a/n: winter would so never work in a record shop but i like to think she could in spirit
//
“Quit your job.”
Winter looks up from the records she’s sorting to frown at Cinder, leaning over the front desk at the other end of the shop like she owns the place. “Why?”
“Join my emo band.”
She snorts, turns away. “No. You’re insane.”
“It could be good,” Cinder says. The rustling sound of her layers and layers of fabric shifting indicates that she’s pushed herself off the counter. Winter braces herself for impact, slots an R back into place where it belongs behind an S, steps back to slide the box back into its place on a low shelf and finds Cinder behind her, lurking awkwardly like a lost ghost.
“Good how?”
“Well,” she begins, tracing a finger over Winter’s shoulder. Winter slaps her away and goes back to sorting her records. “You’re great at guitar. I’ve got a kid from a couple of blocks down who sings like an angel, and there’s —”
“I’m mediocre at playing the violin,” Winter corrects. “And I refuse to be in a band with an actual child.”
Cinder laughs. The sound fills the shop, cascades down the walls. “You’re nineteen.”
“I’m twenty in a month. I’m going to Atlas in a year.”
“So, you know. Fill that time with something worthwhile.” She steps back up to Winter again, presses something small and hard into her hand. A guitar pick. “Besides, I want to see you more.”
Winter turns down the aisle and makes her way to the end, avoiding Cinder’s eyes. “You think I have it in me to be in an emo band? Cinder, have you met me?”
“Yes,” she says sincerely. “And, look, it doesn’t have to be emo. It just has to be something.”
“My little sister is a trained opera singer,” Winter says, picking up a label from the floor. It’s for the classic rock section; it’s been trampled on significantly and will probably need to be replaced. Avoiding Cinder’s aisle, she loops back around to the front desk and starts hunting for the paper they keep loose in one of the drawers. “You want me to rope her in too?”
“I mean, if she’d be up for it. How old is she?”
“Twelve. And a half.”
She emerges from the bottom drawer to Cinder’s you’re fucking weird, you know? look. “Sure, why not. We can call ourselves the babysitters’ club.”
“You’re the one who asked me to quit my job,” Winter says, scribbling down Classic Rock, A-F on a sheet of folded paper. “What do you expect me to do?”
Cinder hums, which is good. It suggests she’s more spitballing than hurt. “Well, will you at least help me carry the speakers into my garage?”
“You’re at the speakers stage already, are you? Where’d you get those from?”
She grins, electric. “I stole them. Duh.”
Winter has been long past trying to talk her out of being a weird miscreant for the past five years. She heads back to the classic rock section, label in hand, and rolls her eyes. “Oh, of course. How silly of me. Yeah, I’ll be your roadie. Why not.”
“It pays well,” she says, inspecting her fingernails.
Winter slots the label back into place and looks up at her, flicking hair out of her eyes. Cinder smirks back at her, like she’s in on a joke Winter doesn’t know about. “Uh huh. What’s the hourly fee?”
“Well, I mean. If you come over at four we can have an hour to make out in my bedroom.”
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FILL: Team Anime/Manga
Date: 2024-07-03 10:07 pm (UTC)word count: 583
pairing: winter schnee/cinder fall
fandom: RWBY
characters: winter schnee, cinder fall
a/n: winter would so never work in a record shop but i like to think she could in spirit
//
“Quit your job.”
Winter looks up from the records she’s sorting to frown at Cinder, leaning over the front desk at the other end of the shop like she owns the place. “Why?”
“Join my emo band.”
She snorts, turns away. “No. You’re insane.”
“It could be good,” Cinder says. The rustling sound of her layers and layers of fabric shifting indicates that she’s pushed herself off the counter. Winter braces herself for impact, slots an R back into place where it belongs behind an S, steps back to slide the box back into its place on a low shelf and finds Cinder behind her, lurking awkwardly like a lost ghost.
“Good how?”
“Well,” she begins, tracing a finger over Winter’s shoulder. Winter slaps her away and goes back to sorting her records. “You’re great at guitar. I’ve got a kid from a couple of blocks down who sings like an angel, and there’s —”
“I’m mediocre at playing the violin,” Winter corrects. “And I refuse to be in a band with an actual child.”
Cinder laughs. The sound fills the shop, cascades down the walls. “You’re nineteen.”
“I’m twenty in a month. I’m going to Atlas in a year.”
“So, you know. Fill that time with something worthwhile.” She steps back up to Winter again, presses something small and hard into her hand. A guitar pick. “Besides, I want to see you more.”
Winter turns down the aisle and makes her way to the end, avoiding Cinder’s eyes. “You think I have it in me to be in an emo band? Cinder, have you met me?”
“Yes,” she says sincerely. “And, look, it doesn’t have to be emo. It just has to be something.”
“My little sister is a trained opera singer,” Winter says, picking up a label from the floor. It’s for the classic rock section; it’s been trampled on significantly and will probably need to be replaced. Avoiding Cinder’s aisle, she loops back around to the front desk and starts hunting for the paper they keep loose in one of the drawers. “You want me to rope her in too?”
“I mean, if she’d be up for it. How old is she?”
“Twelve. And a half.”
She emerges from the bottom drawer to Cinder’s you’re fucking weird, you know? look. “Sure, why not. We can call ourselves the babysitters’ club.”
“You’re the one who asked me to quit my job,” Winter says, scribbling down Classic Rock, A-F on a sheet of folded paper. “What do you expect me to do?”
Cinder hums, which is good. It suggests she’s more spitballing than hurt. “Well, will you at least help me carry the speakers into my garage?”
“You’re at the speakers stage already, are you? Where’d you get those from?”
She grins, electric. “I stole them. Duh.”
Winter has been long past trying to talk her out of being a weird miscreant for the past five years. She heads back to the classic rock section, label in hand, and rolls her eyes. “Oh, of course. How silly of me. Yeah, I’ll be your roadie. Why not.”
“It pays well,” she says, inspecting her fingernails.
Winter slots the label back into place and looks up at her, flicking hair out of her eyes. Cinder smirks back at her, like she’s in on a joke Winter doesn’t know about. “Uh huh. What’s the hourly fee?”
“Well, I mean. If you come over at four we can have an hour to make out in my bedroom.”