For These Scars
~Chapter 9~
Written by: RinoaDestiny
King of Fighters, Kyo Kusanagi, Iori Yagami, and Saisyu Kusanagi belong to SNK
If his father was still alive, he'd kill him right here and now – not because of the sentiment of a mercy kill but because he'd been disgraced and made the clan lose face. It was with this painful and harsh knowledge that Iori began the slow and agonizing crawl back towards normalcy, or whatever of it he could preserve.
He'd spent the last several days in bed, either sleeping or just lying there, feeling completely drained and unable to get up. Time passed with the shifting of light outside his window and in his sweat-soaked sheets, he cocooned himself away from the reality that faced him. His phone continued ringing but he just didn't have the energy to check. If it was Kyo, then…
He didn't want to think about it.
After that brutal realization dawned on him, he finally mustered the little strength he had to throw the sheets aside and sit up. His hair was plastered greasily against the side of his face, his eyes still felt too heavy, and it was difficult to breathe. Grabbing the medication on the bed-stand next to him, he gave himself a dose of the drug and waited for it to take effect. Sweat continued rolling down the nape of his neck into the sodden bandages and his body itched.
He needed to change them, or else the burns could get infected.
His phone rang again and suddenly, his world lurched.
In the time he'd been gone – a month now – he hadn't contacted his band members or even his agent or manager to let them know that he was unavailable. He hadn't called to make arrangements or to request that they find a substitute bassist. He'd done none of that – had forgotten – and now, the contact showing on the screen was the band manager. The one who called the shots. The one who called everyone to account.
Including him.
Fumbling for the phone, taking the call, Iori heard his voice for the first time in several days. It was hoarse from disuse and didn't help with the slight trembling behind it. "This is Yagami."
"Yagami-san, I've been trying to contact you for the past few weeks. Where were you?"
"I was hospitalized. Had some issues."
"Issues? And you didn't think to call?" As polite as the other man's tone was, the words were cutting. "You didn't think to let anyone know?"
"I was trying not to die," he said, unable to keep the acrid bite from his voice. "Inconvenienced. I couldn't just –"
"It's been a month, Yagami-san. Certainly you could've made time."
"I just got out of the hospital. I couldn't –"
"Do you know how inconvenient you made it for us? How much hassle you gave us because you didn't think to call? Even text?"
"I wasn't able to." He couldn't lose this – not his reputation as reliable. If word spread that he couldn't be relied on, then no one would take him into their band. He'd lose everything he gained and the only other thing Saisyu hadn't taken away – his music. "Hear me out, Wakamatsu. I'll –"
"Will you be able to rejoin us, Yagami-san?"
He paused. "I…"
"That sounds like a 'No.' Any reason for that?"
"I'm still healing. Broke my sternum." He didn't mention the burns or how feverish and weak he constantly was. That would make him a liability and no one liked dealing with those. He'd just never seen himself as one until now.
Iori gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw.
"I see. How long will you be out?"
"Was told four months."
"We can't wait that long, Yagami-san." The voice over his phone had turned precise and cold. "You know we have a tour coming up. A tour that you signed up for when you agreed to the renewal of your contract."
"I know."
"I'm sorry to say this, Yagami-san but it was nice working with you. Maybe you can find other employ once you are done healing."
"Wakamatsu –"
"Our business is concluded. Whatever pay is still due you, you will receive shortly. Have a nice day, Yagami-san." Then nothing but empty air because Wakamatsu had hung up on him. Had sunk a knife into him and twisted it. He was now unreliable – had lost whatever status he'd worked so hard for. His reputation was shot. He was done. Over.
He sat there for a long moment in stunned silence, unable to comprehend what had just befallen him. What he just lost…what…
Iori screamed, then – a sound of pure rage and grief, incoherent and raw.
He flung the phone aside, heard it hit the floor. Covered his face with his hands and screamed until his voice no longer worked. Until it hurt to scream.
Only then did he stop.
The light outside blurred and his throat ached.
He stayed in his room until evening, watching as daylight slipped gently into twilight and then the full veil of darkness fell. At that point, he got off the bed and stumbled towards the living room. Because of his prior action, he had to take another dose of the medication, since his lungs burned afterwards. His temperature was spiking again – the fluctuations were random – and Iori crossed the room and made it to the guitar before his knees failed.
It'd been a full month since he last played the instrument and it was now dusty. He laid his hand on the strings, felt the hard impress against fingers losing their calluses, and sighed. Leaned his head forward, letting his hair fall in front of his face.
He pressed the fingers of one hand against the strings and used the other to play a basic chord. The music helped but not much. He'd lost his career…lost it because…
He played another chord and then another, letting the bite of the strings counter the hurt he felt in so many ways. He'd lost Kyo, his health, his mobility, his ability as a fighter, and now his career was gone. It took him years to build up but in just one month and one phone call later, it was as if it'd never been. Ruined. Utterly destroyed.
His hands faltered on the guitar, the strummed chord dying in mid-air.
Iori blinked.
His throat ached again. He clenched his teeth and denied it to himself this time.
Played another chord and then another. Again and again and again.
The music was his voice.
The music was his voice.
The music was his voice.
It was all that he had left.