BTS Scenarios: Soft Edition [Ongoing]

Taehyung: Jazz Sous la Pluie

"Closing time, V. Would ya mind hittin' the lights on the way out and lockin' up?"

"Yeah, of course." 

"Take care, now." The bell above the doorframe signalled the manager's departure.

The broad and handsomely slender saxophonist with the honey blonde mullet had already stripped himself of the glittering black coat, rolling up white sleeves to his elbows, and his polished shoes clacked against the glossy wooden floors as they headed for the bar.

For the most part, things were pretty neat. Few glasses to clean, couple crumbs from refreshments; the floor still needed to be swept, but he could handle it. And reaching for the simple cloth hanging up beside the wine rack, he started cleaning. 

 

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It wasn't always this way. In the beginning, all I'd do was stand atop that stage at nightfall, never really paying much attention to the audience below, because the music and the wine had already started flowing through me. 

I loved it so. All of it. Opening my eyes occasionally to glance about the room, and the sight never failed to entice me. Lights like the jewels and pearls around a woman's neck, emitting just the right amount of shine. Nothing too bright, nothing too dull. Right in the middle; just how I liked it. Circles of tables filled to the brim with people coming to escape life with a few shots of whiskey or have a fun night out, yet it was always something to see at red lips curling into a smile, or a pair of eyes flickering in amusement. 

I loved being able to sit with the other performers behind the curtains; all our instruments gleaming like gold in a pharaoh's tomb. And to hear them play, to be one of the sole cores of each masterpiece devised, was a dream come true. 

 

Course though, not all dreams last very long. Eventually, the ample busking tips from passerby started dwindling, and I realized at one point that if I didn't step it up, I could kiss my sweet life goodbye. 

So, I went from a wealthy saxophone star to a plongeur. During breaks, I'd fill in for the bartender, refilling glasses of tipplers aiming to reach drunken stupors, always wiping off those annoying smudges on the counters. Finding loose change on the floor was a bonus, at least, during sweeping at the end of the night. 

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"Finally finished," he sighed, letting the broom drop in its place against the closet wall. Raking a slender hand through his locks, he sauntered over for his things by the stage. His black leather case already closed for the night, trench hanging on the hook by the door ready to be slipped on his shoulders, and the fedora waiting to sit atop his locks of gold while he fumbled for the key to lock up with.

It took a couple tries; that door was always a little funny when it came to locking, but he eventually succeeded, tucking the tarnished key under the overturned flowerpot nearby. Next, he straightened up, shifting the case in his palms as he started off for home. 

 

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The latest I'd ever left for home was three in the morning. However, my average timing was two, and I never wanted to be a burden, so I always walked home. Rain or shine, I reminded myself that I was given legs to walk with, and that the least I could do was keep them moving while I could still use them. But, that old streetcar driver was so persistent at nights, always begging me to get off of my feet, seemingly waiting for me at his usual post like a pestering child. Always in your business, always popping up when you'd least expect it, but you just couldn't help but love him.