's one of the girls who would swoon over teen idols…lay on her floor like this and lose herself in their voice, or else the way they coax music from the instruments.

It makes her sleepy; another song has passed before she realizes, thanks to his interruption.

"Not to get all exposition-y here, but I wasn't born blind, you know?"

Her chest tightens but for a much different reason. Rin nuzzles her face into the pillow (she's facing him by now) and says, "Sharing dark secrets, now?"

"We've got all the ingredients for it. It's night, we're almost cuddling on the floor, thematic music, bourgeoning sexual tension – "

"Shut it."

He snickers. "Yeah, sorry."

The music lapses into another song, rousing with a shaking cello; she mumbles, "What were you saying…?"

He rolls over another few inches on his hip, tucking an arm under his head so he can run his fingers through his hair. "The blind thing. I'm not going to tell you the science of it because that's not a pretty story, but it finally conked out on me when I was fourteen."

"…Oh."

"So I can remember all this stuff from then – All the winters look like that last winter, and my house now kinda looks like a mash-up between my own place, my friends', you know. I'm filling in the blanks with what I remember." He screws up his brow. "And let me tell you, having the last memory of your appearance be when you were in puberty is really awful."

She giggles, pressing her hand to her mouth; the shadow in his brow deepens.

"This is where you tell me I'm beautiful."

"Tough luck. Go on."

"Right, right. Anyways, so I feel a lot of the time like I'm not really here – I have no goddamn idea what an iPad is, or Spotify, or how much hotter Shakira got, or anything. I'm aging and I can only see myself as a taller teenager. So I think there's…I don't know, I'm stuck in time. And so are these songs. A time I never really visited, but they're stuck where they were created."

"Immortalized."

"Yes, if we want to get poetic. I can only really update them, with my own style or remixes and stuff, but they're still what they always were, and they're still embedded in that time even if I've updated them to keep pace with me. Because you can't change something completely." He smirks, but it isn't malign. "You can't change who someone is or where they came from."

It's completely still underneath his eyelids, the natural twitch long subdued, but she still feels like he's looking directly into her.

The album spins free, the song over.

They go through three albums, trading sleepy commentary or whims, until finally Rin figures she should make an ethical decision about what's going to happen here. It's late as hell and she lives a half hour away – and it's so hard to even pull herself up off the floor at this point.

Without her saying anything he offers her the spare room, and the agreement is softened by having already probably fallen asleep during some album and drooled all over his pillow.

As he searches in the closet for linens, she says conversationally, "You know, I don't genuinely care about what music you listen to."

He feigns a gasp. "That's how you match my earlier confession?"

"Shush. Look, I'm just trying to mess around, show you stuff. I'm not the kind of person who stalks One Direction YouTube videos and death threats everyone."

"You lost me at YouTube. That was after my time."

"…Sorry."

He shrugs and hands her a puffy comforter. "I'm not changing the set list."

She struggles to keep a hold on its massive fluffiness, but mumbles over it, "I know."

"I think you fake a good Ella Fitzgerald, and anyways, that gig is my job more than it's yours. So you get no say."

"…Thanks?"

"Yep." He piles pillows in his arms then leads her to the bedroom, where he tosses them onto the half-made bed. "I meant, I think you do good work. There, and here. Thanks for tonight."

The acknowledgement catches her a little by surprise, in all honestly. After a beat, she says, "You, too. Thanks for being open to the whole thing."

He grins. "And thanks for ultimately pleasing me by doing what I wanted."

"And to think I was going to say you weren't all that annoying."

"I'll accept the intention." He then slides forwards; his glasses still aren't back on, so she just gets the barest glimpse of – what the hell – something that has to be a blush before he chirps a quick "Good night," and it happens nervously fast; he tries to make for something proper, but his nose bumps hard into her brow and he's jerked back as fast as if he'd just tripped into her.

He takes a deep breath and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Anyways, that was so slick and as much as I'd like to bathe in the glory, I'm gonna go – "

She bursts out with a short laugh and an amusedly disbelieving, "You missed."

"Yeah, well, coordination's stuck at fourteen t – mmh," he silences when she grabs his face and aligns him proper, pressing their mouths together. Just as effortlessly as he sank into the music, his fast speech and nerves melt into the kiss and into her, while she's just as easily enthralled. The kind of boy the Rin of before would have loved. Of course. The charming boyishness beneath the intimidating talent of the exterior, the rum center to chocolate.

He inhales slowly when they finally part, biting the inside of his lip. The blush is back and she tries not to laugh – she's effectively cut off anyways by him breathing, "It isn't weird yet, let's go again," and tugging her back into him.

It's all silly things she would have liked before she left, but it sure does take her a long, long time to break the kiss.

. epilogue .

A few days later, she shows up early (another flapper dress, but it's in a dark purple – she can learn something) to find him at the piano again, earbuds popped in, his hands slow over the keys.

The click of her shoes alerts him to her but her yanking out his earbud still seems to take him by surprise.

"What're you up to?"

He stops faking calming down from the shock to say, "Learning something."

"Yeah?" She lifts the bud to her ear – and of all the things, she distinctly recognises the deep croon of Beyoncé coming through the wire. She clicks her tongue at him and slides onto the back of the piano, saying, "What's that for? Are you finally taking my ideas?"

"I'm mixing things up for an occasion." He mocks a haughty sniff at her and manages to play out a few bars of the song before he rewinds the iPod. "But you're screwing it up."

"Am I?"

"Yeah. I'm trying to get my set list ready for the whole big occasion when I ask your parents if I can take you out."

"We don't do that in this era, man." Rin grins and spins on her skirt – piano polished to perfection, of course – and adds, "Sometimes even the girl is the one to ask the guy out."

"The scandal."

She puts her heels down, then, just barely pressing down on the piano to make two reverberating notes in an abridged version of his whole idea, and says, "Yeah, soon we'll be able to vote. So, do you want to?"

"Hm?"

"Go out."

He instead takes a hold of her ankle again and heaves up her leg; he scoots over on the bench and pats it as invitation. "Help me get this down first. I'm going to be a showman about this whether I'm the one asking or not."

She giggles and slips off to sit beside him. He hands her the other earbud and poises his hands over the keys, and she knows she'll be absolutely no help, but at the least she can sing along, as fluttery as she feels. She can see herself smiling in his glasses again, along with the flash of her surprise when he turns again to suddenly kiss her.

He darts back, grins, and plays a short emphatic tune. "Got it that time. Begone, fourteen-year-old Len."

She snickers, "Lucky shot," and presses play.