//------------------------------//
// Locked Conversation: Octavia & Zephyr 
// Story: Locked Conversation: Octavia & Zephyr 
// by Amereep 
//------------------------------//

Staring up at the plastered ceiling, stood a young man of pale-aquamarine skin in a slouching state.  With a bleak look in his cerise eyes, his mind spun with various thoughts that range from the minor to the major importance in his life.  He glanced his gaze down, seeing before him the elevator door that had yet to open.  Pulling a hand from the pocket of his jeans, lifting it past the brown vest he wore, he brushed the very light-yellow strand of hair that escaped from the tied bundle on his head to see the keypad and monitor installed next to the door.

The monitor displayed that the elevator will be heading to the eighth floor upon arriving.

He viewed the seven and nine at the sides of the eight, "...heh, story of my life." he sighed at the comparison, "Such colorful clouds they'd be if she met me halfway."

To the sound of a 'ding' coming from the elevator, he straightened up for the opening door.  Walking in his loafers, he boarded the compartment to await the ride.

The door began to close, and to his bewildered senses, he started to hear the sound of a loose handle jingling closer.  A pink fiberglass case suddenly swooped inside the elevator and blocked the door from shutting.  The door opened again, and on the other side stood a young lady holding a cello case, arm stretched out to hold the elevator for a few more seconds with the help of her instrument.

This young lady of goldfish-gray skin huffed, trying to catch her breath from the sprint over.  Wearing a brilliant-violet waistcoat over a white buttoned shirt, she paced herself past the young man with the black buckled shoes she wore over her knee high socks.  She dropped the cello case on the floor and patted the light orchid skirt she had on, matching with the color of the bowtie around her neck.

The young man took note of her long raven colored hair, a little frazzled, like she rushed through the process of brushing it.

The door closed, encasing the two inside as the room moved up with the humming of the motor.

The young lady straightened up, "Five, please," she huffed and whipped the sheets of paper in her other hand as she began to review it with her mulberry colored eyes.

The young man quirked an eyebrow at her, "Five?

"Yes, thank you," she remained focused on the paper.

He looked at the panel.  Only the Open, Close, and Call buttons are there, "This isn't that kind of elevator."

Perplexed, she lowered the papers, revealing the musical score in her hand as she turned to him, "That kind?"

"This is one of those dispatch elevators.  You have to use the panel found on the outside if you want to go to a specific floor."

She nearly expressed her exasperation by biting the paper she held, but her nose gets invaded by a scent that causes her to recoil and use that same paper to cover her nose, "What is that aroma?"

"You like it?" he asked in a proud manner, "It's my new cologne."

"You smell like a toilet."

He waved the back of his hand, "Doesn't matter to me what you think, cause there's already a special lady in my life."

She fanned the scent, "How unfortunate for her."

Suddenly, the lights go out.  The two of them gasped as the elevator made an abrupt stop.  Caught in the dark for a moment, the lights in the elevator suddenly go back on.  The two passengers stayed on their guard for any more surprises, but as the seconds go by, so too does their caution.

"A power outage?" he asked.

"I believe so," she stated, "but it looks like everything has been reset."

The young man looked up at the lights, noting the electricity that's keeping it on, "...does something feel off to you?"

Now that he mentioned it, something certainly did feel off to her, something that just didn't fit this silent space.  And then it dawned on her, "We're not moving."

"Must've lost the elevator's destination in the reset."

"Then let's just repush the butto-'' she stopped herself upon the sight of the absent floor buttons, "Right, one of those kind of elevators." her eyes lowered, seeing the only buttons she has to work with: Open, Close, and Call.

The young lady pushed the first button to open the elevator's door, but it remained shut.  She pushed it again, and again, and continued to mash the button.

The young man took out his phone and fiddled with it.

She clicked her tongue, surrendering to this attempt, "Of course they keep the safety locks where they are," she sassed.  She leveled with the installed speaker and tried the call button. "Hello?  ...hello?  ...is anyone there?"

He kept angling his phone around, "I'm not getting any bars on this."

She groaned this time to another failed attempt, "Incompetent slackers.  They seem to be popping up more frequently nowadays."

He brought his phone closer to his face, as if he was trying to take cover behind it.

She folded her hands, bringing them up to her lips in hope that it would calm herself in some way.  She steadied her breathing, releasing the thoughts of doubt to make room for the growing faith that they're going to make it out of this elevator in one piece.  Looking up at the lights, she depended everything into this final attempt, "If there's a higher being up there that's watching over us right now, please, show us a sign that we're going to make it out alive."

The lights went out, leaving the room in complete darkness.

"Huh," the young man commented, "I think this is what happens when the elevator isn't in use.  As a means to save energy."

"Peachy," she hissed.

"We'll get out eventually," he tried to reassure, "just settle down, relax, and try to endure it."

"Those are not the words I wanted to hear from a guy that I've just met, especially within a small, dark room."

The elevator was suddenly invaded by a dim light, courtesy from the guy upon touching the monitor of his phone, "Better?"

"Much, for what little it's worth," laying her back on one of the room's walls, she slid down until her rear made contact with the floor, "it doesn't change that fact that we're stuck in here."

"Somebody is bound to get us out of here," he sat against the opposite wall she's on, sliding his phone between the two of them to light the other's face, "...eventually."

She rubbed her forehead, "Not like I have enough on my mind.  ...talk about something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, just something to keep me preoccupied.  ...your lady friend, tell me a bit about her."

"Her?"  he straightened himself up, "Well for starters, she's crazy over my looks."

She glanced at his appearance, making out the kitschy fringed vest, the tasteless slip-on shoes, and the few scattered facial hairs on his chin in the dimly lit room, "...I get the feeling that you're not telling me the genuine truth," she replied, looking unamused.

"Well... she never said that she's crazy over my looks, but she's definitely taken to my charming personality," he made finger guns as he winked his point.

"Acting pompous hardly seems like it would work."

"It's all good," he shrugged it off, "she's the kind of girl that's into these kinds of things, the cool and awesome kind."

"...very well," she humored him with a smug look, "so how do you usually present these 'cool' and 'awesome' traits to her?"

"Oh, you know, a few poses here, a few flexes there.  And when the moment strikes, I tell her the grand events of my day that'll leave her breathless."

She couldn't refrain from rolling her eyes, "What a bunch of poppycock."

"A bunch of pop... what?"

She gave a firm stare to match his confused look, "Every lady, no matter how boyish she may be, wishes to be treated like a princess.  Receiving praises, encouragement, and being dignified as someone who is respected, loved, and irreplaceable, especially from a companion of whom she can always depend on.  Making yourself out to be grand through stances and truth stretching will only hurt chances more than it would've gained."

"...alright," he shifted his body, more inclined to listen now, "so what do you suggest for a guy like me should do?"

She hesitated, completely lost on how to go about this, "Um... try... try looking towards composers of the classical period for inspiration.  Let their music pull out that gentleman inside you."

"For real?" he doubted.

"Most certainly.  Many of the composers of that time could capture that gallant grace you're lacking.  Foxpack was able to create clean and precise compositions that feel natural and alluring, you can start with him to refine yourself into a chivalrous and mature young man.  Then, you should focus on the works of Deaf Tone as he often pulled sudden surprises which would be a daring thrill of excitement to perform for your lady friend."

He still bared a sly look that told that he wasn't accepting the reasoning.

"It sounds farfetched, but Deaf Tone always said that music has the power to transform others.  Listen to them and you'll be just as sophisticated as they are in no time."

"So I should expect myself to be standing naked in front of my apartment window sometime next week."

She nearly gave a reply, but once again, she's taken off course by his sudden statement.  Her blasé opinion about him began to shift as she focused on a different aspect of his character, "...that was an obscured habit of Deaf Tone's.  How did you come to acquire that information?"

"I took a class once on the history of music, Deaf Tone was one of the figures they talked about.  Pretty hard to forget a fact like that."

"I wouldn't have imagined a person like you would be educated in Music History."

He broke eye contact, "I would say, 'familiar', before I would say, 'educated'.  They didn't pass me, so I thought it was my time to fly.  It was nothing but old news anyways."

She honed on that last comment, "So what struck you into taking the course at all?"

"Thought it was my calling, but it just doesn't match my rhythm."

"You're swerving from the truth again."

Picking up a suppressed fierceness behind her words, he experienced a brief chill coursing through his body.

"Taking a history class for a subject that you show no interest in?" she addressed his contradiction and asked again, "What reason do you have for taking that class?"

His hands folded, stroking the knuckles as he felt her eyes drilling into him, "...because she had a band."

She softened her stare.

"That girl I talked about, she's the lead guitarist in a band of hers.  I thought if I did something music related, I could show off and impress her.  I tried the intellectual approach by learning about musical history, but it didn't turn out the way I envisioned it.  She just wasn't interested in anything I had to say."

She recoiled back, "You're very fond of this girl, aren't you?"

"Looking at her, just inspires me." he tilted his head up, developing a smile as he reminisced, "Committed with unshakable nerves, she doesn't allow the fear of failure to stop her from overcoming challenges in flying colors.  Athletic and talented, she has enough energy to keep her running for days.  Her magenta eyes radiate determination, her cyan skin glistens toughness, and her hair... so vibrant, wild, and untamed, much like herself."

She played with her hair in an attempt to hide her flushing face.

"I don't know where she finds all that confidence, but that's something I really admire about her.  It makes me feel a little bolder when she's around, wanting to impress her the same way she impresses me, but I find myself being snubbed by her with every attempt I make."  He pushed his hair bun against the wall, using it as a cushion to rest his head, "I swear that she already likes me, but a little acknowledgement from her would really mean the world to me."

A pause silenced the small room.

"...that story reminds me of why I picked up the cello," she brushed her hair behind her ear, "I was often ignored in my younger days, not out of any ill reason, I just tend to blend in with my surroundings.  Overlooked by the eyes of my peers, absent from the vision of grownups, it seemed as if I was only meant to be in the background forever.  But when I first heard that deep tone of the cello, I felt my whole body shaking to its powerful vibration.  It felt like it was roaring for my attention, pulling me to gaze and declare its presence.  I immediately fell in love as it could be just the thing I needed to be recognized."

"I assume it worked."

"It did, but..." her fingers slid the music sheets laying next to her, "...perhaps it worked too well.  The cello is a versatile instrument that can reach many pitches within the hands of a skilled cellist, and I'm often placed on the spot for some of the most difficult cacophonies because of it.  Like just recently, I had to help a relative of mine as backup for a hoedown she was leading in.  It doesn't seem like it would be a problem on paper, but that's where the problem lies, everything was being played by ear.  I had to memorize a set of rowdy pieces from a fiddleist within a few hours.  That isn't easy as it sounds if you're carrying hundreds and hundreds of overtures, symphonies, arias, and concertos in your head to get entangled into the score you're currently performing."

"Hundreds!?" he scratches the base of his hair bun, "I can't even remember the last job I had a month ago.  How'd you manage that?"

"Likely through the same manner that drives your attention towards your lady friend, I was infatuated by the artform.  After a few practice sessions, something just clicked inside of me that reshaped my view of the pieces.  It felt like they were speaking through their work as I was with the cello.  Broohms told some of the most engaging stories,  Buch talked about the cycle of life and death, and Dare Dreamer painted the landscape of the many locations he ventured to.  It felt like a secret club, one that sent messages not by word, but through the emotions in their music."

He laid an elbow on his folded legs, allowing him to rest his head on the knuckles while he enjoyed the sight of her interest getting the best of her.

"Their music made me want to create some of my own, and I've managed to make multiple compositions within hours for others to decode on their own.  Perhaps they would see me on a deeper level, grasping my thoughts and cries that rest beyond what is before them.  ...but, they don't seem to notice it.  My work keeps getting better as I try to put in more and more effort into a score that can connect with the listener on a personal level, but the more they become charmed by the music, the more they become blind to the heart of the composer."  Her fingers retracted, wrinkling the sheet of music, "It's beginning to feel less like a personal wish for acknowledgement, and more like an insipid job with colorless feedback, somehow feeling worse than the thing I was escaping from."  She glazed her sight over to her encased instrument, reflecting apathy from her eyes, "Thinking about my life as where it stands, I begin to notice that the focus isn't on me anymore."

As he studied her, he noted the fierce ambience he was getting from her a moment ago, the one that wouldn't stand for being lied to, has softened to a more dispirited one.  It eased the tension, but he found it harder to be in the presence of it.

Rubbing his chin, he wondered on how to address the matter, "...so what you're saying is that picking up an instrument gets everyone to open their eyes towards you, but that instrument is using you to express itself more than you do with the instrument.  Then the answer is clear."

She nonchalantly turned her attention to him.

"I need to take up an instrument if I have any hope of getting her to open up her feelings for me, but I would have to be cautious on my choice of which instrument to learn.  It would have to be an instrument that I can beat into submission, so my options are either the drums... or bubble wrap."

Her hand laid on her lips to suppress a short-lived chortle.

"You probably wouldn't have laughed at that ten minutes ago," he grinned at the result of his effort.

"No, I wouldn't have," she said with a faint smile, "...this is quite pleasant, having an engaging conversation like this.  I tend to do a lot of talking with a close friend of mine, but she tends to just listen.  It can be a bit of a guessing game with her at times, so it's quite refreshing to hear someone responding back for this long."  Giving a sigh, her smile turned bittersweet upon viewing the door, "It's a shame that we're the only ones that we can get a response from."

"Uh oh, don't tell me that there's going to be an encore of the mopes," he tried to make himself sound lighthearted for her amusement, "...I got an idea!  Why don't you play your cello?"

"What?" the suggestion startled her, "You mean, right now?  In this enclosed space?"

"Sure, it'll keep you preoccupied."

She looked at the cello cast in the dim light of the phone's screen, "I'm not feeling very up for it."

"...let me try something," he picked up his phone and fiddled with it for a moment before a flashlight shined from the back of it, "there," he stood up with his arm stretched up high and tilted his hand to spotlight her, "it'll be just like you're giving a performance."

She found herself being pressured by him and was going to stand by her decision, but after reflection on the fact that she was pressuring him into telling the truth a moment ago...

She scooted over and flipped the case open.  Standing up with the cello and bow in hand, she angled the large instrument to discover a problem.  With the lack of anything to sit on, she has no way of properly aligning herself with the cello's base and neck, at least, comfortably.

Hearing the sound of the young man switching the phone to the other hand caught her ear, informing the young lady that his arm was getting tired.  "..." her legs are going to feel sore after this, but she pushed the fact aside.

She closed the fiberglass cello case, stepped over, and knelt on top of it, giving her just enough height to perform.

With her legs together, her backside on her heels, and the cello's head resting against the wall, she laid the bow on the cords and began to perform before the 'spotlight'.

Slow and deep, the weight of the rippling tone began to flow from the instrument.  The 'spotlight' did help paint an illusion that she was performing on stage, but the sensuous experience she would manifest felt different.

The young man leaned back, giving his arm some support with the help of the wall, and was met with an unusual feeling upon contact.  He patted the wall and was now certain, the surface was vibrating.  He refocused back to her, allowing her playing to reverberate in the small room.

The young lady felt the elevator rumbling with each brush of the bow, feeling her entire body shaking with it as if she were the sound itself.  It felt familiar, and when she got into the rhythm, the memory flickered in her mind; the first time she heard the cello.  It's not quite the same as it was back then, because now, the 'spotlight' was focused solely on her.

Cantabile and mellifluous, the thought of where they were was lost to them.  Fighting off the numbing sensation in their limbs for the sake of the other’s enjoyment, they stayed silent to listen to the music, the result of both of their support.

To the sudden jerk from the elevator, the young man and lady stop as they feel themselves ascending.  The lights on the ceiling turned on and the two of them relaxed their muscles.

He gyrated his arms to get the feeling back into them while she slowly struggled to get back on her feet.  She laid her hand on the wall, legs wobbling as she tried to wake them up.  Met with a hand, she traced her sight up to the young man that's offering to help her.  The young lady accepted the kind gesture, supporting herself with his assistance to get back to her feet.

The elevator's door opened for a cool breeze to tickle their skin.

With her legs still half asleep, she continued to use the available support around her.

He noticed her glancing back at her belongings, "...here," he passed her to the elevator's door, "keep it open while I gather your things."

Recovering as she did, she watched him as he went out of his way to help out once more.  She shook her head with an amused smile, "Maybe he was already there."

He hummed for her to repeat that.

"...I want to thank you for keeping me entertained through all that.  I may've been a bit demanding back there, early in the conversation."

He waved that it was no bother, "It wasn't much different from how bossy my sister can be," he closed the cello case, "she even pulls out the same fierce stare as you did."

She turned away in embarrassment, "My emotions get the better of me yet again it seems.  I'll try to be more mindful of keeping them in check for the future."

"Don't," he requested, "if you don't express yourself, you'll just lose that spark of magic that makes you want to play."

He collected the music sheets.

"The passionate way you described music reminded me of myself with my feelings for that girl I talked about, the difference is that you succeeded at making a connection with your audience.  It's inspiring to think that I might be experiencing that same upbeat feeling one day, but seeing that disheartened look you had upon the sight of your cello... I'm far too familiar with that feeling right now."

He held out the belongings for her to take.

"Take it from someone who can't bridge the gap between his emotions and his spectator's, you'll lose your interest if you keep addressing the issue from one angle, so express yourself and attempt different approaches towards your goal."

She huffed a smirk, "While one struggles towards their passion, the other wavers about keeping theirs," she took back her cello case and notes.  "You know, I get the sneaking suspicion that your friend has some hidden affection for you."

"What makes you certain?"

"After all the attempts you made on her, has she ever said that she wasn't interested in you or said anything remotely close to a firm demand of leaving her alone?"

"Well..." he pondered with furrowed brows, "I've been snubbed, ditched, shoved, punched," he squinted, but shook his head, "I can't recall any moment where she told me to get lost."

"Then that confirms it, she holds a hidden affection for you.  All she's waiting for is your gentle approach."

"That'll be difficult, given her personality," he reflected upon the young lady before him, "Any suggestion?"

She mused the first thing that came to mind, "My answer?  Start up a conversation.  It doesn't have to be anything special, just an exchange of thoughts and opinions to build up the views on each other, and eventually, you'll make a connection.  It'll leave an impression that'll continue to expand as you converse, forging into a special bond when you must part ways.  How far that conversation will go is anyone's guess, but your shared experience will hold meaning should you ever encounter them again."

The two of them walked out, allowing the door to finally shut behind them.

A surprised look appeared on her face, "...it just occurred to me," she turned to him, "after everything that's been said between us, we never even bothered to exchange our names."

"Ha, you're right," he's equally surprised as her.  "Well," he properly turned to her and nodded, "I'm Zephyr Breeze."

She curtsied with her hands full, "And I'm Octavia Melody."  Standing back up, she's anxious to get back to her busy life, "It's been nice talking with you, but I really need to head down to the fifth floor now, so I'll be seeing you around," she waved the papers in her hand and began to walk off.

"Not going to take the elevator down?"

"After what happened, I'm going to be taking the stairs from now on."

"Does that mean we're not going to be sharing another ride together?"

She paused.

"..."

"...I'll make it an exception."  She looked over her shoulder, right back at him, "With you along, the ride will be an uplifting one."