this is my [jam]

It had character, certainly. If you could say that it had character by virtue of being smelly and weird, and clearly being run by people who’d peaked forty years ago. Gene, within moments of getting in the door, had decided already that he was going to browse for long enough to not seem rude and then buy his shit from the music store in Stoke Newington, Muggle-owned or not. But it was just across the street from the doctor’s, so why not? He needed reeds. And he liked stores with character, if only because they became dinnertime stories that reassured his parents that he was in fact living his life.

Music stores always prioritized the guitars, which Gene had always pointed out as yet another example of guitar prevalence. Sure enough, this one had loads of guitars on the walls and propped on stands when you came in, flanking the door as if to scream We’re the coolest musical instrument! Gene, for a blinding, beautiful moment, almost wanted to buy a guitar, before his personal pride and common sense won out.

He patted his harmonica in its pouch in the pocket of his shorts, as if to apologise for the lapse in judgement. He wasn’t some idiot, so he wasn’t about to ask whatever weirdo was running this place about where they kept harmonica shit. He didn’t like the notion of being at all ashamed to play the harmonica, which was a fine instrument, but he absolutely was ashamed to have even the most basic proficiency.

And he’d realised at age thirteen that he scrunched his face up hideously when he played it, which had done absolutely nothing for his sense of shame.

So he inspected every single clarinet reed before he moved very slowly towards the small shelf of mouth organs. He was just casting a stealthy look at the front desk, to make sure he wasn’t being judged, and then stopped dead where he was.

“Zat you?” he said, stupidly.

@Jam Tate , of course, already knew he played harmonica, but Gene distanced himself from the shelf anyway, taking careful steps around the guitars to prop himself on the counter and softly howl “You’re in London?” at him. “How long've you been in London?”

ooc note on the thread title: i'm going to bed now i'm sure i will regret titling it this way in the morning

It had been a rather uneventful day. Then again, most workdays were uneventful. Jam quietly thumbed through a comic book from his seat behind the cash register of the little wizarding music shop that he'd gotten a summer job at. He'd been staying with some friends in London to make the commute less of a hassle, but he'd be lying if he said that he didn't miss his family. Janae had gone off to camp, and while that had sounded fun, he knew that his parents weren't made of money. So, he had decided to get a job in preparation for after graduation. The owner was really cool-- a guy in his early thirties named Richie. Richie played a few instruments, but more often than not he and Jam jammed out together on their guitars. All in all, this was a pretty sweet gig; especially for a seventeen year old with dreams of rockstardom.

The Gryffindor had been so captivated by this pivotal plot point in his comic book that he hadn't even heard the tinkling of chimes that indicated that someone had come in. It wasn't until he'd heard a familiar voice that he'd actually looked up. A grin spread across Jam's face at the sight of his friend. "Hey, Gene. What's up, man?" The surprise in his friend's tone quickly made his grin disappear, and it was replaced by a look of both confusion and guilt. He could have sworn that he'd mentioned getting a summer job, but maybe he hadn't. Actually, it wasn't at all unlikely that he hadn't. He had a notoriously poor memory.

"Uh, yeah." Jam nervously scratched the back of his head before standing. "All summer. I really thought I'd said something. Sorry." Offering an apologetic look, he marked his place in his comic book before setting it aside. "I can take a lunch break if you wanna catch up? Just gotta lock the place up first."

Am I in trouble?

"You can just take a lunch break?" repeated Gene dubiously, raising his eyebrows. "Haven't you got a boss?"

Jam must have a boss somewhere, right? Surely this wasn't Jam's incense. At least Gene hoped not. Not that it smelled bad or anything, just kind of weird and smokey. Absently he wondered what the boss was like. How did somebody end up running a weird smokey music store full of guitars? Did they get laid? Probably, right? "You're fine, don't worry," he said. "I'm actually only here for sheet music."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders up. He hadn't been intending to run into anybody he knew here, and he was suddenly self-conscious of how he was dressed. At school he generally made a little more of an effort, but during the summer he didn't give a shit. And he had come in to see if they had harmonica reeds, not sheet music. "All summer!" he said, and shook his head in mock dismay. "All summer you've been in driving distance and I find out now?"

It was only half serious, but he noted that Jam's face had gone rapidly confusion-and-guiltward at his tone, so he reeled himself in to be only a quarter serious. He was never quite sure how much Jam registered the things he said that he actually meant. He wasn't ever quite sure what he meant until he'd said them. "How've you been, mate? Having fun working--" He gestured around vaguely at the shop, rather than finish his sentence.