HALF REST.

so since I'm still here livin’, I guess I will live on. I could’ve died for love— but for livin’ I was born though you may hear me holler, and you may see me cry— i’ll be dogged, sweet baby, if you gonna see me die. -- langston hughes - ind./sel. MUSICIAN OC one last song with DAN (est. 2014) dossier / rules

[charliesgotchops]

cafe fortune is officially back open for business!

after a long hiatus, he's back for one last song. re-introducing CHARLIE FORTUNE: jazz musician, café owner, and a study in picking up the pieces.

rebooted by dan. charlie is a fandomless oc w/ a pkmn verse as his base.

please read my rules (and check out charlie's history) before interacting!

reblog this post and I'll check you out. 💜

[charliesgotchops]

[charliesgotchops]

(ooc. I'm really welling up after writing every charlie reply...)

[debutafin]

ㅤ the world is so much better because of the people who shape it. aphid wonders about the air his lungs, the metal that went into the cast of his trumpet, the person who designed the shape, the earth who grew the ore needed to make it, & how the cycle ends here. it's a small store with a few people, none of whom pay aphid any mind. she relaxes into her corner without anyone to bother her & teaches toula tic— tac— toe.

ㅤ between beginning wins & accumulating losses, aphid's eyes wander back toward the preformers then to the man on stage. she counts each second he takes before he gasps. it's seamless; aphid wouldn't have caught it if she weren't looking for it. the air blown into the trumpet shakes but not from weakness, but control. a notion without further dwelling.

ㅤ the occasional grunt draws aphid back to the game. toula won seven games & his trainer six as the music fades. a concentration bound by another's newfound fascination. it was riff flying past the table that aphid saw the stage, empty. the musician was talking to other people, aphid takes a deep breath, grabs the handles of her purse to drape over her elbow. the string still needs replacing on her harp, that's why she was here. but why she stays... not for the pokémon who can copy a dozen voices, but for the artist. it was a good show.

ㅤ he moves to another table. aphid lets go of her purse. then, he finally came over to her⸻ eyes follow the hair that falls before his. wavy.

ㅤ "the only opinion that matters is your's. you sound very practiced⸻ it was nice watching you get absorbed in it." she smiles. critics will say anything to make themselves heard⸻ aphid thought he was great. she can't recall the last time she heard a trumpet solo... if at all.

ㅤ another question settles like a rock beneath her tongue. he keeps talking, so there it sits. he turns to toula, toula nods stiffly ( he's always been that way ). "my name is aphid. it's nice to meet you." her hands wrap around her mug, nails overlapping. "i don't play professionally. the harp was left in my apartment when i moved in. it'd be a waste to keep it in storage... i also play the violin." ( & piano ). "i'm practicing to... play publicly. i have a show in a few weeks at the museum in the magenta district⸻ the small one."

ㅤ now that the answers are over, she asks: "uhm... why do you play?"

[charliesgotchops]

why do you play?

it's an innocuous enough question, probably meant to politely prod the conversation along, but charlie's brow wrinkles in contemplation regardless. he's always been thoughtful to a fault, often turning over responses in his mind until the moment passes him by altogether. (and--in the bustling, hyperactive social climate of lumiose--many such moments have.) the shakers and movers within kalos's crown jewel seemingly aren't capable of operating at slower tempos. walk fast. talk faster. charlie's used to being left behind by now...but he didn't mind. there's a certain peace attained when you're rendered invisible by the masses. café fortune often feels like the last place--the final bastion--where quiet and doing nothing is encouraged. (in the wake of lumiose's continued expansion, maybe that's why it's always struggled so much.)

why do you play?

where to start? charlie's mind leaks memories, recalled sensations: the warm touch of his father guiding charlie's fingers over the valves of his first hand-me-down trumpet, the tight embrace of his mother after charlie's first conservatory performance, the floral scent of charlotte's perfume as charlie practices with her arms draped over his shoulders, big stage dreams still flourishing in their heads...and then, the gentle, mournful sound of his trumpet in an empty room, persisting even after charlie's world had ended.

charlie blinks hard, reality swimming back into focus. he had fixated absentmindedly on aphid's nails during his little journey. and despite the pause, she's still here, waiting for his answer. she could've disappeared like so many others, but has chosen to linger on his wavelength instead. (charlie thinks back to that exhibit, how aphid had endured the burden of invisibility. perhaps they were cut from similar cloths.)

"...huh. now you've got me thinking," charlie finally answers, moving some hair out of his eyes as he grins with that self-deprecating ease. "why do I play...? mm, I guess...it's what I'm best at."

he shakes his head unsatisfied and drums the valves, adding with a shy nod. "when I play this? every breath comes a little easier, and everything else just...melts away." charlie shrugs, letting out a soft chuckle. "...well, it's better for me than smoking was, at least." it saved my life.

talking to aphid is oddly comforting. charlie leans up against the wall as beat waddles over to change records. art blakey's iconic intro begins to waft through the timeless space, and charlie's foot taps unconsciously.

"...if you ever want to warm up and practice for your show here, let me know--I'll even help you move the harp. least I can do," he offers with a good natured wink. "...I'm sure riff, beat, and the others would appreciate a change in instruments. 's not every day you get to hear a harpist play."

aphid's shows. the harrowing living exhibit swims back to the forefront of charlie's mind, but he can't breach the subject yet, gaze drifting towards this most interesting guest with a tilt of the head. (riff is back and bored, landing on charlie's shoulder and making faces at toula.)

"what kind of shows do you put on...? seems like you could do just about anything."

[lovestereo]

Visit Original Link

[charliesgotchops]

the unsent project.

Type your muse's name in “The Unsent Project.com” & pick a quote that fits them. REPOST, DON'T REBLOG

tagged by: @debutafin 💜 tagging: you!!

[debutafin]

ㅤ ... maybe her notions about the cafe's success were mistaken. the more she looks up from her corner, the less she sees. tables empty, chairs pushed in angled patterns waiting for use. they look too nice to be tucked beneath amid conversation. but it was clean, there was just a slight coating of dust in the crook of the corner⸻ it's a corner, it looks attended & probably scheduled for another touch— up. it's nice, but it's not what it was expecting.

ㅤ just as aphid tucks the spool of thread into the pocket of her jacket, her hand returns to her notebook⸻ promptly shielding the page from a loud visitor. eyes widen once more, maybe as if a microphone was thrust in her face by an eager journalist, lips twitching around what she should say! this chatot could store maybe a hundred voices in its voice box, it felt like her's was stolen right from under her.

ㅤ toula's eyes narrow upon greeting, holding steady gaze until one trainer intervenes. free fingers feel for toula's arm, holding its paw until she gathers her composure, the surface of her coffee ripples from riff's takeoff. conversation moves too quick for aphid to keep up, that's all... before something witty could find her, it was over. familiarity settles. that's typical.

ㅤ but it wasn't a scold that called riff off, freeing aphid some sentence as if she were something to be defended ( she writes something down... ) it was a call to action. the show that the cashier mentioned. aphid holds her mug up, readies another sip. it's not a loud show. certainly not as loud as riff was, at least not now. it's quiet. it fills the air like a mist. hazey & comfortable. sound amplified by a microphone, people still chatter & busy without full attention. its lack isn't fueled by disinterest, but because of the sound. conversation inspires between two chairs, who lean in & back down their chair, arms fold to minimize. another man, alone, fills out a crossword in the afternoon.

ㅤ cymbal & drum doesn't seek to disrupt the way of life, but breathe into it. it doesn't grate her ears but soothes her nerves. she flips through older pages, rewinding the days. recalling a cluster of durant around a meal that missed the trash, lots about magnifying glasses & hospital gowns. pencil scratch of her vivillon soaking in light through an unopening window. this was aphid's life. victory spent recovering, finding the strength to stand on her own amidst labored breath... she writes down a few notes she hears from the trumpet.

ㅤ it's a very nice show. it's very apt for the reason she needed this string. the sound is unobtrusive... that's a good word, unobtrusive... ( *✍️ ) though, as her eyes flicker back toward the man on stage, her gut insists that he is obtrusive. he wishes he could be otherwise, but he's center— stage. she knows that kind. there's something more to him than a cashier... an artist. that's nice.

[charliesgotchops]

(♫♫)

charlie's fingers glide across the valves with a quiet, easy confidence - this particular song is one of countless many that he can play in his sleep, a skill borne from a hungry youth spent crammed in practice rooms and planted upon humble late-night stages. he sneaks in little runs and jazzy glissandos between the staff margins, tasteful frills, never anything too crazy. his eyes are closed, his posture relaxed - this is less of a performance than a meditation. somebody could walk off with the entire cafe's supply right now and charlie wouldn't notice, lost on another blissful plane as he soars gently into a solo. (the regulars, for what its worth, take this little ritual for what it is - this performance isn't some big production, oh no, but pleasant background noise for a conversation or a morning puzzle. charlie's more than happy to fill in the gaps.)

in this moment, nothing else matters but the music. the pending eviction letter from quasartico feels weightless in his pocket, the day's malaise melting away with every new bar. he moves instinctively from song to song (beat adjusting his drums accordingly with a veteran's panache), trying to cling to the magic for as long as possible. chet baker, clifford brown...their timeless songs seem to pass by so fleetingly.

and, as always, the ride comes to its natural end. time to wake back up. charlie cracks open his eyes and reluctantly lets the café back in, blinking heavily. how long had he played for this time? the regulars (plus aphid, thankfully) are still here, engrossed in other things. charlie stretches, reaching down to ruffle beat's feathered head as the elderly farfetch'd curls up against his set for a well-earned nap.

charlie decides to make a casual sweep of the café, clearing and refilling empty mugs, straightening chairs and tables. riff is off on their perch by the dusty front window, making faces at the lumiose passerby and cackling. eventually, charlie's path leads him to aphid - who he meets with an easy grin, a deferential nod, a lock of dark hair falling across his twinkling eye.

"...well, how'd we do? always looking for a fresh review," he asks softly, his lips twitching with amusement. "you're still here, so I guess that's something."

he pauses for a moment, wringing those ever-restless hands. "...realized I never introduced myself properly. name's charlie, and this here's my world. kalos's best-kept secret and recently voted 124th best eatery in the city. café fortune." he gestures around languidly, but there's a quiet, modest pride in his voice. "just wanted to say thanks for the tip. riff and beat will be eating good tonight, that's for sure." he turns to toula, offering another apologetic nod. "and sorry 'bout riff giving you a hassle, man. they tease everybody."

charlie's eyes fall to box of string next to aphid's things. "...you know, I've never met a harpist before - you play professionally? would love to hear it sometime."

[charliesgotchops]

[charliesgotchops]

[beatsforbrothels]

Visit Original Link

Himiko Kikuchi - Flying Beagle

[debutafin]

ㅤ an octet of eyes glances between both birds⸻ unwelcome feelings make themselves clear. toula looks around, behind, down... he reels in the trail behind him, bound around dual wrists. leaving a thread behind was a force of habit, nothing more. causing any more of a scene would petrify those not involved...

ㅤ ... like aphid, whose eyes gawk at the man behind the register. she saw the price online, calculated the tax, brought enough cash to cover the cost of the strings with a few bills of spending money⸻ it would more than cover the cost of a drink. it would be a smooth transaction & aphid could leave the store, resume her practice, be alone. now, her total was zero. fingers already between the pleats of her wallet, aphid faces a new dilemma: how much to tip.

ㅤ she's been out of work for a week, spent mostly in the hospital. today her final day before returning behind the counter to sell earrings & watches & whatever necklaces she couldn't afford. if she had the choice to hold onto a bit of cash, it would be helpful to bills who spare no sympathy.

ㅤ aphid takes the biggest bill from her estimate & puts it into the jar. his pokémon have to eat, too. enough to make aphid feel like his kindness wasn't bait to something more⸻ really, she doesn't need charity. selfishness nags that it's good to hold onto a little bit extra; aphid needs it.

ㅤ ... aphid forgot to ask for her coffee to— go.

ㅤ hands clasp around the mug he passes, eyes follow the hand that waves toward the tables. the good news is that it wouldn't be a concert for one. aphid wets her lips & nods. "thank you." i could have paid for everything. she looks at toula who looks up at her, then they both sit in a table tucked in a corner. aphid pulls out a chair for toula. she doesn't get sugar or milk.

ㅤ suspicion gnaws at her joints. maybe the shop was doing well for itself & he could afford to give away some materials & a cup of coffee. maybe it was forefit to her. maybe he was just... really kind. regardless of reason, she busies shaky hands with tugging the silk off of toula's wrist, laying it on the table to rub his wrists. he doesn't have a face that aphid associates with philanthropy. philanthropy always has a catch... aphid glances back at the cashier while pretending to find a clock. he has stubble, his breath didn't smell like lunch, & he knew she hadn't come in before. if the shop was doing as well as she thought, faces would start to blur into one another & he'd have to ask her.

ㅤ aphid takes a notebook out of her pocket & writes something down ( shop owner?? ), then takes a sip of her coffee & winces. it could use some sugar but it was socially too late to get up.

[charliesgotchops]

charlie arches an eyebrow as aphid's bill drops into the dusty tip jar, immediately putting the meager coins resting beneath it to shame. his eyes follow aphid to her corner-table before scanning the familiar, dimly-lit space: there's beat on the small stage, having exchanged his drumstick for a tiny broom, dutifully sweeping off the area around his little kit. charlie's fingers instinctively find his trusty trumpet case behind the counter, popping open the worn-down latches.

riff, perhaps cued in by the familiar sound, spirals down from the rafters and immediately catches sight of the tip jar's newest offering. the lil' chatot lands and bobs their head excitedly, hopping across the empty tables towards aphid and toula. "bienvenidos, rookie! howza joe? it's qu-ality stuff, eh? ahaha!" they cackle, showing off their truly...bizarre imitation range. they preen proudly in front of aphid before strutting towards toula, blinking hard. another wary head-tilt, as if they're sizing the spidops up and finding themselves outmatched. a stiff, feathery bow is offered instead. "bonjour. you big bug."

"...riff," charlie warns from across the café, offering aphid an apologetic nod as the energetic chatot flutters towards the door with an enthused 'okay! smell ya later...!' charlie finally emerges from behind the counter with his trumpet and stops by aphid's table, one hand already gliding across the brass valves on instinct. "sorry about them - they get excited by new face-... ouch."

riff cackles once more, swooping towards the stage after dropping today's mail on charlie's head. it's just a singular envelope today, but charlie's easy smile drops slightly as the message tumbles into view before he can tuck it into his pocket. crisp white envelope, sterilized corporate logo...angry red lettering. QUASARTICO INC. - FINAL NOTICE.

charlie hears himself murmur another apology, silently resolving to check back in if aphid's still here by the end of the song. he hopes so. charlie treads towards the stage - like a drowning man towards dry land - and doesn't fully exhale until he's next to the standing microphone, beat perched behind his tiny drums, waiting. the envelope rests heavily in his jacket...but as charlie raises his trumpet, everything else seems to melt away. breathe. breathe.

he closes his eyes and goes under, losing himself in the music.

(♫♫)

[charliesgotchops]

charlie & his grumpy old bird, beat!! SO happy to share the art that I commissioned from my incredibly talented friend @infernalpursuit. she made the entire process so easy for me and I can't recommend her enough! thank you so much, gio! 💜

[debutafin]

( *starter for @charliesgotchops )

ㅤ a bell rings as toula opens the door. aphid looks up at the bell & walks inside, wrapping her coat around her middle. she mumbles a hello in return to the clerk who greets her at the sound. the pair, just as quietly, scans the shelves & heads toward the replacement strings.

ㅤ she found this place online. through careful research, aphid determined this shop was closest to her apartment on short notice. her fingers still thrum from the strings they strung... a harp is only as beautiful as the sound it makes⸻ a twang from a snapping string was anything but. blamed on a string of bad luck that followed her, nothing more. attention drifts toward electronic tuners...

ㅤ breathing labors against healing ribs. her hand still clasps her jacket over her stomach, the spidops holds out the broken string, taken to compare widths... then she eyes prices, the electronic tuners again... the more expensive string without the tuner. the quality should be better. it's only a few dollars more.

ㅤ it's a silent affair. the thought, the decision, the way she steps to avoid disturbing the saxophone through the speaker. glances about the interior prolong a quick visit... it's cozy. small, but there's a few tables nearby... it makes the shop look larger, deeper than wide. espresso machines extend the otherwise quaint register... suppose she skimmed over the reviews too quickly. she plans to practice for a while, caffeine wouldn't hurt...

ㅤ a deep breath strains⸻ exhales faster. it finds the man at the register, places the string on the table, exchanges another quiet greeting... she clutches the fur of her jacket, "could... i get a coffee too, please?"

[charliesgotchops]

(♫♫) the harsh jangle of the old doorbell cuts into ben webster's saxophone solo, and the moment's discord is enough to jar charlie loose from his latest fugue state. he looks down at his hands--never idle, they had been busy polishing a cracked mug to death--before turning his tired gaze towards café fortune's latest visitors. a soft hello leaves his lips automatically, though his brow furrows with recognition as he watches the newcomers shop around.

he's seen it before, and the fleeting familiarity knots his stomach. lumiose is chronically overstuffed with artists--the cobblestone streets are often lined with performers, trinket stands, or the occasional pop-up gallery. spend enough time here, and the mediums start to blend together, less overstimulating and more part of the routine. that's life in the big city.

charlie had only seen fragments of aphid's bizarre stairwell exhibit, but it was enough to be unforgettable--at first, a few curious passerby were careful to step over the prone figure laying on the steps...but as the narrow stairs attracted more attention, people quickly filled the cramped quarters. the stairwell became an overstuffed liminal space, the lines blurring between people who were desperate to reach the top, and people who had been, and found nothing but a scatterbug display. even within the small but exasperated gathering, aphid became an afterthought, disappearing beneath the footfalls...and charlie, charlie...had leaped in to perform a heroic extraction-

...had thrown up in a nearby trash can and retreated hastily back into his shop. (that evening, an extra beer dulled any resurfacing nightmares. old trick.)

aphid's at the register now, inquiring about a coffee, and charlie hesitates, wondering if (and how) he should even bring the exhibit up. what was he supposed to say? hey, I saw you nearly get trampled to death a couple weeks ago? stupid. he pushes the thought down deep and clears his throat instead, that easy smile finding his lips once more as the old cash register slides open with a bing.

"...sure thing. first cup's on the house, since you're a new customer and all." charlie replies in that soft, warm timbre, his gaze moving towards the string. "the harp, huh? don't see that every day...cool." he carefully turns the product over before sliding the drawer shut, eyes crinkling at the edges. "honestly? should be paying you for finally taking this off my hands--it's on the house too. if you really wanna throw us a bone, you can contribute to the old birds' pokepuff fund."

charlie taps a coin-starved mason jar labeled 'tips' next to the register, and as if on cue, BEAT ambles out from a practice room in the back. the old farfetch'd leans heavily on his drumstick as he spots some silk strands on the old hardwood, fixing toula with a stink eye. RIFF, charlie's chatot vocalist, cackles from a hammock hanging in the shop's ancient rafters. and charlie pours aphid a steaming cup of baseline joe into one of those chipped, overpolished mugs.

"...sit anywhere. take a load off," he offers, gesturing towards the sparsely populated tables surrounding the cramped stage. "if you plan to stick around, we're gonna be performing soon. might be worth your while." (charlie's weary face brightens with the casual announcement, like a candle being struck.)

for the time being, ben webster is allowed to play on, uninterrupted once more.

[leadingtone]

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Ella Fitzgerald, with Joe Pass, guitar

“In a Sentimental Mood” from The Duke Ellington Songbook