Vocaloid Ficlets, Tags, etc.

Ficlet #12 - Len & Oliver

"I hate lyrics!" Len threw his notepad across the practice room. It hit the soundproof wall with a slap and its pages fluttered as it fell.

"So violent," Oliver dryly remarked from his seat on the piano bench. He had been robotically practicing scales, fingers dancing in triplets up and down the keys. Every note rang out stupidly perfect.

"I hate lyrics," Len explained. He flopped backward to sprawl on the carpeted floor.

Oliver stood and retrieved the notepad. He apathetically leafed through the rough drafts and brainstorming, scanning lines here and there. Over the top of the page he observed Len, who squished his pencil between his nose and upper lip as he made a ridiculous grimace.

Oliver dropped the notepad onto Len's face.

"Ow!"

"Don't litter in the practice room."

Len scrambled upright. "Are you calling my lyrics trash?"

"Yes," said Oliver. More than easily, Len could imagine a cloud of icy breath release with that cold tone.

Len stared hard at Oliver, narrowing his eyes. Oliver's expression remained as deadpan as ever as he returned to his seat. No light ever shone behind his eye. Lyrics were all about feeling, so how could Oliver tell if lyrics were bad if he never seemed to exhibit any emotions himself?

Len continued to squint until Oliver blurred through his lashes beyond recognition.

"Okay then," Len replied. "You think my lyrics are trash?" He seized the notepad and flipped to a clean sheet, grabbed a sharper pencil from his bag, and shoved them both into Oliver's hands.

"I want to see you do better," Len said. "Get up. You write the lyrics and I'll compose the melody. Let's write a song together."

He spoke his request like a challenge. Show me. I want to see. What are you thinking? How do you feel? Is there any feeling at all behind that lifeless expression? Is there anything important enough to you that you would write a song about it?

"A song," Oliver repeated. He examined the pencil as if he held a foreign object he had never seen before or a tchotchke he couldn't comprehend the use of. He stared at Len like he had been spouting gibberish. Or claiming classical music had been invented by aliens at the very least. "Together?"

"Unless you think my composing is as trash as my writing."

The only emotion ever apparent on Oliver's face was an inherent disgust or maybe contempt for the entire world and everything in it. He never gave off any warmth. It was impossible to imagine this boy could have passion for anything, even what he was made for. Yet something stood amiss as he gave his answer.

"Fine." Oliver relinquished the piano bench. "I'll write the lyrics. But the melody you create better be more than what I'm expecting."

"I'll give you even more than that." Len made up for his lack of talent as a lyricist tenfold with his confidence as a composer. He slammed two dramatic chords out of the piano. There. That sounded much better than those stuffy scales. "Just give me a genre."

Oliver glared and Len grinned. Any emotion was better than none. And it was definitely there as Oliver shot back his own challenge. "Your choice."

•••

Another old piece from a prompt by BananaboyeL that I fixed up a little.