Work Text:
The back workshop of the Music Plaza was filled with a quiet that felt built into its walls.
It wasn’t the silence of absence, but the patient stillness of a room that had listened to music for too long and was still waiting for the echo to fade.
Along the shelves, small stage instruments and display pieces rested in perfect rows, their polished brass and painted wood glinting under the cone of light from a single overhead lamp.
Dust gathered only in the corners, never daring to touch the workbenches.
On the main table, tools lay scattered beside a gold winding key—its edge flashing whenever Boxten leaned forward in his chair.
Capella sat at the opposite table, a soft cloth folded in her hands.
She was polishing a bell-shaped ornament, turning it in small circles so even the rim could catch the light.
The faint hum of metal on fabric filled the space between them, as steady as breathing.
Both were music-themed toons, and both had found comfort in this rhythm of work.
The inspection of the plaza’s exhibits wasn’t glamorous—it was the kind of task that kept the place running, unseen but necessary.
They’d done it often enough that words were optional.
Every sound in the room—cloth against brass, the clink of tools, the creak of a chair—fell neatly into its own measure.
Then, within that quiet rhythm, something shifted.
A faint, uneven click cut through the steady hum.
Click… click…
Capella paused. The cloth stilled in her hands.
For a few seconds the sound repeated, irregular but insistent, until she traced it to the curve of Boxten’s shoulders.
“…Hm?” she murmured.
Without looking up, he replied, “Ah… the key. Sometimes it sticks.”
Her gaze followed the gold glint near his elbow. “Doesn’t it need fixing?”
“It’ll sort itself out,” he said calmly, almost dismissively, as if the key’s stubbornness wasn’t worth breaking the quiet for.
He reached behind him, fingers searching for the winding key by touch alone. “Little more to the right… no, left…” The clicks went on.
Then, with a small shrug, he let his hand fall back to the bench. “Guess I’ll deal with it after.”
Capella hesitated. The sound bothered her—not for its volume, but for its persistence, like an offbeat that refused to find its place.
She set the ornament aside and reached for a thin rod from the tool rack.
If she noticed something that needed fixing, it felt wrong to leave it, especially when it was right in front of her.
“If you don’t mind,” she said gently, “I could take a look.”
A pause, then a low, agreeable, “…Sure, go ahead.”
He shifted his chair just enough to give her space, the legs scraping faintly against the floor.
“Hold still,” she said, circling behind him.
The air carried the faint scent of machine oil and polished brass.
Under the lamp, his coat caught a sheen like burnished wood.
She leaned close enough to see the way the key’s grooves caught the light—dust settled there, fine as sugar.
A careful turn of the rod, a soft twist of pressure—
and the key spun free with a muted, final click.
He exhaled like someone who’d been holding his breath without realizing.
Relief came not from the silence that followed, but from seeing his shoulders drop into their natural line.
“…Stopped,” he said after a beat. “You’re good with your hands.”
Capella’s mouth curved faintly. “Not really. I’m just glad it worked.”
Boxten gave a quiet huff of a laugh. “Then the music box owes you one.”
He picked up a screwdriver, turning it in his palm before adding, “Might as well get the rest done while it’s still quiet.”
They returned to their work.
The winding key turned in even, silent revolutions.
Somewhere above, the overhead lamp buzzed softly, a high, steady tone that filled the pauses between breaths.
It was easy to fall back into the quiet with him; it asked for nothing more than what she already offered.
When Boxten worked, the world narrowed to neat motions and measured sounds—no chaos, no sharp edges, just the low hum of precision.
Capella matched his rhythm without meaning to, polishing each curve until her reflection blinked back at her from the bell’s surface.
She liked this kind of quiet.
Not the kind that pressed, but the kind that opened—a stillness shared between two people who understood that sound wasn’t always needed.
Under the lamp, the shadow of a screwdriver shifted slowly across the bench, steady as the room itself.
Somewhere in that movement, the two of them found their rhythm again—quiet, precise, perfectly aligned.