#it sounds like hippie nonsense but it's good shit i promise

[erasedcitizen2]

i think adults need to play more in general. like when we had snow the other day I went for a walk and I made snow angels. and I picked up some snow and just held it in my bare hand for a little bit just to experience the cold. and I stepped slowly on a frozen puddle to feel the crunch under my boot and watch the water slowly come through the ice.

and it gave me so many serotonins

[chalabrun]

busker street, chapter 1

Word Count: 1,583 Pairing: Ignoct, Ignis/Noctis Rating: T Warnings: None Summary: The mainstream music scene is one of the most demanding, carnivorous industries on the planet. When Ignis, a secretary at his uncle’s record label, meets the multi-talented street musician Noctis, it’s in him that he’ll fight for the right for this young man to be his muse.

                                               READ ON AO3

It was in routine that he found security and familiarity, warm and wonderful in the moments before a brew when the air was captivated by his favorite roasts as he prepared himself for the day. Making coffee was like a timer, in a way. Each day was a slightly different brew, sometimes with shots for an Espresso, sometimes not. Variety in an otherwise predictable, placid routine.

Emerging from the swanky apartment complex he lived in, SoCal weather seldom disappointed with its breezy warmth hailed from the Pacific, not yet baring the high heat of noon that often came with the summer season. Late winter by US standards, the temperature was mild but still warmer than other places, such as his native England that had been his childhood home until six years of age. London had its age, yes, but Los Angelos had its vibrancy. Enough color to make the world go ‘round, one might say.

It was fortunate Ignis’ residence was but a short walk from Hollywood, where his workplace proper was located at the border of Hollywood��not very far from the luxuriant Beverly Hills, either. Ignis’ commutes were often interesting, as spying the occasional celebrity and their throngs of devotees and paparazzi was seldom a rarity. But, commonplace in his business.

“Pardon me. I’m afraid I didn’t see you,” he apologized as he almost ran into an elderly Hispanic woman who only chuckled kindly, waving off the indiscretion and his apparent distracted walk. No matter. They’d be able to cross soon enough.

Dappled shade saved his sight from the worst of a gradually looming sun, the softness of the morning fading away into harsh daylight. Well, perhaps not so harsh. Busker Street was a pleasant, idyllic road compared to others in the contemporary, flashy sector of LA. A beatnik’s paradise, stuffed with short, squat, few-story buildings nevertheless full of centennial charm was an artistic epicenter in the city, lined with old trees that took away from the inevitability of the city.

Ignis couldn’t help but cease moving when the twang of a warm-up guitarist caught his periphery, fellow pedestrians moving past him as though he were a stone in the river. Politely did he move from the line of traffic and deviated from the morning commute, walking beneath the shade until he came before a small crowd blocking half of the wide sidewalk.

Street musicians weren’t rare. Far from it, especially here. However, as he peeked over the shoulders of a particularly short man, he couldn’t help but be enraptured. Ignis saw an electric guitarist surrounded by a keyboard, live microphone, as he was establishing the harmony and melody as Ignis had seen several times before at the recording sessions at the record company. Lord knew he’d seen his fair share of acoustic guitarists, but nothing this complicated before. And when he saw the man beatboxing, Ignis’ brows admittedly shot up.

What ensued was nothing short of entrancing. A jazzy baseline, a funky guitar riff; mingling sounds that logically shouldn’t work together did, and brilliantly. Like accidental genius. At times, the musician’s vocals switched between double reverb and normal, a mystical quality to the lyrics. Not conscious of his own staring, when the musician himself turned his gaze over the crowd, their eyes met. Not having seen his face before, it was like electricity when they matched gazes. Undeniably attractive, even beneath the shade of a baseball cap, Ignis felt himself fluster when he remembered himself. Excusing himself from the throng, he continued again on his way to work.

“If I have to listen to another fucking auto-tune pop princess or some greasy hippie boy on an acoustic guitar, I might as well call it quits.”

It was 9 by the time Ignis came to his uncle’s office on the top floor, Citadel Records something of a sheer trek to ascend even by elevator. A major powerhouse in the music industry, it wasn’t without reason. With two mugs of piping hot coffee in hand, Ignis smiled in some odd amusement. “Auto-tune pop princess? I don’t think I’ve heard that one before,” he admitted mirthfully as the mugs were set on coasters before the older man’s desk, the elder Scientia raking his fingers through thinning blond hair.

“Yes, Ignis, auto-tune pop princess. You ever hear them without it? They sound like shit, most of them. Get the rare talent, but by God are they rare,” Markus Scientia groused as he snatched for his coffee, face half buried in his other hand while he nursed the Espresso. Looking thoughtful and grim, he seemed to brighten some once he’d drunk the coffee proper, a wily smile spanning. “Least the coffee keeps us sane. The hell do you put in it, anyways?”

“Magic, perhaps. Fairy dust,” Ignis replied with a soft smirk as he sat in one of two chairs before the executive’s desk, crossing his legs and sipping quietly at his own.

Markus snorted. “Fucking hairy dust. Long as it works, I suppose.”

They were thoughtful for a long moment, until Ignis was the one who broke the pregnant pause. “None of the applicants were promising?” he broached, glancing over the rim of his mug before setting it on its coaster.

His uncle sighed, doing more or less the same. “Much as we’ve got enough talent as it is, you know how it is, Ignis. People always crave something new. Familiar only lasts so long, and if we’re going to break into the damn indie scene, we need new. Really crash in and set a flag in like it’s the damn moon landing. Real different, you know?”

Ignis couldn’t help but reflect on the musician he encountered that morning, it still feeling like he’d walked from a dream. Considering he passed Busker Street every day weather-permitting, it was his first time hearing this one. Those deep sapphire eyes stuck on him like glue, stamped on his memory like the sound he’d made. New.

“Have you considered looking in the actual scene itself? There are many indie artists in the area, as I’ve been made aware,” he suggested, emerald eyes flicking towards his uncle’s.

Markus snorted, nearly spewing some of his drink indecorously. “I want new, Igs! Never before heard, unknown, not fucking bottom feeders everyone’s heard of. Good ones, of course.”

With each passing moment, this mystery musician was becoming more and more appealing a prospect. Though, just as Ignis opened his mouth to speak, Markus waved off the subject. “What about this whole lyricist business? Come up with anything good? Much as we’re about fostering talent and all that shit, I can’t have you dawdling from your duties for some artsy-fartsy nonsense. You’re the best secretary I’ve got, kid.”

Ah, that.

Ignis straightened his glasses on the bridge of his nose, remembering he’d left his briefcase by his desk outside. “One moment, uncle,” Ignis said distractedly as he left his mug of coffee at the desk, his uncle’s eyes expectantly boring into his back. Outside, the managing division in all its business yawned before him, hard at work even so early in the morning.

“Anythin’ excitin’ goin’ on in there, Igs?” Cindy ventured in her southern drawl, leaning back in her office chair with a sunny smile.

Ignis regarded the blond with a faint scoff, but smiled warmly back. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see. Perhaps I’ll have news by lunch break, Miss Aurum.”

Finding the right shief of papers and a notebook with ideas, Ignis stepped back into his uncle’s office who clapped his hands once whilst Ignis slid the papers on the older Scientia’s desk. Rumpling some of the documents in hand, he leaned back with a creak in his seat and propped both feet commandingly on his desk, Ignis taking his seat again and waiting quietly as he read through what material he’d brought.

Markus made no articulation of an opinion that Ignis could discern, leafing through before he lifted those similarly green eyes to his nephew. “It’s not bad, Igs, but it sure as hell wouldn’t sell on a mainstream market,” the older man began, sliding the documents across his desk, then smiling puckishly, “but I like it. Think once we found our flagship act, you could be the one who wrote their songs. Guess it’s not such a bad thing your old man made you take all those Honors and AP classes back in high school.”

Ignis’ composure became disarmed by the praise, admittedly first worrying that he’d found some of the songs he’d written to be too esoteric for a common audience. Not that he was incapable of producing for the pop genre, but it simply felt unsuitable. “Thank you, uncle,” Ignis beamed back, Markus laughing heartily.

Just as he moved to collect his things to begin work at his own desk, Markus stopped him. “Oh, once you’re all done with this shit, two things: I need you to go to that exhibit opening party or whatever downtown for me. That’s this weekend. And, uh, tomorrow—I was thinking I could give you a sort-of day off. Do some scouting for raw talent, y’know? Pass out business cards, network and shit like that. Got it, Igs?”

Ignis nodded, papers rolled in his hand and half-drunk coffee in the other, looking a little flustered to begin the day’s work. “I think that should be doable, uncle. I’ll be certain to clear my schedule.”

“Glad I can count on you, Igs!”