Flash Paper

These words will be grandiose, these words will be huge. These words will hopefully tell a story to you, create a world, an emotion, a vibe, that removes you from yourself. It will be…the sort of stuff to make you pause… or not, really, one never knows. Either way, it's neon light prose, it's dynamics and meter and adjectives and nouns and adverbs. These words should glitter and transport, these words should have power. It should be writing, with style.

But what else could you expect, it's a story about a rock star.

Aizawa Tachi was a super star. For a little while, at least. Blessed with good looks and talent, the vocalist of a popular jpop band, he had fans sending him letters of love. Only one mega popular song so far, but it was of course, just the beginning. It's always the beginning for some people, but ASK was going places. Contracts decorated with signatures of authoritative figures all but stated they'd be gods in the next decade. The Music Industry is all signatures and politics (and money), art comes later. Most bands never realized that these were promises written on flash paper - a single touch of a match would instantly turn a promise into ash.

Aizawa Tachi, was a driven man. He wanted, that defined him. He wanted to be the best singer he could be, he wanted to be the best singer anyone could be. He wanted monetary success and he wanted artistic acclaim and he wanted fame and he wanted respect. He wanted them all, served to him on a tray, with tea.

To all appearances, Aizawa Tachi was achieving all his goals. As far as he was concerned, those goals were worth any price. If he lost a little bit of soul to the cause, well….

Fine by him. Fair trade.




The office was full of clean right angles and black things. Crowning the whole affair were great ceiling to floor length windows that owned the whole office, severe and full of light.

They were sitting there being completely ignored. CEO Seguchi Touma was too busy on the phone, nodding and uttering perfect pleasantries with the polite care of a man who could purchase all the respect in the world but found it more amusing to possess it through the elegance of manipulation. Each nod of his head sent a light shine across his blonde hair, when the sun touched the pale skin of his cheek, it seemed only fitting that it be the first time sun had ever touched it at all.

Tachi shifted in his seat and tried to maintain perfect posture, the black fabric of his dress coat taut against the small of his back, his hands resting uneasily on each knee. Ken was slouching far down into his chair, and his shades hid his eyes. Ken was wearing a leather jacket made of different color patches, which matched the 80s USA theme he tended to nurture on a daily basis. Tachi, as usual, was dressed all in black with a splash of purple for good measure.

They were sitting there, in Seguchi Touma's presence, being utterly ignored.

What the hell?

"Un. Yes, of course, I wouldn't think otherwise." Touma looked up at Tachi right at that moment, and a small smile moved across his lips, as pleasant as an airline stewardess. "Excuse me a moment." And he covered the phone. In a gentle, polite voice, Touma said, "I'll be with you in a moment," and then he went back to his conversation, swiveling his chair to face the great windows, lowering his voice so they couldn't quite make out what he was saying.

The leather chair Tachi was sitting on was overly squishy and he sunk down too far so he had to look up a little at Touma's desk. The light shone right into his eyes from the window so he had to squint into Touma's general direction. He was being ignored, and he knew something bad was going to happen within the next ten minutes. He grit his teeth and maintained perfect posture as much as he could in the overly soft chair.

"A-ah," Touma said loudly, "but you know better than that. And I'm afraid I must go, I have some minor business to take care of, but I'm looking forward to seeing you again. Of course. Yes…" And Touma hung up with a polite good bye. Touma looked down at the phone as he hung it up, let his eyes drift up to meet Tachi's.

Tachi had to squint, but he still saw Seguchi Touma's face move into a subtle change. A little more brittle, a lot less sweet -- sharkish and assured.

"Nothing will happen to ASK."

And Tachi was relieved. Ken let out a half sigh and started to unslouch himself.

And Seguchi Touma continued. "Nothing will happen to ASK, ever again." Touma steeple-d his fingers lightly, smiled gently, and spoke politely, "No more records." The smile didn't waiver. "No more fans." And he dipped his chin. "No more money." And the smile moved into a sort of genuine happiness, too gentle to suit his words, the feminine softness of his voice a strange contrast to the death knoll that would seem more appropriate. Seguchi Touma closed his eyes, tilted his head to one side as if delivering good news, and Tachi realized this was the first time he'd ever seen Seguchi Touma's teeth. "No more press. Nothing. Ever, ever again." And Seguchi Touma opened his eyes, nodded gently and pursed his lips, the same soft gentle smile came back. Touma let the meaning of the words sink in. "ASK is gone."

The world ends so quickly.

The hallway, with its florescent lights and busybody interns and assistants walking with paperwork and cups of coffee …was normal and unaffected. The people in the building didn't care, or didn't know, about the band's demise. The floor had a dense, brown carpet, the walls were painted in wooden tones. NG's building was oddly earthy in color, calm. They walked, quietly. Ken was looking down. Tachi was looking straight forward, hands stuffed in his pockets and his chin at a light tilt upwards - it made his profile more appealing. He tugged his clothes into a perfect arrangement, and meandered at a comfortable pace when the world felt as though it were sinking with each footstep. No one was looking at him, but he was going to behave as if they were all staring. He was going to be a prince, he was going to be arrogance and elegance, until he got home.

Neither of them felt a thing, struck sort of dumb by the experience. They walked out of the NG building.

Ken sniffed a bit, looked around, huge black shades made it impossible to judge his mood. "I'm taking my bike."

Tachi nodded but didn't quite hear, he was staring straight forwards, brown eyes unfocused directly in front of him and posture perfect. He kept one hand stuffed in his right pocket, half his purple-pink shirt un-tucked in a fashionable mess.

"Need a ride?"

He almost didn't hear, "No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." And he nodded, turned around and looked about, at the outside of the building, at the courtyard that was so clean and well kept - a safe haven for moody artists, a garden specifically designed and installed to reduce stress and promote productivity.

"It's no hassle."

Ken didn't get it, so Tachi made it clear. "Go away."

"Yeah…" And Ken turned to amble off towards the subterranean garage.

"What am I supposed to do?" He asked the air, the buildings, the lampposts, maybe he even asked Ken.

"Go home." Ken said. "Or go visit him. But you won't."

"I won't?"

Ken said something but was too far away now to still be heard.

"Hate hospitals." Tachi said out loud, to no one in particular this time. He started to walk.

The streets were full of people, but Tachi wished they were empty. He wanted the ability to bawl, scream, cuss, and throw things in private. But he wasn't home yet. Likely even then he wasn't allowed, he needed to keep the place clean so he wouldn't get kicked out. Everything today seemed grey to him, grayer than usual. The pavement on the sidewalk felt grayer, made the buildings feel grayer, made the people seem fake. He kept walking. It was bright out, and it was cold, and his dress coat wasn't really making things any better. He was only glad he brought his shades and hat with him today. He didn't need… fangirls today.

Later, they wouldn't be so bad. Right now anything that even looked like a fucking fangirl would piss him off more than he felt like he wanted to be. Fucking idiots. Fucking necessary idiots. He hated them and he needed them and he loved them and he wanted them all for himself. With their screaming and 'wai-ing' and clinging and bawling and……god, he was never going to have them ever again. What was he going to do without them? Hate them for being idiots, and then hate them because he didn't have them and someone else did?

He fished into his pockets, pulled out a pack of smokes. Some paper blew across his feet and he felt like he was in a bad art movie. When he lit up the cigarette made him sick. The past few months he'd been harped on to preserve his vocal chords, so he'd been smoking less and less… and now when he felt like he could use the therapy of a good smoke it was denied him again.

He was going to puke if he didn't stop.

He smoked three more until he felt lethargic.

All he could think over and over again, 'Now what? Now what? Now, what?'

It's the world. The world had ended, the world had been destroyed. The goal was gone. The whole point of being alive was gone. The object of his own, pure lust was gone. Gone, gone, gone…

He supposed now would be a good time to go pay some of his dues to someone who just might still consider him a human being. And it would feel good to feel human, even for a couple minutes.

The whole place is so fucking clean, so fucking… white… the odd shades of pastel accents that some designer figured would make the place less threatening. Tachi wanted to phone this idiot and tell him that any place where people died wouldn't be made any cheerier if you stuck happy faces and teddy bears all over the place.

He couldn't find the room. He couldn't find the nurses' station. He found a great deal of orderlies that all told him that both locations were very easy to find but gave him directions in some sort of hand gyration he didn't understand. And he didn't want to talk to the sick people. So he just wandered around the hospital, lost, until someone who looked healthy and recognized a lost look stopped to point out the way.

Standing in front of the hospital door made him sick. He could hear it already, 'apologies not accepted, I'm glad NG screwed ASK over.' He shifted his weight. The door was a cream peach color, and "106A-B" was written in a san serif font on a plate at eye level. The door was three-fourths open, and he could see part of the one of the beds. Antiseptic smell, clean smell, filled the air.

He felt sick. He felt sick sick sick. His stomach was clenched and acidic, his body hurt it was so rigid. He was almost weak with apprehension. He set his jaw, pushed the door the rest of the way open, and stepped in. The bed on the right was empty, which logically meant that the other bed held the person who he wanted to see. He heard channels being flipped, some rustling of stiff hospital sheets. He imagined the stiff white cotton against bare skin, felt sick again. He hesitated just a moment, and gave up and proceeded. He took the 4 steps to the curtain around the bed, he raised his arm, and pulled back the white and blue curtain carefully.

He was sitting on the bed, the back of it elevated so that he was in a half sitting position, casually watching tv.

"Ma-kun…" He said, gently, not entirely sure how to handle anything. "You look like hell."