Disclaimer: I own nothing involved in this story unless I invented it myself. This is written for fun, not for profit. All forms of feedback eagerly accepted. Concrit is loved the most, but everything is welcome.
Fandom: Digimon Adventure 02
Title: Music of Silence
Character: Kouji
Word Count: 500||Status: One-shot
Genre: General||Rated: G
Challenge: Written for Digimon Flash Bingo, prompt #041, lone; Written for Diversity Writing, section A, #97, write a fic with no dialogue.
Summary: [one-shot, Kouji, Digimon Flash Bingo & Diversity Writing] Kouji likes being alone. It has benefits.
Kouji liked being on his own. It didn't happen as often as he would've liked it to, but when those times came when his father and her were out of the house and all that he could hear was his own heartbeat and the breathing of his dog, then in those moments, he let himself completely relax.
He didn't think his dad knew that he never relaxed around him, not to the extent he did when on his own. He wasn't going to tell him, either. Their relationship was...difficult, to say the least. It wasn't something Kouji really thought his dad should know, either. Knowing would lead to questions and questions to demands for answers and Kouji would not give those answers.
So, instead, he kept to himself, at times filling the empty silence with sounds of his own. Playing in the backyard, tossing his ball back and forth with his dog, certainly helped. When the weather turned foul and being outside wasn't possible, or when he wasn't in that kind of mood, he would instead take up his guitar and play.
He didn't have any real formal training, but that didn't bother him either. He just enjoyed making the music, letting it flow out of him and fill the air.
He tried hard not to get caught doing that, because that had happened once. His dad and her came home early from wherever they'd been. He hadn't asked then and he still didn't care now. Away was all he asked of them every now and then. But that night, they'd returned, and he'd been in the middle of his music, letting it spill out into the world without care, so long as it filled a part of him he'd never envisioned was empty in the first place.
This was not a part he thought of, nor one that he wanted to speak of. But at times he thought it resembled what a missing finger or toe might have. Something that should've been there all along and wasn't and only when he played - or sometimes, infrequently, when he glanced at his own reflection - did he truly feel as if that empty part had been filled.
He'd been so into the music that he'd only realized they were there when he'd finally stopped playing and the immediate silence turned out to be not so silent, filled by two pairs of hands clapping. His dad had mentioned something about how his grandfather had also played music and wanted to be a professional, but the opportunities hadn't come. She'd said only how beautiful it was.
He didn't want to hear either of them. This was his music, no one else's. He didn't care if it was beautiful. So long as it was his.
After that, he hadn't played in weeks, not even when he knew they weren't around and wouldn't be for hours.
He didn't play again until after a train trip, and the next time he played, he wasn't alone anymore.
The End