TITLE: Get It While You Can
AUTHOR: Kyuketsuki
DISCLAIMER: Digimon isn't mine. It's theirs. Damn them.
WARNINGS: Dark. Drug abuse. General insanity.
A/N: Title is from the Smashing Pumpkin's song Cash Car Star.
Part I
Anyone who bought Ishida Yamato's latest album for peppy tunes and bubblegum lyrics on its release Monday was sorely disappointed. Untitled is the sort of record that has broken greater bands. A grungy and ramshackle compilation of songs that sound like something straight out of Seattle, Washington USA via 1994, the new album has managed to isolate the Wolves' fan base and cause rockers everywhere to stop and take notice.
While the record is a definite departure from their previous work, not all are convinced it is a step back. There are still hints of the melodic voice hidden between crashing guitar riffs, and the other members of the band hold up as well as they ever did. The album is charged with raw emotion--most of it anger. The few ballads are filled to the brim with distress: pulsing bass and wrenching vocals that scream heartache and betrayal. But good luck finding such things in the lyrics. Abstract at the most and unintelligible at least, they are incomprehensible mutations of the poetry--however contrite--that once spilled from Ishida's lips.
Thirteen tracks of gritty emotion and sandpaper vocals was certainly not what Wolves' fans expected when they rushed out to buy the release, which had not yet released a single track for the public. And anyone who bought it for Ishida Yamato eye candy was gravely let down. The enclosed booklet contains numerous pictures of the band--minus Ishida. The only glimpse that hungry fangirls get of the blonde is a photograph of the young man smoking something as dubious as the album itself.
Yamato flung the glossy magazine across his apartment, watching it ripple through the air to land in an untidy sprawl against the door. Gritty emotion and sandpaper vocals. Hardly high praise. Not to mention the hint about drug abuse. No, that stuck out like a sore thumb. What would people say?
He sighed and lay back against the couch. Nothing more shocking than he had already heard; except this would be read by people who would actually give a damn. Of course, he hadn't cared about that much when he had been screwing himself over. He had pressed and prodded until the band and then the record executives gave in. Now there were millions of albums in millions of stores across the country, sitting like dead weight on the shelves. He had made a mistake. A giant glaring mistake that pulsed like neon pain against his skull. It sounded suspiciously like "you fucked up."
The telephone rang, cutting jagged and empty through the apartment. He ignored it. He knew who it would be: his manager trying to talk him into pressing sales, a magazine wanting a mundane interview, or some friend who was a bit concerned. Concerned enough to call, anyway. Not much effort there.
Yamato rolled off of the sofa and onto his knees, staying crouched for a moment before pushing himself up. He needed something. Something that would dull him just enough so that he wasn't hating himself as much as everyone else was. A few of those small white pills hiding in his bedside table would chase away his demons.
The bedroom seemed miles away, and he had to stop in the hall to regain his balance. His eyes were playing with him again. He slammed himself into the darkness and then out again a moment later, smiling a bit when everything snapped more into focus. Never completely clear. His vision had gone spiralling down the toilet with the rest of his health. Too many hours staring into glaring stage lights. So he decked his apartment in thick black curtains and wore sunglasses and ignored the way that things got blurry and white when he stared at them for too long.
He collapsed bonelessly against the floor, leaning heavily against the bed. Fumbling a moment with the orange bottle, he finally wrenched it open and spilled a few capsules against his palm. No water nearby and a trip to the bathroom seemed dangerously long. He swallowed the bitter white pills with a grimace and closed his eyes, waiting for the pounding in his skull to dull. When everything became bearable he once again stumbled to his feet and toward the mirror with more grace than he should have had.
Through the slight haze of codeine he saw himself: long blonde locks lay in jagged chunks, splaying across his slender shoulders and down his back, brushing his shoulderblades. His large, kohl lined eyes looked tired and heavy, and he tried to wipe away the black outlining that made him look so feminine to no avail. He smudged it against his cheek awkwardly.
Yamato stared in quiet shock at the stranger in the mirror. Buttermilk pale with tired blue eyes, the stranger was vaguely beautiful, an effigy of someone he had once known. His hair looked brittle and worn. Years of styling products and dyes were finally beginning to take their toll. His lips were thin, chapped like he had spent too much time in the sun.
With a sigh he turned away, disgust clear somewhere deep in those azure eyes.
Taichi stared in abject disbelief down at the magazine. It was a small, bite-sized chunk of a review with no feature story on the sudden change, but it was enough to make him glad it wasn't anything more. The meager paragraphs had scared him enough. He cringed at the thought of what a full-blown article would have to say. More cruel than the snippet, that much he knew, though he had a hard time imagining it.
Contrite poetry. Broken band. Dubious substances.
It almost made him wish he had the nerve to dial Yamato's phone number and do more than hang up before the first ring. Not that they had drifted apart. In fact, they had grown closer since Yamato had dropped out of university in a great huff of "artistic stiflement." At the time Taichi had been pissed and then just calm enough to wonder if "stiflement" was a word. After a few months it had blossomed into a vague concern that finally forced him to call the blonde and demand they get together. But that was right after the first album. Over a year had passed with little more than the occassional Sunday night phone call to satisfy his anxiety. He had been assured that Mat could hold his own in the rough music industry and slept well, even forgot about it for a while. Now, however, it was back and banging against his chest with a twinge of self-hatred at just letting go.
The voice in his ear snapped him back to reality.
"Tai? Hello?"
"What?"
A sigh, then: "Taichi, it's late. What do you want?"
"Takeru-chan?"
A long pause. "Tai, are you all right? What happened?"
"What?" He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm fine. I just... Why did you call?"
"You called me."
"I did?" He laughed a bit, for no reason, just because it felt good on his face. "Sorry, 'Keru. I guess I meant to dial your brother..."
"Why were you calling Yamato?"
Taichi motioned toward the magazine. "You didn't read it?"
"Read what? Tai, are you really okay? I mean, you know you can tell me, right?"
"The magazine, Takeru. You didn't read the magazine? They talked about him. Said he... wasn't himself."
There was a long, heavy pause. "Do you want me to come over or something? You're not making any sense."
Tai rubbed his eyes wearily. "No. No, don't worry about me. Had a late night at the office. Just... Just call your brother when you get the chance, okay? Sorry about calling so late." He hung up without waiting for a response, vaguely aware that he sounded like he was losing it. Just tired. Too much work and not enough sleep lately. He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and waited for the neon of afterglow to fade before removing them.
He stood slowly, not realizing until he ran into the edge of his desk that he was still at work. With a frustrated sigh he kicked a matte stainless steel leg. Much too much work lately. He hadn't taken a break in... A glance at the calender to confirm the date. Shit, he hadn't even been home since Tuesday. Now it was just after midnight Thursday and he was beginning to feel the aches and pains of it all.
Soccer hadn't worked out, but he was still in love with the game, and when a connection in the league told him he could work as an intern in public relations he had jumped at the chance. That had been years ago, when he was still in university and loved going in to work every day. Now he wasn't going home regularly. Internship was a piece of cake in comparison to the actual job. He knew that the hours were hell and that he would have to work really hard to cover up the shit that he had never realized went on because someone who used to have his job had just been that good. But the position had opened up and he had been offered the job. Who was he to turn it down?
It all seemed like a week ago when he really thought about it, so he tried not to, because it made looking in the mirror and seeing dark circles that much harder. He was young--in the prime of his life. Twenty-five was laughable in his business, but he had made a name for himself and had enough friends to be formidable. That didn't make the fact that he never left work any easier, though.
When was the last time he had dated? Or just gone out with friends that weren't from work? Ages ago. Much longer than weeks. Centuries as far as his addled brain was concerned.
He fumbled with his keys a moment before locking his office and heading for the elevator.