Disclaimer: Clearly I do not own Digimon. Nor Stars, nor Set Yourself On Fire, nor "Your Ex-Lover is Dead," which is a beautiful song by the way.
A/N: Slight Gravitation crossover. I was just too lazy to come up with my own manager and record label.
Your Ex-Lover is Dead by secondghost
.I.
Yesterday afternoon, at his favorite bookstore in Tokyo, Yamato Ishida ran into someone he thought he would never see again.
"Yamato…is that you?"
He looked up from his book and saw a crisp suit and tie, dark, slightly unruly hair, and a look of utter bewilderment plastered on his face—Yagami Taichi.
His ex-lover.
"Yamato, what are you doing sulking around? Pick up that bass and start strumming! The concert is less than twenty-four hours away, you know!"
"Y-yes," Yamato said, picking up his bass guitar and fastening the strap around his shoulder. K-san, the manager, scowled at Yamato's direction before heading over to hound the rest of the band—Akira, the guitarist, Yutaka, the keyboardist, and Takashi, the drummer—who were currently stuffing their faces at the snack table in the corner.
Akira, Yutaka, Takashi, and Yamato were best friends in high school. Sheer boredom and an overall passion for music inspired them to start their rock band, The Wolves. At the beginning, they only saw music as an afterschool activity—something they could do to blow off steam, relax, and enjoy with one another. The only fans they had were friends, family, and classmates, and the only gigs they played were at school events and community festivals. But when college entrance exams rolled around and the four of them realized that they could only see concert venues, recording studios, and piles and piles of music and lyrics in their future, they abandoned their exams and dedicated the remainder of their high school lives writing, promoting, and trying to gain a spotlight for their group. It finally happened shortly before their graduation ceremony. Yamato's father, who worked at a TV studio, encouraged them to try out for a spot at a one-day Battle of the Bands broadcast on a local music channel. Not only did they earn a spot and emerged, shockingly, victorious, but they also attracted the attention of a record label based in Tokyo, N.G. Records, the label that had previously produced and managed bands such as ASK, Bad Luck, and the legendary Nittle Grasper.
The four of them couldn't believe it. They kept rubbing their eyes and pinching each other to see if they would wake up from their dream but there he was, the head of N.G. Records, Seguchi Tohma, saying that he enjoyed their performance on television and asking them if they would be interested in signing a recording contract with his company.
Of course, their answer was hell-to-the-freaking-yes.
And now here they were, four years later, continuing to bust their asses for the work they love, on the verge of releasing their second album under N.G. Records, and preparing to play for their sold-out concert in Tokyo tomorrow.
At least, they were supposed to be.
"I'm hungry," Yutaka said as K-san grabbed his arm and led him away from the snack table. "All I had to eat for breakfast today was a plum, a plum! Where did all the cereal and granola bars go?"
"That's because Akira ate them all during his midnight snack last night," Takashi said, twiddling his drumstick between his fingers.
"Shut up, you were stuffing your face with me too!" Akira said. "You were the one who drank all the milk."
"I'm so hungry," Yutaka said as his stomach gave a huge rumble. "K-san, could we please go out for a proper lunch before we practice?"
"You had your lunch!" K-san said as he pointed at the snack table. "Now, pick up your instruments and practice! The sooner you all play through this set, the sooner we can all get out, go eat, and go home! Now scat!"
"'Scat?'" Yutaka said, fiddling with his keyboards. "Is that another English word? What does it mean?"
"It means 'shut the fuck up and start playing,'" Akira said.
"Actually, it's vocal improvisation. It's when jazz singers sing with broken syllables and random words," Takashi said.
"Vocal what?" Yutaka said. "What the heck does that mean?"
"You just sing whatever sounds and melodies come to your head."
"That's really weird."
"No, it isn't. It's actually quite lovely. Right Yamato?"
No response.
"Yamato?"
"Huh?" He was jolted back to earth. The three of them were gazing at him with curiosity and concern.
"Yamato, are you alright?" Takashi said.
"Oh, I'm fine," Yamato said. He began to tune his bass. "Sorry, I'm just really tired. What were you all talking about?"
"Scat singing. Is that true or is it something that Takashi's just making up to trick us?" Yutaka said.
"It's true. A lot of jazz singers were quite famous for it, like Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong—"
"Ah, so it's an American thing?" Akira said. "K-san would know about it."
"How would that sound like?" Takashi said.
"Like this," Yamato said. "Akira, give me a melody."
Akira strummed an A minor chord—perfect for the sultry, romantic quality of jazz—and Yamato responded with the best scat he could muster. A series of coo-coos, oh-ohs, and a tangle of la-dee-dahs.
Yutaka whistled. "That was pretty good."
"Hey, I have an idea!" Takashi said. "Why don't we incorporate some jazz elements to our new album? We are looking for a new sound."
"That doesn't sound like a bad idea," Akira said. "What do you think, Yamato?"
He smiled. "It sounds good. We'll have to do a bit of research though. A lot of Japanese bands have already experimented with jazz."
"Yeah, but The Wolves haven't," Takashi winked. "It'll be something new and unexpected, something the public will, hopefully, love."
"What are you four blubbering about now?" K-san said, walking over to the group and twirling one of his many shotguns with his fingers.
"K-san, do you know anyone who plays any jazz instruments?" Yutaka asked.
"Of course!" K-san said. He threw his gun in the air, caught it expertly, and pointed it at Yutaka. To any other person, this would have been alarming, violent, and dangerous behavior, but after being with his gun-loving, American butt for three-and-a half years, K-san's aggressive and unorthodox behavior was completely normal to them. "You're talking to a top-rate music manager here. And lucky enough, someone who plays saxophone and trumpet is standing in this room right now."
"Really?" Akira said, twirling his head around. "Who?"
K-san winked and gave them a glaring, almost-too-shiny smile. "Me."
"You play saxophone and trumpet?" Yutaka asked, surprised.
"Of course I do," K-san replied. "In American schools, most students had the opportunity to choose an instrument and play it throughout their educational career. I originally chose saxophone but being a talented and bona-fide musical genius, I also got to play the trumpet."
"K-san, are you serious? We've never seen you play or even pick up an instrument unless it's to throw at us or our producers," Takashi said. "You've got to be kidding."
"Am I?" K-san said, grabbing his gun and shooting at Takashi's feet. Takashi was unmoved. "You're right, you've never seen me play, but I guess now is the time to grace you all with my musical talent, other than expertly managing emerging rock bands, of course. After you hear me play, you'll be begging me to join your group! Although I will have to say no because my priority and main job is managing you all." He laughed airily.
"I'm starting to think this was a bad idea," Yutaka whispered from the corner of his mouth.
"Now come on, arrange yourselves on the stage and practice! This concert is sold-out, so you'll better give Tokyo a worthwhile show. This'll be your last concert for a few months to boot. After the show, we'll be meeting at the studio regularly to record so scat, scat!" He fired his gun three times into the air.
"Let's start," Yamato said, adjusting the microphone. "Before the neighbors call the police and say there's a shoot-out here again."
Akira, Yutaka, and Takashi nodded and got into position. Yamato strummed his bass several times, hummed into the microphone, and they began, playing one of their number one hits.
The concert was a success. Not a single seat in the stadium was empty. Girls and boys sang, stomped, and screamed their undying love and devotion for the band, and The Wolves walked off stage with arms buried in dozens of flowers the crowd had thrown and—they had no idea when they were flung to the stage—a pile of underwear and bras.
(K-san confiscated the undergarments. He said he was going to send them to the crime investigation team and look for bugs that may have been implanted or hints of infectious diseases. And no, he was not joking.)
They celebrated with a toast backstage before K-san sent them home. They had an early day at the studio. He said to expect him at their homes at five A.M. the next day with his favorite rifle. Sometimes Yamato wished he would shoot himself.
Yamato took a cab home. He lived close to Downtown Tokyo, in a not-so-high skyscraper on the fourteenth floor. Technically he lives on the thirteenth floor, but it's customary for engineers and construction workers to skip thirteen while building such tall structures due to the superstition surrounding the number. Yamato didn't really care. As long as his living space was secluded and high enough to deter the attention of the paparazzi and rabid fans, he didn't care what floor he lived on.
As soon as he entered his apartment, Yamato collapsed onto the couch. His throat was a little sore and his eyes stung a little from the too-bright stage lights and the lack of sleep the night before. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes for a bit. When he opened them, his vision fell on a paperback novel he had set on his coffee table a few days before. Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami.
Yamato had been reading it when he saw him. He had just bought the book and was standing by the magazine stand flipping through the pages. He should have been paying attention. He should have known he was too recognizable for his own damn good. But a moment later the brunette was right in front of him saying his name and idiot Yamato looked up and saw him wearing a damn suit and looking all crisp and put-together. He didn't think Taichi—soccer playing, bushy-haired, I-hate-shiny-shoes Taichi—would ever manage to look goddamn professional.
But was it even Taichi? He did look a lot different. His hair was a lot shorter—he probably cut it to go with the suit—and his build was also a lot larger. He probably gained a lot more muscle or weight or whatever the hell adds dimension to someone's frame as they age. Three years. Three and a half years. Almost four. He's probably done with college already. That was probably why he was wearing a suit. Work or a job interview or something.
Yamato shook his head. He didn't want to think about him. He hadn't thought about him this much in years. He left the living room and entered the bedroom. The only thing he did differently was crash on the bed instead of the couch. He ran away as soon as he saw him. He didn't know what to say. He had nothing to say. He tucked his book under his arm and ran. He didn't look back until he caught a cab and asked the driver to take him home. When he turned, he saw no one. He hadn't followed. He didn't give him a chance. It was a good thing. A damn, good thing.
It was a good thing. Back then he was your average, melodramatic teenager, who just happened to be gay and who just happened to be crushing on his best friend, Yagami Taichi. Star athlete and number one eye-candy of dozens of hopeful girls in school. They met in junior high. They had the same homeroom and he happened to sit right next to Yamato on their first day. Naturally, Taichi introduced himself. Yamato blinked slowly and stared, trying to process why someone was being so friendly on their first day. He followed Yamato around afterward. They ate lunch, chatted during breaks, and even walked home halfway together. Yamato didn't like him yet. The blonde was just grateful to have made at least one friend. Ever since his parents divorced in sixth grade, he found it hard to relate to people.
Soon, he was calling him bestie. Playfully, of course. He tried teaching Yamato how to play soccer—his favorite game—but since Yamato preferred playing harmonica and reading books, he never really learned. But that was okay. They did other things together. They studied, played video games, and ate out at fast food places together. Seventh grade was a good year. So was eighth. But ninth was when Taichi started talking to him about girls.
Her name was Takenouchi Sora. Tall, curvy, redheaded, star tennis player. Taichi had his eye on her as soon as he saw her trample an opponent—ten to nothing—during a game. She had her eyes on him too. They were the color of cinnamon-brown, with tiny flecks of red, complimentary to Taichi's chocolate orbs. They began to date after Taichi asked her out for ice cream one day after school. Yamato was there when he asked her. He was hiding behind the gate, heart thumping and almost literally crushing when he saw them walking away from school, mouths smiling, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering with promise of what was to come. They returned the next day holding hands. They walked down the hallways together, always, always together—kissing, hugging, lightly caressing—I wanted to kill myself and kill Taichi and kill that redheaded bitch for taking him away from me.
But that was only temporary.
.TBC.
A/N: Sorry this chapter lacks action and backstory for now, but I promise it will come later. Please review. Thank you.