Title: The Soloist
Rating: PG
Chapter: 1/2
Genre: AU, General, Romance, Angst
Pairings: TaiTo, DaiKen
allusions
Summary: After seven years abroad, Taichi
returns to Japan and meets a interesting individual
with an interesting personality.
DISCLAIMER: Standard disclaimers apply.
Author's
Notes: This is an
AU because it only features the human characters, and there will be no
reference to any digimon. Written
basically because of the dissatisfaction toward the ending of 02, which only causes
me headaches whenever I recall it.
Might appear OOC.
~*~*~*~
Seven years.
To many, seven years might seem no different from, say, seven months or seventeen years. These are the type of beings who consider Time as an entity too abstract, too impotent to be a measuring tape, putting little or no value to whatever Life has brought upon us humans, torturing martyrs unceasingly or tossing euphoria like colourful confetti on those who struggle to survive in its demanding nature. The second group, relatively small or, it is assumed, no less than the other two, descends seven years to a mere seven hours. They are too busy to resume life, that the departure and arrival of Time is, to put it simply, too fast to be accounted for and before long, they find themselves chasing after lost, precious seconds, trying desperately to catch up. The third, contrariwise, seven years might seem like an eternity, for there are times when the omniscient God and old Father Time join forces in creating a few obstacles here and there in their subjects' path of life, making it arduous to those who are too weak to stand up and persevere.
Yagami Taichi belonged to this latter clan.
He had been too anxious, too persistent to forget every painful event in his younger, specifically teenage days, but in vain. Every sunrise greeted him not with a promise of a new, perhaps better day, but with a distressing melancholic tune tapping lightly, yet with profound magnitude of force, on his eardrums. He himself was surprised as to how his self-control had always managed to avoid him from tying that menacing rope around his neck.
So far, to his eyes, seven years had not changed Japan much. Which, he added silently, he could not say the same for himself.
Sure, he did not undergo any plastic surgery in America—there was no need for one, his logic had asserted. Surgeries don't help you to forgo your history just to introduce a new one. Gone was his bushy hairdo, and wrinkles were all over his visage. It is horrible what infinite stress can do to one's hair and appearance. Only one medium sized suitcase in hand, he exited the vaguely familiar, busy airport, scrambling through the pushing crowd. He hailed a cab, which brought him to a place he least expected to be stepping into before his misfortune.
A pub.
After paying the taxi driver and murmuring a curt "Thanks", he entered the place. "Heartbreak Pub," he said to nobody in particular. "A queer name for a pub."
The only fact odder than that depressing title was the atmosphere in which the place was shrouded with. Taichi had expected a loud noise, a result of all the exuberant chatting and intoxicated laughter from the inhabitants to welcome him. Yet, he was somewhat taken aback by the grotesque quiescence, as if nobody there acknowledged his or her companion; in lieu, they minded their own business, entertaining their misery in awkward silence. Drinking to forget, it seemed, was their prime objective.
For some reason, Taichi knew he was at the best place for him at the moment.
Taichi occupied a vacant seat near the counter, where a zealous bartender, who contrasted greatly to his working environment, attended to him.
"Good evening, sir!" said he, cheerfully yet keeping his voice down, not wanting to bother the other customers. "What will your order be?"
"I…I'm not really a drinker," admitted Taichi, suddenly feeling out of place.
"No? Its all right. We serve non-alcoholic beverages too."
Thankful, Taichi requested for a tall glass of carbonated drink. Within seconds, he found himself sipping chilled, pleasantly refreshing Coke.
"Your first time visit, I reckon?" asked the bartender conversationally.
"Yeah. I didn't know this place existed before."
"You must be from out of town. We've been in business since three years ago."
"I just came back from America. I…used to live here."
"I see. You're here to celebrate Valentine?"
Taichi felt the pit of his stomach drop. "…Not really."
"This place gets more packed during holiday seasons and special occasions. If you don't believe me, try coming on, say, Christmas Eve or even Valentine's Day. Lots of people without families or loved ones, especially, and some out of misanthropy , felt lonely sitting in front of their television set amidst all the celebration out there, so they prefer passing the time in company of those who are in the same boat, even though they hardly exchanged anything, be it words or cards."
Taichi found this piece of news to be quite bizarre as he was no anthropologist. "I see how the name of this bar suits its customers," said he in comprehension.
Taichi's companion, with a heavy sigh, leant forward as if to deliver some sort of a national secret. "Do you know why the owner called this place Heartbreak? Well, sir, originally the name was Cherry Lady, but in the early stages of his business, he noted that his customers were mainly made up of people who were upset or heartbroken, partly because of failure in relationships. Before one month barely passed, the owner himself separated with his wife. Too devastated, he rechristened this whole establishment, taking his own feelings as its namesake."
Taichi nodded in conception, having understood exactly how the man must have felt. He asked for a refill, intending to drink for the owner's luck In the future.
"But we get interesting customers every now and then," resumed the bartender discreetly, wiping the spotless table. "There's Mr. Yamada who orders one type of drink for one night. That means, in a week, he drinks seven heavy not to mention expensive beers. He announced to me that since his wife has abandoned him, nobody is there to control him anymore. I can tell he's still strung about her…
"But if you ask me, there's another guy who really takes the cake…"
Taichi fingered his glass, trying hard to look interested. Truthfully, ever since he left Japan, he no longer found it necessary to hear stories about another.
"He comes everyday, sir, at 12 midnight exactly. He orders the same lager fifteen minutes later, and after gulping the whole thing down in one go, he moans and he rants…I think he's still sober, because no inebriated man can ever spout as much sense as he does…and he's poetic too."
"Poetic?" echoed Taichi, incredulous. "Sense?"
"Indeed, sir. Nobody knows for sure whether it was a poem or not, but it was…different. He rambles the same poem over and over again…"
'Now that,' thought Taichi, 'is what I call interesting.' "What's his tale, err…"
"Kenji, sir, call me Kenji." The raven haired young man wiped a champagne glass dry. "The Poet—that's what my pals and I call him—talks about his miserable love life and how he longs for someone who he loves so deeply. He'd give anything to turn back time and mend the damage…"
Taichi glimpsed at the wall clock just above Kenji's head. "It's five minutes to twelve, so I'll be able to see him for myself. He intrigues me."
Kenji grinned knowingly. "I understand, sir. His poem's simple but to me, it's still beautiful because in every line you can tell there's emotion woven into it. Indubitably, there's artistic blood flowing in his veins." With that, he left Taichi for another customer.
Taichi waited in anticipation, his eyes tailing the hands of the clock. He was looking forward to meeting the guy in the flesh, hoping to meet his acquaintance. Finally, when the longer hand overlapped the shorter, he turned to look at the door.
A man slightly above average height, clad in a high collared coat and a hat which concealed his eyes, walked in, almost dragging his feet The entire room had gone quieter, as if paying respect to him. He approached the counter, sat at the very end, and bent his body, his face buried in his arms.
Taichi was beginning to doubt his initial intention. For one thing, the man did not look friendly, and he might chase Taichi away crudely. He next waited eagerly for the illustrious poem. And, sure enough, it came.
"One…Day and night, yet we were one…
Two…But I broke your heart into two…
Three…Everything changed among us three…
Four…After she came, you were no more…
Five…And now I'm barely alive…"
Taichi gazed at him as his croaky voice dominated the vast space, sympathetic for The Poet and, strangely enough, himself. The poem reminded him of the moments he had wanted to forget.
"If only he's here too…" murmured Taichi.
Thinking of Yamato, his best friend and his object of affection, brought both pain and joy. Painful, for he was his closest friend and vice versa, in the past but presently, he was out of his reach forever. Joy, for love is a funny thing—his anger towards Yamato died away because of it, and it only reminded him of the heavenly friendship they had shared.
His reminiscence of Yamato ceased once The Poet's voice faded away, and silence took over once again. The morose individual bent down and brought his head on the counter, covering his face with his folded arms. Everyone resumed their previous activities.
Curiosity got the best of him, that he approached the depressed poet. He gestured at Kenji, asking him to bring the man his nightly beverage. Kenji obeyed, served The Poet his lager and ran off to the table at the corner of the room.
"Hey," greeted Taichi, nervous. He had every reason to, and he had not the least idea on how to befriend a complete stranger. A complete, eccentric stranger.
The Poet merely grunted "Mmm…" in response, aloof.
Taichi sat on the stool next to him tentatively. "I, uh, listened to your poem…"
No reply. Either the man was too engrossed in his own thoughts, or he had no interest in listening what Taichi had to say.
"Life's like that, huh?" Taichi continued, not at all bothered if he was solely talking to himself. For now, he would just pretend he had a listener. "One minutes we have everything we've ever wanted, the next, poof!" He snapped his fingers to add to the effect of his speech. "Gone. Not a single trace. And we're left groping to retrieve our loss, most of the time failing wretchedly."
"It's too far away for me to get it back," muttered The Poet, barely audible.
"You've lost everything?"
"I've only lost one, and with it, everything."
"Sounds like a love problem."
"True. Amazing how it brings happiness to some, misery upon others."
"I understand."
"No, you don't. You don't understand how it feels to love someone you're not supposed to, and how your love disappears on you without warning."
"'S matter lf fact, I've had my own does, and I agree it's not exactly a walk in the park." Taichi sighed dejectedly. He could feel he was starting to win The Poet's attention, little by little. "But a part of me tells me it's better this way. You know what they say; It's better to have loved and lost, than not to have loved at all. I remind myself with that quote every time I find myself regretting for ever being close to him." As soon as he said his last word, he immediately wished he hadn't, lest the idea of his sexuality discomforted his companion. Luckily for Taichi, The Poet seemed all right with it, for he did not budge his stool away from Taichi.
"We're the same, then," said The Poet finally.
Taichi gave a faint nod, comprehending what he was trying to imply. "Unrequited love's the most painful love of all, eh?"
"I agree." A silent sigh. "So is uncertain love."
"You mean when one is unable to decipher his feelings? Or his object of interest?"
"Aa. When, in our case, we're incapable of asking—them without fear of being rejected on the spot, if not abhorred."
"You mirror my thoughts exactly." Taichi looked at his watch. "I've to go now. The drink's on me."
"Thanks for the lager, and the talk."
"My pleasure. Hey, listen, I'll be around for one week, so maybe we'll meet again some other time?"
"Sure."
"Great. We'll keep in touch, how about that?" Taichi scribbled his name on an empty card he found in his breast pocket before placing it on the table, next to his newfound friend. "Maybe I can help, you know? I hate to see others suffering the same thing I had to go through."
"As much as I appreciate the thought, I must decline. I daresay he has vanished from the face of this Earth, so there's doubt I'll be seeing him again."
"No." Taichi chuckled to himself. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed, but I've plenty of contacts. Maybe I'll hand him over to you one day, who knows?"
From under the muffler, Taichi could see The Poet was smiling weakly. "…Yeah, who knows. Thanks, uh…"
As The Poet's bony fingers reached for the card, Taichi supplied his name. "Yagami, Yagami Taichi."
In a split second the individual had sat up straight and was now gaping, glaring straight into Taichi's surprised eyes. For the first time Taichi caught sight of the hidden face of The Poet, and before long, his sharp mind could recall the face clearly.
"I-Ishida!!??" blurted Taichi, deadpanned.
~*~*~*~ to be continued ~*~*~*~
Author's Notes: This fic was actually written for V-day, but my computer crashed down and with it, the story. That should explain my tardiness.