Title: Help Elsewhere

Author: Proverbial Pumpkin

Rating: T for language

Summary: Tohma's instrument is one of his few joys in life. K stumbles into a closer relationship with Tohma and when an accident renders the keyboardist unable to play, K is there.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: I know this took a long time to crank out. When school and personal relationships pick up stress-wise, it always seems like my writing's the one to suffer. Sorry! I'm back now.


The next seven days were, simply put, hellish for both of us. Tohma made a valiant attempt at resuming his work at NG almost immediately, writing and making phone calls with his left hand for several hours and staunchly refusing me entry whenever I went up to check on him. When I finally forced my way in around mid-day, I found him discouraged and literally nauseous- either from his arm or the very atmosphere of the studio. In addition to being physically unwell, Tohma was being called for every five minutes by some contact or another who wanted an update on his status. I knew, because I had to put up with them too, hordes of employees stopping me in the hallway asking how Tohma was and if he'd be performing any time soon. In the end, I drove him home and he collapsed – carefully - on a couch without even attempting the stairs up to his room, and that was the end of his brave office endeavors for a while.

I couldn't help Ryuichi focus for the rest of the tour, which was to resume with or without Tohma, as soon as possible. I couldn't make any big decisions except for those concerning Bad Luck. I couldn't coordinate schedules because no one respected me enough to report to me, and I certainly couldn't manipulate Tohma's contacts the way he could. So Tohma's hands were full, even from his big, empty house. Several days that week, I came home late at night to find him still working, and it was all I could do to order some delivery food and force him to eat it at his desk. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't, but eventually I learned to just order whatever I wanted. He would pass out shortly afterwards.

I also managed to take over some of his work at the studio, to the absolute best of my ability. While he was as busy as ever even in his condition, I did just about everything for him that I damn well could. Tohma assigned to me the task of scouting out a rookie band he'd received good reports of, and making a few pay role adjustments based on the previous month's profit. I also attended a number of mind-numbing meetings on his behalf, and even took his place presenting a project proposal to a panel which I guessed had essentially no power whatsoever over whether or not he implemented the project in the end.

By this point, I didn't even try telling myself I was doing it for NG. I was doing it for Tohma, if the two were actually distinguishable, and every day it became more obvious to me.

"Tohma, why don't you let me talk to that journalist for you?"

"Tohma, why don't you let me type up that letter for you?"

"Tohma, why don't you let me open that jar for you?"

I got a glare for that one, which I probably didn't deserve but should have expected.

"Thank you, K-san, I think I can manage," he said, with just a bit of resentment in his tone. It was early evening, and the light outside was fading into the window. Tohma turned from me slightly and set the jar on the counter, attempting to twist loose the lid with only his forefinger and thumb, while holding it weakly in place with his other three fingers. The jar slid to the right, the top firmly in place. I was surprised to see it was some cooking ingredient, and a few others were scattered about. Tohma, who had probably never had to cook in his life if he even ate at all, was trying to make a meal.

He sensed me watching his vain efforts, and looked up angrily. "Haven't you got anything else to be doing right now?" he said.

"Not until you get dinner on the table, love," I teased. Without thinking.

Tohma whirled around in a flourish of expensive clothes that couldn't have been worth the effort it took him to get on. "What did you say?" he hissed, and for a moment I thought the jar was coming straight at my head. It was a comfort to know that his left-handed aim couldn't be very good.

I held up my hands. "Tohma, jeez, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that," I said, trying to diffuse the situation. "It's just… I mean, that is what you're doing, isn't it?" I glanced around at the kitchen.

"No," he said defensively, as if making dinner for one's self was a sign of weakness in men of his position. Or maybe men at all.

I didn't see the gravity of the situation, either way. "Okay, so you're just opening a jar of crushed cardamoms for an evening snack. But it doesn't look like you're going to get into it anytime soon."

He looked at me. I couldn't read the expression this time.

"So, maybe I should just do it for you?" I finished hesitantly, holding out my palm face up.

He pursed his lips together, and gave me that angry, pouting glare that makes Tohma look almost too young to be taken seriously, if you knew Tohma like I felt I did. I'd seen more dangerous looks from him. Far more dangerous. But he still slammed the jar back down, as hard as he could with his weak hand not yet fully recovered, and stalked past me. He didn't bother telling me off. I sighed, listening to his angry footsteps recede to somewhere else in the house.

I should have been more careful, I supposed. I knew that even while practically running NG from home, Tohma was having a hard time feeling productive. I'd seen him fumble around the house, unsure how to wash his clothes at all, much less with one hand. I'd watched him balance a telephone precariously on his almost-immobile right shoulder, while trying to write legibly with his left hand, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. If Tohma wanted to scrap at a damn jar for a while, I should have just let him waste his time.

I sighed again, and slouched off to find him. Maybe I'd apologize, though I wasn't sure how to articulate what for. At the very least, maybe I'd ask him about what he was making, or something along those lines. "Tohma?" I called, hoping he'd just answer me so I didn't have to spend fifteen minutes searching the house's massive interior.

He didn't, but it didn't take that long for me find him. I heard the piano almost immediately. I rolled my eyes. Should have guessed. But it was muffled from behind a white door he used to keep open. Almost no light shone out from the crack beneath it. I knew Tohma was in there, seeking consolation in the one thing he truly loved. Just as he had done on the fourth floor of NG.

The sound was low. Forced. There was no melody, as there was no right hand. I stood outside the door and listened as Tohma attempted to add something, anything to his fumbling left hand to make it sound like music. It didn't. It sounded like a frustrated man playing half the notes to a piece with his injured weak hand. It stumbled and tripped over plodding chords, and you'd think it wasn't even a song. It got louder and louder as I sensed Tohma inside getting more and more disgusted with what was coming out. Finally, a weak, despairing cry emitting from inside the door, and the notes stopped. I held my breath.

After a moment of silence, harsh, chaotic sounds pounded forth, with no sense in them whatsoever. I stood agape.

This was not mild bitterness.

Tohma was beyond frustration now, positively laying into his perfect, beloved instrument with a frenzy I'd never imagined, and was glad I couldn't see. When the angry notes ceased, I heard the lid slam down. I cringed, remembering how lovingly he'd showcased the instrument to me not six days before.

I was contemplating going or staying, when suddenly, my cell phone vibrated. I hurried to the other end of the house before answering it.

"Hello?"

"Where is Seguchi-san?"

It was Sakano. "He's busy. What do you want?"

"We got the clear to resume touring, with Seguchi-san."

I paused for a moment, and then laughed at him. Heartily.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, we got the-"

"You're out of your fucking mind, Sakano," I said, cutting him off. "There's no way he'd ever be that stupid."

"He's already agreed to do it. I'm just calling to let you know the first date is a week and three days from now. Will you be making sure he, er… takes care of himself, until then? Physical therapy and everything?"

I snorted. "Sounds delightful," I said, and hung up. "God damn it… Tohma! Tohma!"

He emerged to meet me in the hallway. He looked entirely composed. "Yes, K-san?" he said in an especially quiet voice, to highlight the fact that I was shouting in his sacred domain. As if he hadn't just been raising demon spirits with his angry piano assault.

"What's this I hear about you playing with Nittle Grasper? Actually performing, in ten days?"

"Ten days?" he mused interestedly. "It sounds like you know more about it than I do. Although I believe "playing" may be putting it optimistically," he added, gesturing his right arm, still bandaged. "I understand quite a few adjustments are being made to allow for me."

"Tohma," I said. "You don't have to do this."

He looked me coolly in the eyes. "I disagree, K-san. We have a very small band, and the appearance on stage will reflect poorly on Nittle Grasper if there are only two members performing an entire leg of the tour."

I began to interrupt, to tell him he was talking bollocks, but he cut me off. "I may not be Sakama-san," he said, his tone softening upon the subject of his friend. "But as long as he thinks me an important part of Nittle Grasper, and as long as our paying fans expect it, I will perform to the best of my physical ability. Seeing as that's extremely limited, K-san, I don't think you have much to worry about."

"I'm not worried."

"Of course," Tohma nodded in agreement, and I wanted to knock him upside the head.

I refrained. "Everyone's going to be watching you. Closely."

He nodded. "I know. But we've been lying to the public about the severity of my accident ever since it happened. They think I'm okay, that I can still…." His voice trailed off, unwilling to vocalize how destroyed his talented hands were.

Just like that, my irritation melted. I picked up a new subject. "Word is you're supposed to be doing some sort of physical therapy."

He stopped and looked at me warningly. "You don't need to concern yourself with that."

"Sakano's orders."

He actually laughed at that, and I had to smile back. "You haven't been doing it? I can help you, you know."

"It's not your business. I'm not repeating myself again," he said, and started off. I didn't see what the big deal was letting me help him. I'd seen Tohma move about, both in everyday activities and on the stage. When keyboards weren't spitting fire at him, he fairly well epitomized suaveness, and could probably retain his natural grace while falling down a flight of stairs. I thought about harassing him a bit more, but recalled how I'd driven him to exasperation just a half hour earlier. The angry, rude notes. Instead, I went to resume where he'd left off in the kitchen. If I'd learned one thing, it was that Tohma needed me to let some things go.

Ten days and approximately fifteen heated arguments later, the man was fucking on stage.


Author's Note: Well, I know that was long overdue. BUT I have almost the entire next chapter finished already, so it will be up much much sooner than this one was. I also feel like I should apologize for not giving you much action (in any sense of the term) in this chapter. I felt I needed to set the tone of where their relationship is at this point, in preparation for the next two chapters. Like I said, the next chapter is almost entirely complete.