AJ Crowley (vaguesaunter) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2019-07-10 17:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | anthony j. crowley, yue katou |
WHO: Katou and Crowley
WHAT: What is this?
WHERE: A music shop
WHEN: Tuesday afternoon
RATING: Lowish
STATUS: Complete
At one of the very few still-standing record shops left in the first world since the dawn of the digital age stood a man who, despite the summer heat, wore all black and, despite being indoors, wore sunglasses. In his hand was one of the greatest pleasures in life: a vinyl record. This one was from The Carpenters. For AJ Crowley, The Carpenters weren’t Queen (the single greatest band of all time), but they were marvelous nonetheless.
Whatever noise was playing over the speakers, however…
“What the bloody-” Crowley asked the apparent universe as he looked up at one of the ceiling panels as if it owed him an explanation as to what, exactly, that was piping through the shop. As it so happened, the artist’s name was Halsey. To Crowley, she sounded as if someone were pressing against the windpipe of a very distraught old man or perhaps a toddler who’d lost a favourite toy. Whatever it was, the whiny bellowing of pseudo deep lyrics was almost enough to bring bile to Crowley’s throat.
One of the perks of getting his fat Agency cheques, paired with hardly needing to pay rent at all on Wendy’s house, was that Katou had a ton of money left over for vinyls. They weren’t cheap, and the part of him that had spent his youth on the streets still balked at the price, so he didn’t buy them as often as he’d ultimately like to, but record day was his favourite day of the month.
He was cruising through the punk section. He already had Suffer by Bad Religion in his hands, and was looking for a couple of other records to take home with him when he heard a man not far exclaim. He glanced up, lazily chewing the gum in his mouth, and followed the man’s gaze to the speaker in the ceiling, and then pulled one of his earbuds out so that he could actually hear what the guy was listening to.
“Yeah, it’s pretty fucking bad, ain’t it?” Katou asked. “You’d think a record store would put on better tunes.”
Crowley spared the kid a glance, but his expression didn’t change, wholly unamused by both song (if you could call it such a thing) and gum-chewing boy. But Heaven forbid Crowley should outright ignore someone.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0J7kcr
“Yyyes,” he agreed with a sneer. “Who could ever come up with a sound as tormenting as…” Crowley gestured with a whole, unimpressed hand toward the speaker, just as the old-man-toddler whine-bragged that some poor soul couldn’t live without her. Crowley’s lips puckered at the very suggestion as he thought he himself could have lived the rest of his life without this ear vexation.
Katou stopped and listened for a moment. “Hasley,” he answered after a moment, before turning back to his records, flipping through them one by one. It wasn’t the kind of thing he normally listened to, but when you were dating a popular rock star who got a lot of radio time, sometimes you picked up on things that you’d rather not know. Like the names of other popular, if not terrible, pop artists. “This is why you should never leave home without your own music to come for the ride,” he said, gesturing to the earbud that was still in his ear.
“The Admirable is rolling in his grave,” Crowley mumbled.
Finally, Crowley stopped glaring up at the ceiling panel and instead raised a brow over his sunglasses at the cheeky little sod, his mouth twisting into something that resembled a smile that was anything but trustworthy.
“Touche,” he agreed, but he continued on his search for the rare Carpenters album he’d been hunting for an age. Here was the usual, but not the single he sought. Alas. Crowley let go of the section of vinyls. They clapped together, echoing Crowley’s agitation. Not about to leave empty handed, Crowley looked over the kid’s shoulder to see what he was looking at.
Katou had seen The Carpenter’s album in the man’s hand, so he was a little bit surprised when he’d come up and taken a place behind Katou’s shoulder. He raised an eyebrow, turning over his shoulder to look at him. “I think all this is a little too hard for you, old man,” he said, smirking a little.
Behind his glasses, Crowley might have been rolling his eyes, were it not such a distasteful gesture. “I lived through the Suede era,” he said. “And Pulp.” Both of which were the musical embodiment of a migraine, but also the cornerstone of many a drug induced memory. “Whatever you have is Disney to me.” Pretty kid. Boy. Man. How old was this boy again?
Katou was 21, though he looked younger. Whether it was from the black beanie, the loose t-shirt and the cargo shorts hanging off his skinny frame, or because he hadn’t really aged much since he’d died four years ago, or just because he was Asian, it was hard to say. “Pulp? You mean the Common People people?” Katou asked, snorting. “Please.” He frowned, flipping back through the records until he came across an old Sham 69 album. “You’re British, yeah? Here.”
“What ever clued you in?” sneered Crowley.
Nevertheless, he took the album, half impressed the boy knew what it was and half annoyed by the same (it was a matter of principle), and he definitely wasn’t tucking it under his arm to purchase and possibly play for his plants later on.
“A purist, are you?” Crowley asked with a touch of curiosity. Most people the boy’s age wanted to download the latest Maroon 5 on iTunes.
“That snobby attitude, for one,” Katou said nonchalantly, though it was mostly the accent.
“You could say that,” he said. Part of him wondered if he shouldn’t have given the man something a little more on the hardcore side of things, just to make his ears really bleed and to show him how ‘Disney’ punk music really was. But, despite the fact that he doubted a guy dressed in a suit and tie would really appreciate some good old-fashioned Anacrho-punk, there was still a chance that he might actually like Sham 69, and Katou, deep down, did want to suggest things that people might actually like. “I just like good music is all. Can’t fault a guy for that.”
Guilty as charged and Crowley looked quite pleased with it (if Crowley could look pleased)..
“Certainly can’t,” Crowley agreed and tipped his chin down just enough so his sunglasses slid a scant down the bridge of his nose and he was peering over the brim of them at the boy with the decent taste in music. “What’s your name, my dear?” If he didn’t get a name, My Dear would always suffice.
“Don’t call me that,” Katou grumbled, a little embarrassed. “I’m Katou,” he said, not bothering with a first name. Only certain people got the priveledge of getting to know that bit of information. “Your turn.”
“I’m called Crowley,” said Crowley, also not offering a first name. Not out of privileged information, but more because most just called him Crowley.
“Cheers for the record rec, Katou,” he said, then tipped an invisible hat to the boy before he sauntered to the checkout counter to purchase the ruddy thing. Crowley couldn’t help but still feel a little cross that the only record shop for miles didn’t have what he was searching for.
Katou stared for a moment, and then offered a bit of an uncertain grin. “Crowley? You’re joking, right?” he asked.
Oh bollocks. Why did they always get so attached so quickly?
Crowley was almost to the counter when the boy asked for clarification. “Yesss,” Crowley near hissed, unaware of his little speech impediment. And he liked his name, thank you very much. What was there to make fun of?
Katou’s unsteady grin turned into a full-fledged, shit eating grin as it sank in. “Well then, you’re welcome, Mr. Charming. You enjoy that record.”