merry christmas; i could care less [ open ]

[postictal]

Who: Real Tim, Mirror Tim + YOU / Real Frisk, Mirror Frisk + YOU
Where: All the heck over my guys
When: 12/13 - 12/20
Rating: PG to start with, will edit for anything higher
Summary:
The Story:

[Just kidding starters are in the comments.]

[Let me know if you want something closed cooked up special, etc., or hit me over at arrpee. I will match prose or brackets!]

Comments

[postictal]

"I don't know trivia." Tim snorts softly, like that might be enough to dispel whatever anxiety seems to have mantled over Jay without much warning. He can't know the source of it in earnest, but he can take a pretty good guess.

(Distant memories of jam session that he can't actually remember, that he had to relive on tape, hearing his own voice mumble in the background as Alex sat with a keyboard on his lap, backlit by the glare of a flashlight.)

(I'm not the movie guy, says Tim, a million years ago.)
(You're the music guy, says Jay.)

"It's been years, anyway."

[burntvideocassette]

"Yeah," Jay manages, turning his focus back to the bass. It's been years for both of them. Jay's barely touched the guitar since high school, and god knows how much Tim has practiced since the whole 'music major' thing. Tim still sounds great, at least to Jay's ear, but yeah, makes sense that he wouldn't exactly be lugging all this trivia around.

(If Tim's the music guy, is Jay the trivia guy? The puzzle guy? The camera guy?)

(He's not really good enough at any of them.)

His memory's patchy, even without any interference, but he knows he used to know Animal Bar. It was a simplified version, and he was never exactly great at it, but maybe the muscle memory's still there. Slowly, he starts to fumble his way through it. It doesn't come easily, but it's still there. He still remembers.

[postictal]

It's not easy to just pick up a song without any prior practice, and he isn't intimately familiar with the tune Jay starts ticking out. The phantom declaration of jam session still rings in his ears - storming, sleeting rain and Brian's towel-tousled hair and the bare white walls of Tim's music room, complete with, and he can still hear it in Alex's dry monotone, box of thing.

Bit by bit, he starts to work his way into the melody. He hasn't got perfect pitch. He's out of practice. He's not capable of immediately exhibiting some raw and awe-inspiring talent.

But he can play along for a few bars, and then for a few more.

It doesn't sound too bad.