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I. [Basara]
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll
It was the pounding on the door that woke him, not the pounding in his head. He still woke with a start, even though after so long one would think he would get used to it. The pounding on the door, that was, not the throbbing headache. He tried to get out of bed and tangled himself in a stray sheet.
"Itai!"
"Basara! I know you're in there!"
He made it down the loft ladder without mishap and stumbled to the door, which was by now vibrating on its hinges in pent-up anger.
He jerked it open. "What?"
Something stumbled past him and fell in a heap on the floor. There was an angry squawking.
"Basara, you jerk!"
"You knocked?" he said, stifling a yawn. "I don't have all day, you know."
"Darn right you don't! It's two o' clock in the afternoon!"
He blinked. Looked at the clock. "Oh."
A frustrated sigh from the ground, and angry blue eyes glared up at him. "Really! I don't suppose you remembered we have a recording session today?"
"It's at three," he said airily, kicking the door shut. Bits of dust scattered from the rafters, and he sneezed.
The lump on the floor untangled itself from the dirty clothes that happened to be in the way of the door, shaking dirt out of bright pink hair. "And your apartment is a dump! Why can't you get a new place, like Ray? Even Veffidas bought a new apartment last month!"
"I like it here," he said dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Since when did you decide that you were my mother, Mylene?"
She glared. "Jerk."
"Thanks," he returned, brushing past her and taking the rungs of the ladder two at a time. "You never did say what you wanted."
"Eh? HELLO!" The ladder shook as she clambered after him. "We have a recording session!"
"At three."
"It takes forty-five minutes to get there!"
"Well then, we have fifteen minutes."
He almost smiled as he could feel her rage. Almost. It wasn't wise to smile when she was as angry as this. He turned, raising his hands in surrender.
"All right. Look, I'll be ready in ten minutes. Ok?"
The death glare in her eyes could bring down a Zentradi ship in flames.
"Uh…five?"
"I'll be waiting," she growled. "You always do this, Basara. One day I'm not going to be there to rescue you and we'll lose our deal."
He shrugged. "So?"
Mylene made an inarticulate noise of frustration and vaulted down the ladder, slamming the door behind her. The walls shook.
He remembered the first time she had climbed that ladder, with two drinks in her hands, trying to balance and not quite making it. She had been so young then…four years ago. Had it really been four years?
With a sigh he flopped down on the bed, blinking the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. The throbbing in his head, behind his eyes, was still there, and his throat felt scratchy. He didn't know if he was up to singing today. Not for a recording session, anyway. If they had still been at war, if it was the heat of battle and the fire in his veins urging him on, not even illness or death could stop him from singing his heart out. He knew that.
But it had been four years, and the war was long over.
There was a poster on the far wall of the band, from a promo session done a few months after Planet Dance had been released. He was smiling - grinning, rather - out from the glossy paper as if he owned the universe. Ray was calm as always, with Veffidas holding her drumsticks crossed over her chest, as if tapping out a melody even while the photo was being shot. She probably had been. And Mylene was holding her bass with that infectious smile of hers. He could almost hear her childish laughter in his ears, Guavava peeking out of her curtain of pink hair.
He sighed again and pushed himself up from the bed. Felt something beneath his toe and pulled it out. It was the Macross Entertainment magazine, with Fire Bomber on the cover. Fire Bomber was on the cover of everything nowadays. He supposed he should be happy. Or something. They all were happy, so he was.
Flipping through the magazine idly, he caught the picture almost by accident, a miniature inset into a text box describing the band's old days during the war. Now he remembered shooting that picture. They were in almost exactly the same poses as they had been in the poster on his wall, except his guitar was newer, shinier, and Mylene's bass had lost the funny bunny-ear ornaments. Her smile was genuine, graceful, a woman's secret smile. He glanced up at the poster again and then down at the magazine. He hadn't even noticed…when had she grown up so much?
His smile, on the other hand, simply looked tired. He looked old, he thought, as he flung the magazine lazily across the room. When had he gotten so old?
Four years…it seemed like yesterday, and at the same time a million years.
"Ba-sa-ra!"
A horn squealed. He jumped.
"We're leaaaving!"
"Coming!" he yelled out the open window, hoping she hadn't seen him still in his sleeping clothes. She probably had.
Shirt and pants took ten seconds to put on, shoes five seconds, the guitar another two seconds to grab, and sixteen seconds to run out of the apartment. He didn't bother to slick down his hair. The recording people didn't care. It wasn't as if it was going to be a live performance.
"Mou!" she complained as he made it out to the van, not even breathing hard. He was proud of himself. "It's about time!"
He didn't comment, pulling the guitar in after him. "Ready to go, Ray."
"Konnichiwa," Ray said, starting up the engine. Behind him, Veffidas tapped out a hello on the window of the van.
"They don't seem worried," he commented to the air behind him.
She wrinkled her nose at him.
Ray was a good driver, and they made it to the studio in thirty minutes. They could have hired a chauffeur and a fancy limousine long ago, if they had wanted, but Ray liked driving the old dusty van, and it was something of a relic from their old days. A remembrance. And it was less publicity, one less thing to worry about with the screaming fans and the snapping flashbulbs. He really hated flashbulbs. Just thinking about them made his head ache.
Parking was light today at the studio, and the van scooted into a place in a cloud of dust and squealing tires. Of course. It was Saturday. He grabbed his guitar and hopped out the door, leaving it open for her.
"See? Plenty of time, Mylene."
She didn't answer, pulling her bass out of the back and pointedly ignoring him. He blinked. Her long hair, usually down for recording sessions, was pulled up in a bun to the back of her head, and she was wearing black slacks and a tight blue shirt.
"What're you dressed like that for?"
"None of your business," she snapped.
"Fine," he said, with more sting in his voice than he had intended. "I didn't want to know anyway."
"I have a date, if you must know. With Gamlin." She sounded defensive.
He frowned. "I thought you two-"
"He asked, and I said yes. It's not anything."
"But-"
"What would you know?" she said, turning eyes on him. "You've never been on a date."
He glared at her. "Hey!"
"You haven't, have you?"
"Basara! Mylene!"
"I'm going to ask about this later," he said, a low warning in his voice.
"It's none of your business. Dad."
Oh, she had nerve. He didn't know why he put up with her. The throbbing headache pounded and he could almost feel it breaking through his forehead with sharp claws, crawling through his brain. He shouldn't have stayed up late last night, song or no song. It wouldn't do any good to disappoint the band.
He hated disappointing the band.
He remembered when it was different, when he was in the band just because it was there. It was an outlet for his music and it gave him the freedom to express, the excuse he needed for his actions, an outlet for his frustrations and joys and just because he loved it. But now it had become a responsibility, an obligation he had to fulfill.
Oh, there was still music, but it wasn't the same anymore. Not nearly the same. Now it was about producers and recordings and music videos and live performances and appearances and promotions. Now it was about money and fame and the spotlight.
He'd give anything to have the old days back.
"You look tired, Basara."
He started, then realized it was Ray, who had dropped back from his place between the two women at the front. Mylene was taking large steps the size of Veffidas', and wondered if it was that she was really worried about being late or if she was just angry at him.
"Didn't get much sleep," he murmured, rubbing his temples. "Not as young as I used to be, either, you know."
A low chuckle. "I know. Believe me. It gets to you after a while. What were you doing?"
"Writing a song," he said, almost hesitantly. He didn't know why he hesistated; usually he was the first to announce that he had written a song, handing out copies to each member of the band and insisting they practice right then, right now, to see if it sounded right. But not this one. "I didn't finish, either." It was odd, to think about it. He rarely ever spent more than two hours writing a song. But last night, the words just wouldn't fit the melody, and he didn't know why.
There was a long silence from the other man, and when he spoke, it was very soft.
"Maybe you need a break, Basara."
He halted in his tracks. "What?"
Ray stopped beside him, not facing him. "I said maybe you need a break, Basara."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I mean," Ray said quietly. "I've seen you these past few months, working yourself to the bone, not sleeping, not eating. You're burning yourself out, Basara."
"If it's for the music," he said stubbornly, "it's all right."
"Is it for the music?"
He turned to answer, but Ray was turning the corner and he was all alone in the hallway.
"I have too been on a date," he said to the wall.
Is it for the music?
His hand slipped on the frets and the chord went sour. He saw the producer waving his arms, trying not to look angry. He understood. If he was the producer, he'd be frustrated too…but he wasn't. He was just Nekki Basara, guitarist and lead vocalist of the hottest band in the galaxy, and he couldn't even play a simple chord.
"Fingers slipped," he said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "It won't happen again."
That's what you said three tries ago.
He saw Ray looking pointedly at him out of the corner of his eye, but refused to meet the keyboardist's gaze. He could do it. He had always done it. Didn't he even manage to pull it off in those stupid recording sessions that Mylene had gotten them, all those years ago?
Yeah, but that was different.
"Shut up," he growled.
"Eh?"
"Not you," he said tiredly to the girl who was standing by his elbow, peering up anxiously at him. "I was talking to myself."
"Uh. Ok." She blinked at him, ignoring the producer who was standing in the doorway, looking cross. "You all right? I'm sorry I got mad at you. I know I said I'd stop that."
He almost smiled. "That was a year ago."
"It's never too late to keep old promises, right?"
He did smile then. "If you say so. Let's try that one again."
"All right," she said, stepping back to her microphone, but her eyes didn't leave him. The headache was making black spots in front of his eyes now, and he felt dizzy. He took a drink of water.
"All right."
Veffidas struck the opening drum riff again, for what seemed the thousandth time, and he strummed the opening chords. So far, so good.
Omae ga kaze ni naru nara
Ridiculous. He wasn't burning himself out. He had a strong career, he was living out the dream he'd always wanted. Right?
Hateshinai sora ni naritai
He was tired, but that could be taken care of. He'd just take a nap tonight after he got home from recording, and with Mylene gone on her date there would be no one to wake him up at odd times of the night begging for something or other. He had a good supply of food and drink to last him for the next week, if he chose to sleep through the week. Not that he would, but it was a nice thought.
Hageshii ame oto ni tachi sukumu toki wa
Yes, all around, he supposed life was good. It was what they told him, anyway.
Guitar o kaki narashi
His fingers were sweaty and he couldn't help it, but they slipped again, and he didn't even try to cover the mistake. He simply stopped.
"Basara?"
"I…" he said quietly. A cool hand reached up to his forehead.
"I think you have a fever, Basara. You feel rather warm."
"If Nekki-san has a fever, it would be good for him to go home and rest." The producer's voice came through the open window. "We can record this another time."
"Concerned about my health, are you?" he said through gritted teeth.
"Basar-"
"I'll go," he said, unslinging the guitar and setting it on the stand, bending down to open the case. "Don't push it. You don't have to yell."
"I wasn't-"
He cut her off with a gesture, fitting the guitar smoothly into the case and closing it with a snap. "Ray, if you could drive…"
"Sure."
"Sorry, minna."
Mylene didn't say anything, which was surprising. She always had something to say, and considering that he was quitting a recording session, usually plenty of somethings. But she simply watched him. The look on her face was unreadable.
Well, considering he had actually apologized for once, maybe it was right for her to be speechless. He was a lot more articulate than he had been four years ago, but he still rarely apologized. It was just something he didn't do.
But he felt the band needed an apology for him quitting on them now. It was a responsibility, and he prided himself on being a responsible man.
Ray didn't say anything as he heaved himself onto the front seat, setting the guitar gently in the back. The engine sputtered, then started, and the van was puttering smoothly onto the highway.
"What song was it?"
He glanced at his companion. "What?"
"That song that you were writing last night, that kept you up. What was it?"
He shrugged vaguely. "Oh, just some song."
"That's not like you."
"What's not?"
"Usually you can't wait to tell us about a new song. Or a new idea. Or something."
"So you think you can second-guess me?" he snapped.
"No," Ray said simply. "I'm just worried about you."
"Forget it. I'm fine."
A silence. "If you say so."
The rest of the trip passed in strained silence, and Ray didn't say anything when they arrived in front of the old apartment complex and he got out of the van a bit unsteadily, grabbing the guitar and fumbling in his pocket for his keys. He heard the van drive off and smelled the exhaust. They really needed to take the thing in for repairs.
The apartment was dark and smelled of dust and old clothes, and he was almost too tired to climb the ladder up to his bed. But somehow he made it, slinging the guitar into a corner and sitting down on the bed, staring at nothing. The old Fire Bomber poster on the war was glossy in the fading light, and with a start he looked out the window. Was it getting dark already? He hadn't realized they had been in the studio that long.
His teeth and guitar and Mylene's bass were white, and the rest of the poster was a matte smear of blending dark colors, all running together in his blurry vision. He stood up a bit uncertainly, hand brushing the music stand by the bed, and despite his subconscious warning, he turned to look at it.
The white piece of paper was still there, the penciled in chords and words visible. He had only written a few lines. The paper was covered with smudges and scratch-outs. He could still hear the evasive melody and the words in his head, but for some reason even thinking of writing them down made them swirl and vanish.
Mimi o sumaseba kasuka ni kikoeru darou
Melody wa kieru yami ni shimi komu you ni
Hora ano koe
Kotoba nan ka ja tsutae rarenai nani ka
Itsumo kanjiru are wa tenshi no koe
Echo nokoshite
Shizuka ni oriteku deep blue no aurora ni
Ore mo uta-
There the scrawly handwriting ended in a series of odd-looking swirls which probably meant he had stumbled off to bed at that point. A lot of good that had done him.
He let the paper flutter to the floor, stepping over it, intending to collapse on the bed. A flash of light as the fading sunlight hit the poster, and a strange sense of nausea swept over him.
Walking over, he gazed at his photo guitar and her paper smile for a moment longer, then ripped the poster from the wall and threw it in the trash.