Flower and Bird Relations (8)
While Shin Tae-il was briefly in the bathroom.
Arisugawa Iris, listening through earphones to the samples Tae-il had permitted, widened her eyes in surprise.
“What’s this? It’s actually pretty good?”
On a scale of ten, she’d generously give it a seven.
Among the songs Tae-il had revealed, the ones Iris could judge came to roughly five, including those not yet complete. Beyond those five, there were plenty of mere scratches stuck in the conceptualization stage that Iris couldn’t make heads or tails of.
At first, she’d wondered what nerve he had to make such a lopsided bet, but unexpectedly, his skill held up.
“Not just hot air after all.”
It was quality enough to slap some Utauroid lyrics on and upload to Inutube for a solid reaction.
“If I get Rena-chan to do the original art, we could totally aim for the rankings, right?”
With Rena’s illustrations, the thumbnail alone would pull mad aggro. And layering on Tae-il’s compositions with her own vocals…
Whoa, if we nail the live performance, straight to major leagues in one go, no?
Iris closely scrutinized the features of Ayane, who was still groaning away.
Setting herself aside, Ayane alone could effortlessly outshine most girl band archetypes.
Looking closer, the lineup’s actually pretty solid…?
She’d pegged it as reckless, but it was more calculated than expected. At the very least, he had a sharp eye for people.
Iris’s trust in Tae-il ticked up just a notch.
His playing’s a bit shaky, though…
Truth be told, since he was originally on bass, some awkwardness on drums was inevitable.
Even during jam sessions, subtle flubs cropped up, but the natural fills he slipped in suggested solid fundamentals.
Come to think of it…
There was a peculiar pattern to Tae-il’s mistakes.
The first had been when Iris hummed on the promenade, and every time after that she got caught up in the groove and sang, he’d miss a beat or two.
“Hmm.”
Tae-il’s praise—her vocals being the best he’d ever heard—seeped into Iris, resonating like an echo in her skull.
At first, she’d dismissed it as flattery to stroke her ego, devoid of real feeling…
Not quite, huh?
Reviewing his behavior in detail, it carried genuine sincerity.
“My vocals are the best…”
Iris was numb to compliments.
She’d heard them nonstop since childhood, so most barely registered anymore.
Pretty, killer figure, must be nice being rich, so smart.
And the crown jewel: best vocals.
She’d fielded every flavor of praise life could throw, but nothing had ever pierced her heart like this.
“My vocals are the best… hee hee hee.”
Stretching it a bit, it flat-out meant she topped Izumi.
As Lute player Iris, she’d humbly wave off any claim of surpassing Izumi, but as plain old Iris… who knew?
Smirking to herself amid wild daydreams, Iris sensed eyes on her and whipped around.
Amber irises fixed her with a what’re you doing? stare.
“W-watching me…?”
“Yeah.”
Ayane nodded matter-of-factly, half her face shrouded by Tae-il’s vest draped like a blanket.
Propping herself up, she glanced around.
“Where’s Shin-kun?”
“Bathroom.”
He was probably splashing cold water on his flushed face right about now.
“Oh…”
Ayane murmured assent, absently fiddling with the peeling skin on her left ring finger.
With Tae-il’s whereabouts cleared up, she voiced her next burning question.
“How’d our jam go?”
“How do you want it phrased?”
“Straight up.”
“Disaster. Total wipeout.”
Iris, swaying side to side on crossed legs with her butt bouncing, griped that it ranked among the absolute worst jams she’d endured.
“Got it…”
The wording could’ve stung, but Ayane took the raw truth in stride.
Even by her own lights, her bass work had been a trainwreck.
Her one moment of near-perfection was probably muting that final dotted half note.
“Iris, remember where Ayane screwed up?”
“More or less?”
“You caught all that.”
Ayane hugged her knees, thoroughly deflated.
Guitar looked fiendishly complex, and Iris had even hummed—nay, sung—alongside.
Yet she tracked Ayane’s flubs too…
Meaning Iris had ears on every instrument the whole session.
Ayane herself was clueless on her own errors.
Did I come down too hard…?
Iris scratched her cheek at the wilted Ayane.
She’d braced for a pre-jam-style counterpunch, but Ayane now just soaked up hits like someone who’d thrown in the towel.
Iris recalled Tae-il’s mantra: Ayane was a total newbie.
Comfort slipped out unbidden.
“No need to mope that hard. Practice fixes everything. Honestly, this bass amp’s ridiculously high-end—even I’d lose my cool with it.”
“High-end?”
“Didn’t notice? It’s a beast.”
Iris thumbed the speaker on the bass amp she lounged against.
“Ballpark it.”
Ayane scrambled mental math.
Shin-kun said bigger bass amps cost more. Uh…
Recalling yesterday’s shop prices, back-calculating…
“One… ten thousand…?”
The adorable lowball drew a snort from Iris.
“Bzzzt. Way off. Least twenty in my book. No discount? Easy twenty-four.”
“Hieeek!?”
Ayane recoiled in horror, scooting from Iris.
Make that the amp.
Iris flashed a playful grin.
“Freaking already? We’re not done.”
“Not done!?”
“Amps split two ways: all-in-one combos or head-plus-cabinet stacks.”
High-enders specialized, so stacks it was.
Ayane’s gaze crept upward.
Atop the speaker cabinet sat a box crammed with knobs.
As Ayane bored holes into the head, Iris hammered home.
“Googled it: they specialize in heads. Least ten kay.”
“Total minimum then…”
“Thirty minimum. Brand new? Forty easy.”
“F-forty thousand…”
Mouth wouldn’t shut.
Even wilder: Ayane’s bass matched the price tag.
Gonna lose it! Mind’s unraveling!
Was music secretly a rich-kid luxury?
Iris tittered at Ayane teetering on mental collapse amid layered shock.
“Chill—it’s this place that’s nuts.”
“Nuts how?”
“What idiot leaves gear this pricey in a public jam room?”
This one did.
Barring ultra-luxe spots burning tens of thousands an hour, no one risked it.
Damage potential.
Why cheap gear in schools and jams?
Randoms forget power switches, jack in-out endlessly—amps die fast.
Hence the 10k yen workhorses.
Perks: cheap fixes if smashed, surprisingly tough, bulk-buy breeze.
“Gets why Shin Tae-il’s glued here.”
Rentals too—this spot let you indulge top-shelf gear.
Home-instrument-less or pricey-curious? Proxy heaven.
Now Iris itched to ID the manager.
Some prime real estate baron…?
Looked dead ordinary: balding beer-gut uncle.
As Iris spun manager fantasies, the door swung open—Tae-il strode in.
“Up already?”
Spotting Ayane awake, he beelined her way.
“You good? Snored through the racket.”
“Y-yeah…”
Ayane bashfully dropped her gaze.
“Sucked, didn’t it…?”
“What? The playing?”
Ayane nodded slow, peeking his reaction.
Truth: hole-in-the-ground vibes. Tae-il clocked it, wry smile.
“Whew.”
Sigh, shoulders slump—then he roughly tousles her unguarded hair.
“Eek! Shin-kun, Ayane’s hair’s wrecked!”
“Such a drama queen.”
Hand stills; Ayane hunches, peeks up.
Scanned for ire—nada.
“Really no biggie…?”
“Stage? I’d blow up. But where are we?”
“Jam room…”
“Practice room. Mistakes allowed.”
Time-rental norm: draggy setups/flubs = jerk move, eats practice clock.
Tae-il buffered breaks—four hours booked.
Wall clock: hour-and-a-half left.
“Sure, overdo it and you’re the jerk with crowds—dial it back. Capisce?”
“Uu…”
“First’s the killer? You’ll acclimate.”
“Shin-kun track Ayane’s flubs?”
“Yup. Killer stuff.”
Ayane’s face ignited at the loaded praise.
“P-practice…”
“I got you.”
Tae-il hauls her up, eyes Iris expectant.
“Arisugawa’s in too, right?”
“Me?”
She points self; Tae-il nods duh.
“Why? Bass ain’t my jam.”
“Teach? Nah—jam so she grooves.”
“Gah! Spit it plain next time!”
Grumble-grumble, but she’s up, guitar snatched, stance set.
Power chord reeeengs—glares at ’em.
“Well? Jammin’ or what?”
Eagerness screamed; Ayane iced her.
“Y’know—not saying Ayane should, but Iris is so transparent…”
“Sue me.”
“Yeah yeah, simmer down…”
Tae-il referees, snags sticks from stand, readies.
“Fuu.”
Ayane regrips bass, quick deep breath.
Synth shoved aside, amp-distanced—space cleared.
Side-by-side Iris now, but Ayane steels posture.
“Same track: ‘Promenade’. Nail in one hour, others next.”
“Yeah!”
Luck: BARD otaku Iris meant repertoire galore.
“Got all BARD’s easy basslines memmed? Hit me up.”
“Rather not…”
“Huh?”
“Haha, solid.”
Chatter dies—metronome ticks, sticks clack.
“One, two…”
Three, four.
The quiet jam room boomed alive with instruments once more.